Losing Me (14 page)

“I think he’s right. You should start taking it easy. And we need to get this thing with your mother sorted before her problems make you worse.”

“I know that. But I have to work. I’ll shrivel and die if I can’t.”

“No, you won’t.” He said he had to go. “Talk later.”

Barbara made herself poached eggs on toast and a mug of tea. After she’d eaten, she went to lie down on the sofa. So that was it. Her career was actually over. She’d only just called Sandra to say she would be back on Monday. Now she would have to tell her that she was never coming back.

Without her job to define her, who was she? A woman of no substance. A shadow that would briefly grow longer before fading into eternal night. She could hear Frank telling her to stop being so bloody melodramatic. But she couldn’t help it. What was to become of her? She wasn’t ready to turn into another invisible middle-aged woman who, when she wasn’t doting on her grandchildren, collected schmaltzy knickknacks and wandered around garden centers.

She supposed that most people who got the sack—whatever their age—felt a similar loss of identity. But the young could still live in hope. At almost sixty, she had little chance of kick-starting her career. She was washed up and irrelevant. Redundant.

Despite being on the cusp of her seventh decade, Barbara wanted her mum. She wanted to climb onto her lap and tell her about the panic attacks. She wanted Rose to hold her in her arms and rock her, tell her she was there, that it would be all right. But Rose had rarely offered Barbara comfort in the past when she needed it. She was hardly going to change now. If Barbara went to her, she would be given cold comfort. “What have you got to panic about?” Rose would say. “You want to try waking up every morning facing the prospect that this could be the day you drop dead? Now, that’s a proper reason to panic.”

Eventually, Barbara dozed off. When she woke it was getting dark. She looked at her watch. It was four o’clock. She’d been asleep for two hours. She never slept in the day, let alone for two hours.

She called Ben. He was going to be furious with her for not being at Rose’s yet.

“Hey, Mum, you all right? Nana and I are watching the snooker.”

Since when had her mother taken an interest in snooker?

When she arrived an hour later, Ben and his grandmother were drinking tea and eating Kit Kats. They were still glued to the snooker.

“It’s getting so exciting,” Rose said to Barbara. “The one in the green waistcoat just made a break of a hundred and thirty in the opening frame.”

Barbara looked a question at Ben.

“I’ve been teaching her,” he said. “She really seems to be enjoying it.”

“Now I need to go and have a pee,” Rose said. “Damn. I don’t want to leave the game.”

Ben reminded her that all she had to do was press the “live pause” button on her remote.

“I know, but I don’t like using it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair on all the other people.”

Ben started laughing. “What? No. . . . The other people carry on watching.”

“But how can they if I’ve just paused the program?”

“You haven’t paused it for everybody. It only affects your TV.”

“No! Really? Well, that is clever. The things they think of.”

Barbara asked Ben to make them all another cup of tea. Rose disappeared to the loo, happy now to put the TV on live pause.

“So, Mum,” Barbara said when she returned, “about this music you’re still hearing . . .”

“Ben says I’m not to worry and that I’m definitely not going gaga. It’s just a problem with my ears. Is he right?”

“I think so. I’ve looked it up on the Internet, but we still have to get your hearing checked out.”

Barbara said she would make an appointment and go with her.

“I’m perfectly capable of going on my own,” Rose said. It wasn’t that she minded being looked after; she didn’t. In fact, she relished it because it gave her a chance to criticize the quality of the tending—particularly where Barbara was concerned. What she hated was being patronized and treated like a child.

But Barbara insisted on coming.

•   •   •

“Thanks for stepping into the breach today,” Barbara said to Ben as she drove them home. “I really appreciate it. Did you apologize to the policewoman and thank her for all her trouble?”

“I did.”

“Good boy.”

“Actually, Nana and I had fun. She got out all the old family albums. . . . So did you get your meds?”

Barbara said that she did. She also explained that she’d been signed off work. She didn’t mention the second panic attack because she didn’t want to worry him. Nor did she say anything about how distraught she was feeling about having to say good-bye to all her kids.

“Come on, Mum. Cheer up. Dad said you’re going to try your hand at tutoring. You’ll be brilliant at it. And the meds will sort you out in no time.”

“You reckon?”

“Absolutely. . . . So what’s for dinner?”

•   •   •

She was unloading the dishwasher—a prebedtime ritual because it saved time in the morning—when she heard Frank’s key in the door.

He kissed her and asked how she was doing.

“Not great, to be honest.” She loaded a stack of dinner plates into one of the kitchen cupboards. “Frank.”

“What?”

“Please don’t go to Mexico. I’m not well, and I don’t want to be on my own.” She hadn’t planned on asking him to abandon his trip. It just came out.

“What? But I have to go. It’s all arranged.”

“Couldn’t you unarrange it—just this once? I really need you around just now, and it would do us good . . . give us time to reconnect. Forget about the money—we’ll work it out somehow.”

“I can’t forget about the money. I have to keep earning. I’m sorry you’re going through a rough patch, but maybe we can spend a couple of weeks together when I get back.”

“But I’m scared. What if I’m cracking up?”

“Bar, calm down. You’ve had a couple of panic attacks, that’s all. It means you need to slow down for a while, but it doesn’t mean you’re cracking up. And you’re strong. You’ll come through this. I promise. Plus you’ve got Jean and Ken. Ben’s around. God knows he’s not exactly busy. And Jess is only down the road.”

She put down the clean Le Creuset casserole dish she was holding. “You’re simply incapable, aren’t you?”

“Incapable of what?”

“Of showing me the remotest concern or sympathy.”

“That’s ridiculous. I was scared shitless when I thought you’d had a heart attack. What more do you want?”

“I want
you.
”

“You’ve got me. I’m here.”

“No, it’s the Mexicans and the rest of your third-world victims who’ve got you. They will always have you. I never will.”

“Oh, stop being such a drama queen.”

“A drama queen? Is that how you see me?”

“Yes. You’re blowing everything out of proportion. I do my best. If that’s not good enough, then I don’t know what else I can do.”

“As usual, I have to put up or shut up.”

He didn’t say anything.

She picked up the Le Creuset again and went to put it away. Inside she was raging. She was furious with Frank for calling her a drama queen, for neglecting her all these years. Mostly she was furious with herself for putting up with it. But at the same time, her internal debate continued. Was she too greedy for love? How much did she deserve?

“So when do you go?” she said.

“A week from Sunday.”

“And when will you be back?”

“I dunno. A couple of months. Could be more. Look, I know it feels like I’m neglecting you. . . .”

“It doesn’t just feel like it. You
are
neglecting me.”

“And I’m sorry. I admit that this job couldn’t have come up at a worse time. But I’ll keep checking in. We’ll phone and Skype. You have got me. Honestly. Come on. . . . You’ll be fine.”

“And if I’m not fine?”

She allowed him to draw her towards him and put his arms around her.

“You will be,” he said, stroking her hair. “I know you will.”

Chapter 5

S
unday, midday, and the hipsters were up and about and piling into the Green Door—the young men in artfully arranged woolly hats and big headphones, the Etsy entrepreneur girls in their pastel lace-up brogues and big horn-rimmed specs. Barbara was waiting tables. Jess and Matt had done their best to persuade her to stay at home and take it easy, but helping out at the Green Door on a Saturday or Sunday was part of Barbara’s routine. She looked forward to it. On top of that, Jess and Matt needed her. They took turns taking weekends off to spend time with the kids. Today it was Jess’s turn. Right now she was upstairs helping Atticus and Cleo make a farewell cake for Frank. He was leaving for Mexico the following morning, and Jess had organized a family dinner. Barbara supposed that she should have been the one organizing Frank’s send-off, but she was too angry with him.

Barbara had been on her medication a couple of weeks—not that it had kicked in yet—and she worried about getting more panic attacks. On the upside—such as it was—Sandra had assured her that having been signed off work for health reasons, she would receive her salary until the end of term. Everybody told her to think of the next few weeks as a paid holiday. She did her best, but the feelings of emptiness and hopelessness continued. Then there were the times when she felt as if her entire being—body and soul—were about to disappear, fuse with the ceiling or the sky. Jean said that sounded like a different form of panic attack. She told her that when it happened she should pinch herself or tug at her hair. “Apparently, the pain brings you back—helps you to reconnect with the world.” It seemed to work—as did playing “Bat Out of Hell” at full volume.

When she went back to school to say good-bye, Sandra said she hoped Barbara was starting to “buck up” and reiterated her advice about long walks. Barbara said she was swimming most days. “Jolly good. That’s the ticket.”

She still doubted that Sandra had put much effort into trying to save her from the sack. She was still cross with her, but not as cross as she had been. Sandra might be a bit weak, but she was well-meaning. She did her best. And even if she had tried to fight Barbara’s dismissal, she wouldn’t have won. Barbara knew how these things worked. The department always knew they had the upper hand and would have refused to budge. Sandra wasn’t lying when she said the whole thing was a fait accompli.

“I do feel like I’m deserting the kids,” Barbara said at one point. “It feels so mean to be going off to tutor privileged children for private-school entrance exams. I know smart middle-class kids have problems, but they will never need me the way the Jubilee kids do. And I need to be needed. I can’t help it. That’s who I am.”

“And I have every faith that once you’re over this wobble, you’ll find your niche again. What you must do is stop worrying.”

A “wobble
.
” That’s how she saw it.

On the grounds that Barbara hadn’t chosen to leave and it was breaking her heart to go, she asked Sandra not to organize a leaving do for her. Sandra agreed. She did, however, organize a gift. The staff clubbed together to get her a two-hundred-pound Conran Shop voucher. Barbara couldn’t have asked for a better present. The nearest she’d come to owning something from Conran was pressing her nose against the shop window and salivating over a Philippe Starck chair or a piece of Danish glass.

Before she left she made Sandra promise that she would keep a special eye on Troy. “You have my word,” Sandra said.

Barbara gave Sandra a hug good-bye, but despite feeling more warmly disposed towards her, it wasn’t as heartfelt as it might have been.

Afterwards she took a final wander around the school. When she got to her room, she found herself patting the walls. Afterwards, she went up to the staff room to say her farewells. Since it was lunchtime, nearly everybody was there. People hadn’t seen her since she’d been stretchered off the premises. They all wanted to know how she was doing. After she’d explained that she’d been ordered to rest, there were more hugs, tears and promises to keep in touch. She’d known some of these people for two decades. Leaving wasn’t just breaking her heart. It was killing her.

She had no idea how she was going to cope with saying good-bye to “her” kids. She headed downstairs and into the playground. They, too, hadn’t seen her since she’d been carted off in the ambulance. As soon as they caught sight of her, a small crowd came running towards her.

“Miss, miss . . . are you better now, miss? Are you coming back to school? We’ve really missed you, miss.”

Barbara explained that although she was feeling much better, she wouldn’t be coming back to school.

“Ohhh!”

“But why? Is it because really you’re dying, miss, and you don’t want to tell us?”

She assured them that she absolutely wasn’t dying. “I’m leaving because I’ve been sick and I need some rest.”

A couple of bottom lips trembled. Armani threw her arms around Barbara’s waist. “You’re my favoritest teacher ever, miss. Please don’t go.”

“Tell you what—I’ll write you all letters to let you know how I’m getting on and you can send me all your news. How’s that?”

That seemed to cheer them up.

Barbara noticed that, as usual, Baillie and Kane were hanging back, not saying anything. She went and gave each of them a hug and told them how much she was going to miss them. For once they both managed a smile.

She couldn’t see Troy. Maybe it was for the best. If anything was tearing her apart, it was deserting him. Then he appeared, running out of the main door. He looked forlorn.

“My mum said you were leaving. So, are you going right now this very minute?”

“I am. I’m so sorry, Troy. I’m really going to miss you. But I promise I will keep in touch.”

“No, you won’t. You’re lying. You’ll forget about us.”

“Troy, I couldn’t possibly forget about any of you.”

“Yes, you will.”

“No,” she said emphatically, her eyes filling up. “I won’t.”

By now the others had wandered off. She crouched in front of him and took his hands in hers. “I want you to promise me something. If anybody hurts you or tries to hurt you again, you will tell your class teacher or Mrs. Nichols. Please, please promise me.”

Troy looked at the ground.

“No, that won’t do. Sweetheart, I know your mum doesn’t want anybody to find out about what happened, but you’re just a little boy. If anybody hurts you, it’s important to speak up. Do you understand?”

He shrugged. That was the best she was going to get.

“I’ll be thinking about you.”

He ran off. No hugs. No tears. Just his back turned against her.

Barbara walked across the playground and out of the school. There was the familiar clang of the gate as she closed it behind her.

•   •   •

As she ran around, trying to remember who wanted the soy no-foam latte, who wanted the half caff at a hundred and twenty degrees, who wanted “one of your amazing gluten-free cardamom thingies,” Barbara was able to stop ruminating about Frank abandoning her and the loss of her job. Rose was always saying how being busy “takes you out of yourself.” Not that these days her mother knew much about being busy. But she was right. Being rushed off her feet helped Barbara forget her problems. Plus she found the hipsters amusing.

“You know those nights when you’re finding it hard to sleep? Has it occurred to you, like, maybe you’re awake in somebody else’s dream?”

“Do you think it’s OK to dump a guy because he has a rubbish mustache?”

“Where are we gonna eat tonight? Who’s up for global fusion ?”

“So is your dress vintage or preloved?”

“I loved her latest piece. The woman totally boogies in the VDU of her existence.”

Those who weren’t hanging out with friends were sitting behind their MacBooks, punching up their movie scripts or latest Web design. Occasionally they paused to take photographs of their food with their iPhones.

A gang of women had colonized a table by the window. They were spreading raw Himalayan honey on their scones and discussing their dyke visibility.

“Excuse me,” a waifish girl called out to Barbara. “Do you have a vegan menu?”

“Actually, we don’t, but we do have an excellent red lentil bake today, which is vegan.”

“I’m allergic to red lentils. Maybe I’ll have the chicken salad. Is the chicken organic?”

Barbara duly recited her script, opting to mention that chicken wasn’t strictly vegan. But, yes, the chicken was a hundred percent organic and had been raised with enough space to express its distinctive behaviors. It had been fed on goat’s milk, alfalfa and cottonseed meal.

As she was taking Waifish Girl’s order, Barbara noticed Brian and Eric sitting at a table by the door. They were American actors who had temporarily relocated from New York to London after Eric landed a part in
Ripper Street
. The men were also dads to Travis. Travis was black, cute as a button and spoke mainly French.

Barbara made her way over to their table.

“Hey,
bonjour
, Travis—
comment ça va?”

“Bien, merci. Et toi?”

“Tres bien, aussi.”

In her best Franglais, Barbara asked Travis what he would like to eat.

“Quinoa and black-bean wrap,” he replied, opting for English. Of course. What else would an eight-year-old ask for? What’s more, he pronounced it “kee-nwar,” the way you’re meant to.

The first time Barbara heard the family speaking French, she asked the dads if Travis was from Haiti. She assumed that Brian and Eric had adopted him after the earthquake.

“Oh, no,” Eric said. “He’s from the Bronx.”

Apparently, a child raised to speak French was the latest must-have accessory in Brooklyn.

Yet again it occurred to Barbara how bemused elderly East Enders must be by this latest wave of trendification. It was one thing ordinary middle-class people like Barbara and Frank moving in, renovating old properties and sending house prices rocketing—a consequence that elderly residents appreciated but younger ones who were trying to get on the property ladder most definitely did not. But what did they make of the hipster-and-hummus brigade with their artisan soap shops, froufrou boulangeries and mandolin festivals? She supposed they’d seen it all before. Not so many years ago Barbara’s generation had gone around in antiestablishment Afros and afghans. These days young people demonstrated their independent expression and countercultural politics by riding fixie bikes and playing their music on vinyl.

By one o’clock people were queuing for tables and Matt and the other weekend helpers seemed to be doing a brisk trade at the counter. Even though they were owed money, Barbara couldn’t understand how the Green Door wasn’t turning a decent profit. Jess said it was the location. The deli was hidden down a side street. This didn’t matter at the weekends because all the locals knew where to find them, but during the week there wasn’t much passing trade. They’d made a terrible mistake, and she would give anything to turn back the clock.

By the end of the day, Barbara was exhausted—but in a good way. Her body was tired, but her mind, having been forced to lie fallow for a few hours, felt relaxed. While Matt and the others swabbed tables and counters, she mopped the floor. When everything was done, the helpers left and Barbara and Matt headed upstairs.

Frank was already there. He was sitting on the sofa, his arm round Jess. They were drinking wine and going through a giant box of family photos. The box had lived with Jess and Matt for a couple of years—ever since Jess had volunteered to transfer the pictures into albums. She still hadn’t got around to it. At the same time, everybody agreed that whenever they were overcome with the urge to see pictures of Frank in flares and a droopy mustache, it was probably more fun to tip them onto the floor and rummage.

“Umm, something smells good,” Barbara said.

“Lasagna.” Jess had made two for the deli plus one more that she’d kept back for tonight. She offered her mother a glass of wine.

“No, don’t get up,” Barbara said. “You’re covered in photographs. I’ll get it.”

Barbara headed to the kitchen.

“No, Grandma. You mustn’t come in!” It was Atticus. “You have to keep out. It’s a surprise.”

“But I only want to get a glass of wine.”

“You can’t,” Cleo said.

Matt called out to Cleo, telling her not to be so rude. Then he went into the kitchen to fetch Barbara a drink.

“They’re icing a secret bon voyage cake for Dad,” Jess said in a stage whisper.

“At least somebody loves me,” Frank said to Barbara.

Barbara rolled her eyes but let the remark go. Matt handed her a glass of wine and said he needed to get back to the kitchen to supervise icing operations.

“Oh, look at you in this picture,” Frank said to Jess. “You were about to start school and Mum had taken you to get your hair cut. I loved you with that fringe. You looked so cute. Why don’t you wear your hair in a fringe anymore?”

“That would be because it makes me look like a cute five-year-old.”

“That’s what I like about it.”

“I wish you weren’t going away for so long,” Jess said.

“Can’t be helped. It isn’t easy going to a country like Mexico and trying to infiltrate its health system.”

“When you say ‘infiltrate’—you’re not going to be doing all that hidden-camera stuff, are you?”

“Probably.”

“I really worry about you. What if you get arrested?”

“I’m not going to get arrested.”

“You don’t know that.”

“On the upside,” Frank said, “prison would be a great dieting opportunity. At least I’d lose some of this.” He patted his belly.

“Idiot,” Jess said, smiling.

Frank put down his glass and gave her a cuddle. “Come on, it won’t be so bad. We can Skype.”

“No, we can’t. Not when you’re in the back of beyond.”

Frank and Jess had always been close. Barbara supposed it was the father-daughter thing. Daughters and dads forged special bonds. Not that it was saying much, but Barbara supposed she had been fairly close to her own father. That said, there were times when Barbara couldn’t help feeling jealous of Jess’s relationship with Frank. It didn’t take hold very often, but it was happening now, as she watched the two of them snuggling on the sofa. It had happened a few weeks ago. Frank had been getting ready to go to some posh dinner and Jess and the kids were visiting. Instead of asking Barbara what tie he should wear, he’d asked Jess. She hated herself for feeling the way she did. Barbara adored her daughter and knew full well that Jess wasn’t trying to “steal” Frank or usurp Barbara’s position in the family. This was all about her feeling neglected by Frank. She was directing her anger at Jess. It was wrong, and she knew she should curb her feelings.