By the time I’d stopped hoping Mum would come back, anger made me force my aunt away. And when I’d finally reached an equilibrium – achieved my perfect cocoon – the barriers between me and Carolyn were already too well erected to pull down. I’d spent years building them up, and I wasn’t about to dismantle them. I knew my aunt loved me, but it didn’t filter through my defences. It couldn’t.
I unlocked the front door of my block and, shunning the lift as usual, trundled up the three flights of stairs. I told myself it was good for my legs, but really, I was avoiding the possibility of any small talk with other residents. I could feel myself relaxing more and more the closer I got to my studio. This was my space – well, mine and Dolby’s – and it was the one place I could let myself unwind. If I wanted to dance, I could dance (not that I ever did; I loved classical music, and it was hard to groove to Bach). If I wanted to turn up the music (not too loud, of course, the walls were about as thick as wallpaper), I would, and if I wanted to just sit and gaze out at the sea while Dolby dozed on my lap, I’d do that, too.
In fact, that was what I did most often. When I’d first bought this flat right on the promenade, I was a little unnerved by the fact that my huge front window stared straight out at the sea, with nothing between it and me. I’d shied away from staring at it, closing the blinds and turning on music for some background noise. But after a week or so, I realised I was being ridiculous. It was the sea for God’s sake – an inanimate object; not something that could hurt me . . . not something that had hurt me. Only people could do that . . . if you let them.
I’d opened the blinds and faced the water, forcing myself to stare at it without turning away. The moon was full that night and light danced on the waves – the scene was like something from a postcard. I stood there for what felt like hours until Dolby started meowing. Then, I turned away, and I’ve rarely closed the blinds since.
The vast, wide expanse of the sea echoed the clean, uncluttered lines of my flat. Despite living here for almost seven years, I had only a pull-out sofa, a lamp and a laptop which I also used as a TV. The walls were bare, the breakfast bar and counter-top free from knick-knacks, and the whole place was painted white. The room’s uncluttered lines made me feel safe, as if there were no hidden secrets to fear.
Dolby curled around my legs when I let myself inside, and I leaned down to scratch the spot beside her ear. I’d found her as a kitten under the promenade one day when I was walking home. She’d been in a horrendous state: her fur was patchy, she was only skin and bones, and there were so many fleas it was a wonder she wasn’t driven mad. I still don’t know what possessed me to take her home, but several exorbitant vet bills later, she was definitely mine. In fact, I don’t know if I adopted her or she adopted me. She’s my alarm clock, companion and hot-water bottle all rolled into one – the only flatmate I’d ever want.
I was just about to plop down in my favourite spot on the sofa when the mobile rang. Dolby performed her usual leap of surprise in the air before shooting me an evil look. I cringed when I saw Carolyn’s name pop up on the screen. Had she been watching me from her window, like I always suspected? Was she calling to give me a bollocking over not speaking to her and Rob for so long? Guilt needled me as I tried to recall the last time we’d spoken. It had been a while.
Sighing, I hit ‘answer’, then scooped up Dolby again and plonked her on my lap. I’d learned it was best to answer Carolyn’s calls, or she’d keep ringing until I picked up.
‘Hi, Carolyn.’ I didn’t know when, but somewhere along the way, I’d dropped the ‘Aunt’. She didn’t feel like an aunt – she did everything a mother should, but she didn’t feel like that, either.
‘Just calling to check in and see how you’re doing,’ Carolyn said, in that soft, caring voice that was a particular speciality of hers . . . a voice that seemed to work on everyone but me. As the headteacher at my primary school, I’d seen first-hand how all the kids loved her. When I was younger, they used to tell me how lucky I was to be living with her. I’d wanted to scream at them if they thought I was lucky to have my mum disappear, too, but all I did was nod and smile, telling myself over and over that my mum would be back.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, in the same carefully neutral voice I’d been using as long as I could remember. ‘And you?’ I grimaced, thinking how formal my words were. Carolyn deserved more, but I couldn’t give it.
To my surprise, instead of her usual cheery answer, Carolyn sighed. ‘I’m all right. As well as can be expected today, I guess.’
My brow furrowed. As well as can be expected today? What was she talking about?
‘I miss her, you know,’ Carolyn said, and I squeezed my eyes closed as the realisation filtered in: today was my mother’s birthday. Every year I managed to forget, and every year Carolyn remembered, ringing in the hope that this would be the one year I’d finally open up and tell her how I really felt, not knowing I had nothing to say now. Any words about my mum had long since faded away.
‘She would have been very proud of you,’ my aunt continued. ‘A great job in a museum, your own place . . . She would have been so happy to see what you’ve accomplished.’
I nodded, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was true. What would Mum make of my quiet, controlled life? What would she make of me? I pictured the photo of my mother that used to hang in Carolyn’s lounge – until I’d angrily turned it face down so many times Carolyn had moved it to her room. Mum’s dark, curly hair had been blowing in the wind, she was wearing a yellow T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, and her smile was so bright it seemed life was bursting from her. I was almost her exact opposite: skinny, my dark hair cropped short so it couldn’t get messed up, wearing mostly grey and black.
What would I have been like if Mum had lived? What would my world have been like?
I shoved the thought from my mind before any answers could filter in. Mum hadn’t lived. There was no point even contemplating otherwise. I’d managed to make a good life without her.
‘Right, well, I’ll let you go,’ Carolyn said, when it became obvious I had nothing to add. ‘We’ll be around all weekend if you feel like coming over. I’m cooking lasagne.’
I raised an eyebrow at her mention of lasagne. When I first went to live with her and Rob, I couldn’t eat. My stomach was constantly twisted – the pains left me gasping for breath. Multiple visits to GPs uncovered no problems; the doctor told my aunt it was simply the trauma of what had happened. Night after night, Carolyn would serve up perfectly prepared meals she thought I’d like, from fried chicken with ice cream for dessert to spaghetti Bolognese finished off with sticky toffee pudding. And night after night, I’d sit at the table with the feast in front of me, only able to think of my old place with Mum and longing for the baked beans we used to have – not because I loved them, but because that would mean we were together again.
One night a few weeks after I’d come to stay, Carolyn spent hours assembling a lasagne after my teacher told her I’d eaten some of the lasagne at school. She was sliding it from the oven when it slipped from her hands. I’d heard the glass dish shatter on the floor and come running, only to see Carolyn standing in the middle of a tomato-splattered kitchen, tears streaming from her eyes. I’d backed away slowly, worry and fear surging through me at seeing my capable aunt so sad. I forced down the grilled cheese we had that night for supper in a desperate bid to make her happy again.