The talk with Hannah’s mum had upset Laura.
At home that evening, she moved from room to room in her garden flat, unable to settle to anything. Normally, the flat soothed her. Her sanctuary. She’d lived there for six years now and, even though it was only rented, the first thing she’d done when she moved in was paint it from top to bottom. Your home was your refuge. It was so important to imprint oneself on every surface of it so you maintained a sense of yourself and your place in the world.
Laura knew what it was like to feel you had no place.
The galley kitchen was a warm yellow, her bedroom a cool, soothing green, while the living room, with its high ceilings and French doors leading out on to the garden, was a deep red, so that sometimes Laura felt as if she was walking right into a pulsating heart.
She unrolled her yoga mat and laid it out on the floorboards in front of the black cast-iron fireplace and sat cross-legged with her head tipped to one side, trying to empty her mind. Then she tipped her head the other way and did the same thing.
She knew why the chat with Corinne had bothered her so much.
It was the look on Corinne’s face when she’d talked about her daughter. That naked, almost greedy, need to see Hannah protected. Kept safe.
Laura remembered how she had found herself on the verge of tears and had had to bustle about the room snapping shut easels while she composed herself. But Laura was still learning to accept herself and that meant understanding what lay behind some of her behaviours and not giving herself a hard time about them. You’d have thought she’d know everything there was to know about herself by now. Converting from nursing to occupational therapy and then specializing in art therapy and even, recently, a bit of hypnotherapy, had involved a fair amount of mandatory self-analysis, laying bare her innermost thoughts and motivations. But she’d realized long ago that the human spirit is a work in progress, a pot that spins endlessly on the wheel, changing shape but never finished. One could never fully know oneself. The most one could hope for was to accept oneself.
She picked up her phone and dialled, growing impatient when the ringing went on and on. Annabel’s voice on her voicemail was calm as always. Soothing. It was six fifteen and Laura imagined her standing in her little box-like kitchen cooking herself something. Or perhaps she’d have her grandchild to visit. The tiny, framed baby picture on Annabel’s mantelpiece flashed into Laura’s mind and she felt a brief, sharp pang at the thought of Annabel sitting on the living-room carpet surrounded by brightly coloured children’s toys. She launched into a long message describing Corinne’s visit and the feelings it had stirred up. Embarrassingly, she found herself tearing up all over again, just describing it. Nevertheless, by the time she had finished, she was surprised to find herself feeling much better.
Kneeling back down on the mat, she went into child’s pose, bent double over her knees, her arms stretched out straight in front of her. She luxuriated into the stretch, envisaging the tension seeping slowly out of her like someone opening a valve in a radiator.
Still in child’s pose, she turned her face to the side. A movement caught her eye. Something black scuttling across the floorboards. Laura sat up. Watched the spider’s progress with interest. What was it even doing here, when the weather was still so cold?
She went into her kitchen to fetch a glass and then looked around for something to scoop the spider up with, eventually settling on a postcard of a Georgia O’Keefe flower painting she’d brought back from the Tate last year. Such a joyous picture.
The spider was still there, just where she’d left it.
Laura carefully held the glass over the insect, pausing to admire its legs, black and spiky, like the stitches in a wound. But hold on a moment. Now she was so close, Laura could see that one of the creature’s legs was damaged, strung out behind it like a tow rope. Such a terrible pity. For a moment, all was suspended, the rim of the glass hovering over the crouched insect, the tip of Laura’s tongue protruding slightly from her mouth in concentration. Then down came the glass. The spider trapped.
Carefully, she slid the postcard under the glass, making sure not to let up on the pressure with the other hand. Getting slowly to her feet, she made her way across the room, holding the glass with the injured spider outstretched. She noticed with a swell of pity that the end of the broken leg was showing on the outside of the glass.
Crossing the hall, she passed the front door. This being the garden flat, Laura had her own entrance. But instead of heading outside, she went straight into the kitchen. At the sink, she hesitated, watching the spider, which seemed now to have concertinaed itself so that it was half the size it had appeared before. Then, in a deft movement, she turned the glass upside down, dislodging the spider so it fell to the bottom.
Laura slowly slid the flower postcard from the top of the glass and then, being careful not to make any sudden movements, she positioned the glass under the tap and used her free hand to turn on the cold water, stopping only when the glass was completely full.
Satisfied that the spider had drowned, she put the glass down next to the sink and headed back into the living room to complete her salutations.