Dear Anybody Page 4

  ‘I don’t have a drink problem,’ I say. Mum looks at the mug of wine I’m cradling as I sit up in bed. ‘I can stop this whenever I want to.’

  ‘And go and talk to Rob? He won’t stop leaving messages just because you turn off the phone and leave it in the cutlery drawer.’

  ‘I can’t handle talking, not until I’m ready.’

  ‘And when will you be ready, Syd? You’re not looking yourself. You should get a shower and get yourself over to that party at the hotel.’

  ‘What party at what hotel?’ I drain the rest of the wine and pick up the Pringles box from the side table.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, but I’ve had to read your texts. You know? Just in case there was something important.’

  ‘Mum.’ So she’s been spying on me.

  ‘There is something.’ Mum pulls my mobile out of the back pocket of her jeans. ‘Rani sent you the details about a party. She thought there might be a few people there you can give your CV to. You know? Get yourself a new job at another newspaper. Some journalist convention at the Grosvenor Park Hotel. A chance to dress up.’

  ‘You mean get out of my pyjamas?’

  ‘Meet people. New people.’

  ‘Mum I don’t want to start dating again.

  ‘Aren’t you listening? This is about getting you a new job. Just get in the shower. I already RSVP’d for you and you might still fit into the black dress you left here last time you stayed.’ She puts my mobile beside my wine mug and heads for the door. Over her shoulder she adds, ‘Try the dress on before you tuck into that third box of Pringles.’

  ‘It’s only the second.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Sydney love. Now get ready. It starts at seven. I’ll help you do something with your hair.’

  I slam down the Pringles box and swing my socked feet out of bed. Right this is it. Time to prove to my parents and myself that I’m not the loser I appear to be. If she’d wanted to, Mum could have given me a right rollicking. I hear them in their bedroom at night from the landing, when I leave my room to go to the loo, having a go at each other about how to get me the hell out of the house before agoraphobia sets in. I’m sure it has already taken over part of me.

  I resolve to do better but looking in the mirror only makes me want to hide under the covers again. My God, look at me. I haven’t been to the hairdresser for a blow dry or trim in a while. I also haven’t exactly washed my hair since I was fired from the newspaper. Lately, when I can manage it, I stand under the shower with my face under the tap, water runs down the front of my body. I keep my eyes closed and then turn around to let the water flow down my back. Sometimes I stand there for so long the steam makes me dizzy and I have to come out just so I don’t faint and crack my head open on the tiles. There is no real washing going on, no soap or shampoo. But all that is about to change. I’ll smarten up, dress up and go the convention. Besides there’s no more drink in the house and these events are always good for free booze and Pringles.

  I squeeze into the black dress after showering with products. My gut bulges out giving me the outline of a woman in her second trimester. I’ve gained a stone in weight since the breakup and my thighs are the closest they’ve been together in ages.

  I take a taxi to the hotel because Mum insists, maybe she’s afraid I’ll change my mind if I’m allowed to walk to Willesden Green station on my own. It’s possible I suppose. As I sit in the back of the taxi looking at the sky and remembering what cars and people look like I’m thinking this whole journalist convention thing is a big mistake. Danielle was right. My heart was not on the job so why would I seek out another job in the same profession?

  When I arrive at the hotel the doorman is quick to open the door, so I feel obliged to go in. No backing out. I raise my chin, suck in my stomach and give my name at the desk. Thanks to Rani, who is an absolute darling, they are expecting me. Ordinarily, she would have organised a massive leaving do knees up for me had I been at work, so putting me onto this convention, in her eyes, is the next best thing to a leaving present.

  There is a name tag waiting for me and a folder of papers with the words Digital Media Strategies on the front. There’s a list of speakers after the welcome letter but I decide to head straight for the bar for a quick pick me up before entering the ballroom where the talks are being held. For several minutes I stand at the bar clinging onto a white wine, afraid to go into the ballroom and afraid to become too drunk to network after the talks. With each second I lose my nerve just a little more. What if people have heard of me and there’s no way anyone would offer me a job?

  I decide to hang on in the bar until everyone comes out of the talks and then I can try to mingle. If I stay sober enough I’ll be able to schmooze one or two unsuspecting editors. I have to give Mum something and Rani has tried to help so I owe it to her too.

  After about ten minutes I’d found myself in the company of the highly-powdered Alexandra Phillips who’d walked in and purposefully made for the bar where she’d ordered a bottle of champagne. She’d spotted me, smiled and sidled up beside me, creating a gust of Chanel No 5.

  ‘Are you for this convention thing?’ she’d asked.

  Now, not only will she not leave my side but she hasn’t allowed me to utter more than two words. Those being my first and last name.

  Alexandra Phillips looks to be in her sixties. Her eyebrows are pencilled in with a fine brown line, giving her the look of someone in shock, surprise or bewilderment or all of the above. Her features are delicate and her hands dainty, nails neat and painted cherry red. Though I would have expected her to wear a turban with a jewel on the front, Alexandra’s dark brown hair is smooth and pulled back into a plait that runs all the way down to her waist. She looks like a former ballerina judging by the way she holds herself. As soon as I saw her I wondered what on earth a woman in expensive silks and designer shoes was doing at a convention about the digital age of publishing when she is dressed for a night at the opera.

  Her voice fills the entire bar area as she talks endlessly at me about how she is desperate to vamp up her magazine. Little by little I’m being drawn in by her spiel about the countryside magazine she owns and of how the young man taking care of the digital side of the magazine was unable to make it up to London so she thought she’d come herself.

  ‘Don’t you think you should be sitting in on the talks then?’ I dare to ask when there is a small gap in the conversation.

  ‘Plenty of time for that,’ Alexandra tells me. ‘More champers?’ She picks up the bottle and gives it a shake.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ I say timidly.

  By the time the people from the conference finally begin filling the bar, and when staff dressed in white shirts and black ties have started walking around with silver platters of finger food, Alexandra and I are sloshed. Well and truly plastered. No two ways about it.

  ‘So I lost the last editor,’ Alexandra is saying. ‘How about you? Fancy giving it a go?’ She puts out a hand and grabs a passing vol-au-vent. Putting it into her mouth whole she chews daintily, waiting for my response.

  I’m busy laughing at what she’s saying because I can’t believe Alexandra is offering me the job of editor. What is she basing that on? Then I stop and think. Maybe I’d exaggerated how high up in my organisation I’d been and how I made the decision it was in my best interest to quit while I was ahead, maybe travel for a bit. If Alexandra actually read my CV she’d know I was a fraud. Mind you, by law, Danielle isn’t allowed to give me a bad reference. What did I have to lose? I could accept the job of editor on Alexandra’s magazine and back out of it tomorrow when I’m sober.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ I say. ‘But …’

  ‘That’s settled then.’ She wipes her greasy fingers on her expensive dress and fumbles for her phone. ‘Stick your digits in there my sweet. Do you young people still call a phone number digits? Put it in here for me and I’ll call you and arrange it all.’

  I oblige. It seems rude not to but as I do I think
back on the conversation. Alexandra’s magazine, the boringly named Bridley Green, is located over one hundred miles from London.

  *

  True to her word Alexandra calls me first thing the next morning. She sounds bright and bouncy and starts talking before I’m even fully awake and before I utter the second syllable of the word Hello.

  ‘Now don’t worry,’ she says. ‘Start on Monday. That will give you four days to find accommodation and settle your affairs in London.’

  ‘And for you to get references?’

  ‘I think you and I will do wonders together. It’s what I think that matters not some old reference and I have a very good feeling about you.’

  I was beginning to think that Alexandra was more desperate to find an editor than I was to move on with my life. As she prattles on I think about the possibilities. I’d be away from Rob, far enough away so that I could start afresh and not have to deal with the business of selling the flat straight away. For now, I can go over to the flat when Rob is out and retrieve my belongings avoiding a face to face with him. I could get Dad to drive me round there with a van. Or maybe all I need are the basics. Maybe just an Uber then.

  ‘I think we can try it for three months.’ I’m not sure if Alexandra is asking me or telling me but three months is a good amount of time to be away. Enough time for me to recharge, come back and start again in London as the new me.

  ‘You’ll love Bridley and the people.’

  Plus, I’d be an experienced editor. Suck on that Danielle.

  ‘So it’s settled then? I’ll draw up a contract of sorts.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say standing on my bed and doing a fist pump. Alexandra is like an answer to a wish I didn’t realise I’d made. I’d have to ring and thank Rani, too. Thank goodness for that champagne Alexandra and I shared last night and thank goodness Mum looked at my private messages.

  Completely sobered up, I trot downstairs in my Avril Lavigne t-shirt (another item from the box in the wardrobe) to the kitchen where Mum is washing up and wearing her doctor’s surgery uniform.

  ‘Mum,’ I say with a big, smug smile on my face.

  ‘What is it my love?’ Radio Four is on, as usual.

  ‘I think I may have landed myself a job as an editor of a magazine.’ I put a forefinger between my teeth in case I overextend my grin and split my cheeks.

  Mum drops the cutlery into the sink and swings around to hug me with soapy hands. Trying to brief a person about Alexandra while they are kissing your cheek and congratulating you is hard, but I manage to relate most of the details and the fact that the job isn’t in London to Mum. Eventually the kissing and hugging stops and Mum releases my arms at last.

  ‘When I get home from work I’ll help you pack,’ she says.

  ‘Er … because you’re very thrilled and excited about the job or because you can’t wait to see the back of me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Look at your face. Look at what this new job has done for you. I can see my Syd again. At last.’

  I give Mum a massive squeeze.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘But before we can pack I’ll need to nip round to the flat and grab some of my things. I’ll check he’s not there first.’

  ‘Ah, Sydney. I’m so sorry it’s come to that. If you want me to come with you, I finish at one today.’

  ‘Thanks, Mum. That would be great.’

  As Mum gets off to work I get onto Google to search for a place to live for the next three months and to look up the little village of Bridley and the magazine, Bridley Green.

  Chapter 6

  I thought it would be easy finding temporary accommodation in Bridley but I’m struggling to find anything. I’m also riddled with panic about going over to the flat while Rob is at work, packing a case and getting the hell out of Kilburn. The whole situation has tipped me over the edge but I really need some place to stay before I can start my new job on the magazine. I take a deep breath, try to summon my Chi and start again.

  I pinpoint my new office on a Google map and start a new search. First hotels then Bed & Breakfast, Airbnb, hostels, holiday lets, short term lets, long term lets, barns, cardboard boxes under bridges and still nothing turns up. Looks like I’ll have nowhere local to the office to lay my head for the next three months.

  In the end I book myself into a Travelodge in the neighbouring county, about an hour from the office and hope I’ll find something better once I’ve touched base with Alexandra. It’s a start anyway.

  Mum comes home and I brace myself for our trip to Kilburn.

  I open the door to the flat slowly and cough. I want to check first that Rob’s head won’t pop out from around a corner, but the flat is still and silent. It’s two in the afternoon and only a faint hum of traffic from the street can be heard. The people across from us and the woman downstairs are all out and I feel like a burglar in my own home. Mind you, it doesn’t feel much like home anymore.

  The first thing I notice is a stale or a musky smell in the air. I can’t tell where it’s coming from but it’s clear Rob isn’t doing any housework. That includes washing up, dusting or putting his clothes in the washing machine. A trail of his expensive shirts overflow from the linen basket and onto the bedroom floor where they seem to intertwine, making a multicoloured vine across the floor. Isn’t he taking care of himself? I wonder and immediately feel annoyed for caring. But I do. I’m seriously worried about his well-being. I can tell from looking at the bed that he is only occupying his side of it. My side of the bed is flat and smooth and the pillows upright and neat. He isn’t bringing anyone over, that’s evident. Maybe all his pleas for forgiveness by text and voicemail are sincere. All his pledges that he would rather cut off his arms than hurt me like that again must have been true. So if I did take him back I’d not only have to forgive him but look after a man with disabilities. Am I compassionate enough for that? Rani would tell me to run a mile. One of the biggest things I miss is Rob’s arms around me, his touch on my skin, his breath on my neck when we spoon in bed before falling asleep. I miss him stroking my legs when we sit and watch television and I’ve draped them idly across his lap. I miss seeing his gorgeous body in the bathroom or watching him dress. The longer I stay in the flat the more I miss him.

  I think Mum has seen my eyes glassing up and notices the way I gulp every time I suppress the urge to start blubbing. I mustn’t go backwards. I must work harder to keep up the hatred and anger. It feeds my desire to get out of bed and do something with my life. If I don’t hate Rob enough then I might start considering forgiveness. I might not go to Bridley and I might miss a great opportunity to improve my skill set and move on in my career. I can’t allow that to happen.

  ‘Okay! Suitcase open, let’s get everything you need and go.’ Mum is on form. She senses my wavering heart, I’m sure. She knows as well as I do that I need to move on. So I start packing things away. Passport, driving licence. Essential clothes, make up and toiletries. My pink notebook. Laptop. And then I’m ready to go. Leave it all behind. Leave Rob behind. For good.

  *

  Looking out of the window of the Travelodge, the suitcase open on the bed behind me I’m wondering about my future. Well the next three months at least. I spoke to Mum a few minutes ago and I told her I was anxious and excited about the new job. I also told her I got a text from Rob saying he noticed that some of my things are gone but that the second I wanted to come back he’d welcome me with open arms.

  ‘You just do what feels right for you, my love,’ Mum had said.

  What feels right now is to go and get blind drunk. I struggle with the need to stay sober and the urge to keep the last few weeks out of my mind. I don’t want to be a saddo in the hotel bar, sitting on my own and drinking so l decide to get drunk in my room. I Google the nearest off licence, nip out, and without making eye contact with the receptionist, bring in a small stash of booze. When my hotel room begins to blur, I remember to call Alexandra to say I’ve arrived. She welcomes me and says she’ll catch u
p with me at the office and hangs up before I have time to tell her I have nowhere to stay in Bridley yet. I figure I’ll cross that bridge soon. I’m bound to.

  *

  Monday morning and it’s time. Time for me to go into the offices of Bridley Green and take up my new job as editor. I hope everyone likes me and I hope Alexandra will be there to make the introductions. Perhaps she and the staff will see past my puffy eyes and not notice the pong of alcohol which seems to be expiring from my every pore as I sit in the taxi on my way in.

  I admit I’m exhausted. I spent Friday evening celebrating my new job with Rani and she knows how to say a loud and alcohol fuelled farewell better than anyone. The manager of the pub had to turf us out in the end. Then on the Saturday I shared a couple of celebratory glasses, well bottles actually, with the folks. My sister came over, took one look at me, cracked open a bottle and filled our glasses. Mum did her famous cottage pie. And of course, there was last night in the hotel room. Look, I was feeling homesick and in need of a little pick me up to prepare me for my first day of work. I’d set out to buy some wine but also picked up a sexy looking bottle of tequila with an absolutely irresistible label. Come on. I’m on my own with no one I know nearby. Over one hundred miles from home. So what if I have, as it turns out, been on a weekend bender? It was all with good reason.

  The taxi driver keeps looking at me in his rear view mirror wondering, perhaps, if I might start heaving. Understandable, being as I’m about the right shade of green to do that.

  After a drive along a dual carriageway and into the leafy county in which Bridley sits, the driver takes us down a single track, pebbly, country lane with tall hedges on either side. I make out sheep grazing on one side of the road and green hills rising up to the heavens on the other. He comes to a stop as I’m craning my neck looking for signs of life other than sheep.