When I wake up, I’m already scratching at the inside of my elbow.
I pull down my sleeve and reach for my dressing gown, trying to work out what it is that I have to do.
In the kitchen, I notice the mess; dirty mugs in the sink, crumbs and slopped milk by the kettle, bowls with the remains of cereal welded to the sides.
The empty cereal packet stands open in the middle of the work bench.
Something is nudging at my tired brain. Something I need to do.
Tea.
I’ll drink some tea. Perhaps that will help to clear away the fog from inside my head.
What day is it?
I stand there, waiting for the kettle to boil, trying to remember how long it is since I walked out of the office for the last time. Three days? Five? Seven?
I look in the fridge. No milk.
Of course. I ran out yesterday. Or the day before yesterday. I can’t really remember. I do recall eating the last of the cereal at midnight, transferring handfuls from the packet straight into my mouth.
Abandoning the tea, I wander through to the living room and switch on breakfast TV. And that’s when I realise.
Today is December 18th.
In three days it will be Tim’s birthday.
I’ll have to go out shopping.
The eczema inside my elbow gives an extra fierce twinge and I squeeze my arm, determined not to scratch.
It’s weird.
My life has gone into complete meltdown. I’ve no job, no money and no possibility of ever being able to get Tim his operation. My days in this flat are numbered and the chasm between Carol and me can never be breached, since I walked out and left her in the lurch.
And to cap it all, I’ve lost Charlie forever.
Everything is crashing down around me and yet it’s this little patch of eczema that’s been driving me mad for days. It dominates my waking hours. I try to leave it alone, then I get diverted by some programme on TV and automatically, my fingers stray over to it and start scratching again.
It’s almost as if my body is providing me with a distraction – something to take my mind off the real problems that might otherwise drive me over the edge.
My reflection in the mirror over the fireplace is quite a shock: pasty complexion, raw eyes and hair like a neglected hedge. The thought of braving the freezing cold High Street and having to interact with people makes me want to go straight back to bed, pull the duvet over my head and sleep for another week.
But I can’t.
I’ve got to get Tim a card and a present.
I get in the shower and as I wash my hair, I can’t help remembering that the last time I did this was the morning I resigned.
When I left the office, head held determinedly high, my entire body was fizzing with adrenaline. I couldn’t believe I’d done it at last – told Carol exactly what I thought, instead of keeping it all bottled up inside.
I managed to make it down the stairs and out into the street. Then I remembered my coat. I leaned back against the wall, shivering and clutching my cardboard box, as a great wave of nausea rolled over me.
I couldn’t return for my coat.
I’d resigned and there was no going back.
That day seems a lifetime ago now.
When I’m ready to brave the shops, I have to first of all wade through a pile of mail by the door. And that’s when it occurs to me that people have probably been trying to reach me. But I abandoned the phone days ago and I’m in no hurry to renew our acquaintance.
Mum knows the score. I said I needed time to think and bless her, she’s giving me that.
It’s a raw day of grey skies and a penetrating wind. I dig my hands deep in my pockets and scurry along, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.
I know what I want. Tim needs a new watch. I’ll walk along to Harringtons, the department store at the other end of the High Street, buy the watch and the card, then head straight home.
Stopping at the cash point, I slide in my bank card, knowing there won’t be much but enough to sort Tim out. But the machine spits out my card and when I check my balance, I find out why.
I have fourteen pence in my account.
I feel a thud of dread.
When I hunt in my purse, I have enough to buy the card. The watch will have to wait.
In Harringtons, I head straight up the escalator to the cards. Spending time choosing the right one for Tim – the fart joke or the gimmicky audio card? – makes me relax and forget about things for a while. I’ll bake Tim a cake, I decide, with thirteen candles, and show him Mum’s not the only Nigella in the family.
I’m smiling as I head back down the escalator.
Gazing at the people milling about, I’m not really looking at anything in particular.
Then I spot him.
Standing at a counter between the handbags and the perfumes, a tall man in a navy overcoat is talking to an assistant.
The breath catches in my throat.
He turns his head slightly and my heart starts to beat very fast.
Charlie.
A million thoughts rush through my head as the escalator carries me closer and closer. Has he forgiven me? Will he listen if I try again to explain? Or will he stare at me with the same cold disappointment he did the night of Fez’s party?
I want to talk to him so much.
But I can’t.
I stumble off the escalator and start moving towards the exit. Then someone behind me gives a hoot of laughter – and Charlie turns round.
Our eyes meet and in that first few seconds, I see his eyes light up.
I hesitate, my heart pounding. Then I force my legs to carry me over to where he is.
As I approach, his face closes up and he rubs his forehead. The assistant says something to him with a smile and holds out a bag. As he turns to take his purchase, I can see the harsh set of his jaw.
I stop in my tracks, watching him chat to the assistant, my throat suddenly thick with emotion. Then I put my head down and hurry towards the exit.
He shouts my name. Just once. But I’m gone, half-running, half-walking, blindly bumping into people, just wanting to get away.
He hasn’t forgiven me.
I bolt upstairs to the safety of the flat, haunted by the bleakness in Charlie’s eyes when he turned away from me. Probably the last thing he wanted was me showing up, a reminder of the bad old days. Because however I dress it up, telling myself it was divided loyalties that kept me from telling him the truth immediately, the fact is I deceived him.
Just like Miranda did.
I’m edgy the rest of the day, jumping every time I hear a car door slam or the revving of an engine in the street below.
Much later, I realise I’ve been half-hoping the whole day that Charlie might come after me.
Laughing at my own stupidity, I switch off the TV, turn out the lights and go to bed.
Next morning, I’m tackling the mess in the kitchen, when the doorbell rings.
Who … ?
I go through to the bedroom, fling off my comfy old pyjamas and pull on a silky robe that I never usually wear. Running my hands through my hair, I take a deep breath and go to the door.
It’s the postman.
I take the small parcel he’s holding out and retreat inside, my heart drumming steadily.
Who would be sending me a package?
I stand there in the hall and with shaky hands, try to get my nail under the sticky tape. But it’s wrapped up so well that in the end, I have to run to the kitchen and attack it with scissors.
At last the paper is off and I pull out—
Ronald McDonald.
He’s sitting in his little blue speedboat, a wide smile on his clowny red chops.
I almost laugh, I feel so stupid.
Oh, the irony!
Slumping on the sofa, I stare at Ronald for a long time, through blurred vision.
It seemed funny when I bought it. But that was when I thought I might see Charlie again and be able to give it to him.
Now, that possibility seems more remote than ever.
When I wake next morning, the thought is already in my mind.
I have to move out.
I’ve been trying not to think about it, burying my head in the sand, but it’s time to face facts. With no job and no money, I can no longer pay my rent.
With a heavy heart, I phone Mum.
When she picks up and hears my voice, her relief streams over the phone line to me. ‘Of course you can move back in! We’d love it.’ She calls through to Tim. ‘Bobbie’s moving back in! Isn’t that great?’
‘Are you sure, Mum?’ I’m anxious she’s only pretending to be pleased. ‘We were a bit squashed the last time, remember?’
She laughs. ‘Rubbish! Get yourself over here and we’ll chat about it.’
I hang up, feeling better.
Maybe, after all, things are going to be fine.
On my way over to Mum’s, I hesitate at the cash machine. I don’t want to wreck my mood if the money still isn’t in. But in the end, I decide I need to know one way or another.
It’s payday, but my balance remains at fourteen pence.
I stare at the green lettering, my heart spiralling down into my shoes.
Carol has obviously decided, out of spite, that I can whistle for what I’m owed. So that means I won’t be able to buy Tim the watch.
Worse, I won’t be able to pay the rent, which is due in three days’ time.
My stomach is churning.
I should never have resigned. All I’ve succeeded in doing is shooting myself in the foot. I can’t go to Mum’s in this state. She’d only be frantic.
I push my hand up my sleeve and scratch angrily at my elbow, not caring if I make it bleed. Then I lean against the wall, blinking away tears, as the wind continues to buffet me.
What the Hell am I going to do?
Through my blurred vision, I suddenly catch a flash of colour.
A cyclist is battling, head down, into the wind on the other side of the road. It looks like a woman. She’s wearing a bright orange tracksuit and is making good progress despite the conditions.
Hang on …
Mrs Cadwalader?
Instantly, every nerve in my body leaps to attention.
Mrs Cadwalader knows things. She’ll be able to help.
She’ll have the answer I need!
I start to run.
I don’t even knowing what I’m going to say to her. I just know I have to stop her and talk to her.
The road is busy with Friday lunchtime traffic. But I’m managing to dodge pedestrians while at the same time keeping an eye on Mrs C in the distance.
She’s pedalling steadily, but walking every day is paying off because I’m slowly catching up with her. Now all I need to do is gain on her slightly, get over the road and hopefully flag her down.
But suddenly, to my dismay, she sticks out her left hand and starts turning into a side street.
Shit! I’m going to lose her!
I take a swift left-and-right glance. The other side of the road is clear.
There’s a lorry rumbling along on my side. But I can make it across.
I dive into the road—
And an almighty blast of protest splits the air as the driver thumps the horn.
I turn and the huge artic monster is towering over me.
Hurling myself backwards, I go crashing down onto the pavement as the lorry driver, still honking furiously, steams on by.