Jess
I was barely holding it together but, thank God, Charles arrived as promised. I’d spent the last few hours since my final conversation with Drew walking around Michael’s little garden. I know I was freaking Michael out, but I couldn’t stop myself. Drew leaving had flipped something in me – I’d finally given up hope we’d ever be anything. I was crawling out of my skin. When I feel stressed, like now, the best way I can describe it is that I’m like Alice at the end of the Wonderland adventure when she gets pelted with a pack of cards – so many things whirling around in my head that I needed a gentle sister to shake me awake from the dream. Not having one of those at hand, Charles would have to do.
Charles had a steadying manner. Six feet tall, golfer’s lithe build, with little wings of grey in his dark hair, he reminded me of Benedict Cumberbatch playing Dr Strange. He had no magical powers though, unless you counted his voice. In his ‘trust me, I’m a doctor’ tones, he told us both that we were managing well with our various challenges – Michael’s physical and mine … being me. Michael had perked up on that news. And me? I guess I felt a little affirmed too. After some boring talk about golf that seemed to satisfy Michael and then send him into a doze, Charles sat me down in the sitting room and led me through a visualisation session. He told me to imagine looking at each item in my chaos and placing it in mental filing boxes – not to ignore but to organise so I didn’t get overwhelmed.
There was a shortcut for mental exercises. I asked for him to put me back on medication.
‘You don’t need pills, Jessica. You need persistence,’ he said.
I got the impression I wasn’t the first patient he’d said that to. ‘Telling an adult with ADHD to persist is like telling a person with depression to cheer up.’
He shook his head. ‘You underestimate your own resources, Jessica. Give it another two weeks. If you’re still struggling, we’ll reconsider.’
At least he did manage to help out with cover for Monday, phoning Fernanda and asking her to spend the day in the house. She’d even agreed to stay the evening so I could go to book club as long as I could come back to sleep over. Charles encouraged my participation in the book group; he thought female friends were healthy for me. Little did he know my crew. I think he was thinking of the ladies who lunch that he saw out and about in his circle, not my scurrilous bunch.
Once Charles left in his new Mercedes Benz, I settled down with Michael to watch some TV, him on his bed, me in the armchair, feet propped on the covers.
‘Have you seen Charles’s car? Pretty swish.’ I quelled the impulse to take the controller away from Michael as he flicked his way through the channels. Nothing seemed to suit and I doubted he’d go for my Love Island suggestion. He settled on a news discussion programme. What joy.
‘Charles changes partners only a little less frequently than he does his car,’ said Michael.
That tactless comment reminded me of my day and my recovering spirits plunged back into despair. I was tempted to raid Michael’s bathroom cabinet to see if he had anything to take the edge off my mood.
‘What the fuck!’ Michael’s abrupt cry dislodged me from my nefarious plan.
‘What?’
Michael pointed at the screen. Some woman called Anushka Kapoor was on a Newsnight panel, talking about the stalker baby stealer targeting Michael. She said in so many words that Michael had brought this upon himself, that he invited weirdoes with his provocative stances on violent offenders, and that we all needed to sit and sing ‘Kumbaya’, rather than stir up such feelings.
‘What an idiot,’ I murmured.
Michael threw me a furious look.
‘You see, Jerry,’ she said with false concern, ‘some people say that he might’ve even orchestrated it himself to attract publicity for his comeback to public life.’
I had a new public enemy Number One. ‘The bitch!’
The host shut her down on that pretty quickly, but Michael and I both had the experience to know that that kind of mud sticks. The tabloids liked their celebrities to have clay feet.
‘I could murder her!’ Michael hissed.
‘Do so and I’ll bury the body.’ I pointed to myself. ‘Ex-undertaker – I know the right people.’ That was probably the best thing I could have said because he gave a rueful laugh. The programme ended and he switched off the screen.
He put the controller back on his bedside table. ‘Today is now officially the third worst day of my life.’
I knew him well enough to know what the other two were: the day his wife died and the day he broke his spine.
‘Who the hell is she?’ I asked.
‘Just some commentator I’ve crossed recently. I thought better of her.’ He lay back and closed his eyes, looking exhausted and clammy.
I bit my lip, still worried for him. He didn’t need me to stir up strong feelings against her. ‘Forget the bitch. Try and sleep.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. Thanks for staying, Jessica.’
‘No problem.’
Michael slept after that, too tired to feel all the anger he normally would. I felt it for him, my new hate figure mixing with my bitterness over Drew. If I knew witchcraft, she would’ve had pins stuck in her like a hedgehog.
At two o’clock in the morning, I gave in and raided Michael’s bathroom cabinet. No sleeping pills. I stared at my reflection for a long moment, considering more drastic action. His pain meds. The razor.
I checked. Impulse controls were fried. Shit, this was dangerous.
My hand went to the packet of pills.
Boxes. Put things in boxes. My inner Charles kicked me in the behind just in time.
Right. I began the painstaking process of putting my head back together.