There’s no way I heard that correctly. “What?”
“We have arranged a job interview for you.” She bats her eyelashes.
“You can’t go around organising interviews for people. That’s insane.” I shift uncomfortably in the chair.
“No, it’s not,” Sophie states with innocence. “Trish, your turn.” Her voice is confident as she returns to her seat.
“Hi, Abigail.” Trish’s face screams sympathy; my mind screams punch it. But I manage to keep my now clenched hands on my lap. “I know you’re probably really angry with us, and I understand if you think we’re being nasty, but we’re really doing the opposite—we’re being kind. If this was one of us, you wouldn’t let us wallow in self-pity or hatred or whatever this meltdown is.” She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear before continuing. “I’ve spoken with my father. As you know, he has the biggest law firm on the coast … well, throughout the country, actually.” A beat passes. “Your interview is tomorrow morning in Maroochydore at ten forty-five. You know where Sims, General, and Klein Lawyers is, don’t you?”
“That’s not the point. I’m not a solicitor, and I don’t have any legal experience. What could I possibly do there?” I should flip her off. I giggle. I’m losing my mind.
“This isn’t funny,” she retorts. “Dad’s looking for a second assistant to work under his personal assistant, and since you taught business stuff, you would be perfect for the job. He knows about the situation with the school and how you’ll probably be returning come January. He’s fine with it. Please say you’ll go tomorrow.” She stands with her fingers crossed in prayer.
How frickin’ melodramatic is this rubbish? “Fine, I’ll go. Now is this thing over?” Biting at my lip, I cringe, hoping they will butt out of the remainder of my life.
“Not yet,” Sammy says. “It’s time for you to talk about Mike. You need to let it out. You need to heal.”
I shift my eyes to Andrew, Leza’s husband. He nods.
I hate Andrew. Pretentious arse, with glasses too big for his small face and brown hair too thin for a thirty-year-old. I want to scream at him. Take all my rage out on him. But I don’t. I simply say, “I told you there’s nothing to talk about.”
“But there is,” Andrew says in a deep voice.
“What do you want me to say? Well … what? He dumped me on my arse the day I bought my wedding dress? That he’s never told me why? Or is it the fact I never asked him why he didn’t want me anymore, and I just left? Let me think …” I tap at my chin in an overstated way. “Is it because he’s getting married to a much prettier version of me, is this what you want to hear?” I wait for someone to say something, anything, but they don’t. “What about the fact he still, to this day, has no idea Bella died? Not once has he called, messaged, or checked up on me or our fur baby. So yeah, I’m fucking hurt, okay? Drop it.” Every muscle in my body tenses.
The room stays silent. Deathly silent. I don’t like it.
My heart thuds in my chest, my hands grow slick with sweat. “I can’t breathe, Sammy, help,” I whisper.
Jumping to my feet, I race down the stairs, pull the door open, and run until I drop to my knees and then proceed to lay flat on my back.
***
I hear the sound of rain. Soft droplets fall against my face. The smell is fresh.
“Abi, Abi.”
“Sammy.” My throat is dry.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
“I’m going to call your mum to come get you.”
“Don’t.” I inhale, noisily. “I sit up. I’m again met with those same ten sets of eyes that ambushed me in an intervention.
“I’m going home. Any objections?” Before anyone has time to answer, I add, “Good.” I stand and pedal my feet backwards. “I’ll go to the interview tomorrow. I promise. Right now, I’m heading home. I’ll be in Maroochydore at your father’s office at ten forty-five sharp.” I tap my head and nod to Trish to imply the information is stored.
“Wait,” Ange calls. “We wrote some letters for you. They’re in here.” She points at a white plastic bag she was holding in the room.
“Great, thank you. I’ll read them when I’m ready.”
“Abigail …” Sammy’s voice wavers.
“Good night.” My feet find the bitumen, and I run until I’m standing in the middle of the street. Fuck.
I faced the intervention. I never thought that would ever happen to someone like me: not happy, positive and caring, Abigail.
My life is a bigger mess than I even realised.
THREE
Hung Over
Beep … beep … beep. The alarm is loud. It’s obnoxious. I hate obnoxious things.
My hand slaps at the bedside table. At some point in the night, I must have set the piece of shit before climbing into bed. Drunk me does strange things.
Finally, the clock sits under my palm, and I strike it hard. It still sirens. Cranky growls escape me as my hand grasps the alarm, tossing it across the room. It keeps sounding.
“Stop it!” I yell before kicking the blankets off and finding the culprit on a pile of clothing beside the bed. I forcibly disarm it by ripping the batteries from its guts.
Today is not going to be a good day. This curse won’t let it be, it never does.
“What to wear?” I chant, sliding hangers, stopping when a navy-blue dress comes into sight. Hoping it still fits me, I pull it over my head. The zip is hard to slide but soon fastens in place.
“Mum,” I call, walking out of the bedroom. She doesn’t answer. “Mum …”
I clomp up the stairs, leading to the upper level of our house. Opening the door to her bedroom with little regard for her privacy, I see she’s sound asleep. This doesn’t stop me from waking her.
“Wake up,” I yell.
Her eyes spring open then squeeze shut. “What’s the matter, petal?”
Your breath stinks. “Yikes, you need a mint.”
“If you’re just going to be cruel, leave me alone.”
“Sorry. That was mean. I’m mean, I know. I’ve turned into a horrible person.” I take a long breath. “But I’ll do be better. I’ll try to be better. Can I use your make up?” I place my hand, gently, on the blankets covering her arm. “You don’t want me looking like a troll for my job interview, do you?” I announce. Hoping she might believe more than I do that I can refloat the sinking ship that’s become my life.
Her lips move until they form a half smile. “Yes, the interview,” she croaks, pulling her body into a sitting position, her back supported by the dark wooden bedframe. “I’m glad you’re going.”
“You knew?” I’m shocked.
“Yes, of course.”
“So you let them do what they did? The stupid intervention?”
She combs her fingers through her hair. “You invented the silly thing with your friends all those years ago. I knew you’d abide by the rules.”