Maame(71)

If I were Nia, would I have held a slight grudge? What would have happened to me if Nia hadn’t gotten me eating, talking, walking, and cycling in the sun? I couldn’t have gotten to this stage alone.

Our food arrives, and I try Nia’s beetroot juice.

“Is it good?” she asks.

I push the glass back to her. “It’s … refreshing. Has a unique earthy note to it.”

Nia laughs. “All right, Nigel Slater.” When she tries it, she moves her head side to side to say so-so.



* * *



It’s almost eighty-six degrees out, so after lunch, we walk from London Bridge to the West End. I marvel at how much has changed in my life since I was unceremoniously fired from CGT. I still haven’t heard back from HR.

Near Embankment we choose a park to sit in for a few hours, not really talking about anything but passing words between us. A woman sits one bench over, eating red pepper hummus with a spoon.

Eventually I say, “I’m exhausted,” and Nia nods.

She takes the bus home whilst I opt for the train.



* * *



Jo has friends over in the garden when I get back—Cam is with them; they’re all laughing and drinking in the early evening sun. I stand by the stairs and introduce myself. They ask if I want to join them and I politely decline and go up to my room, but because Jo’s bedroom is on top of the garden and she keeps her window and door open during the day, I can still hear them.

“Times like this you’ve got to leave her alone, I think,” says one of Jo’s friends. “Especially after the whole it’s-your-fault thing.”

“Yeah, I kind of leave her to it,” Jo says. “I’m not fussed, and I don’t hold grudges.”

“How’s it been living with her in general?”

“Fine,” Jo replies. “She’s clean, quiet. Although, I always have to pull the showerhead up. Whenever I get into the bath after her it’s at nose-level, which is funny because she’s at least an inch or two taller than me.”

I frown because I always have to pull the showerhead down when I get in the bath after Jo. I never questioned it; it’s been a reflex ever since I moved in. But now I realize it’s because I don’t wash my hair every day and she pretty much does.

“That’s weird,” her friend says flippantly.

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” Jo adds. “We don’t really talk. Well, we did before, but she doesn’t really talk at all now. Most of the time, she’s alone upstairs or just sits in the living room watching TV.”

“Aw, bless, that’s sad.”

“I know.” The doorbell rings. “That’s our pizza!”

I wipe my eyes dry.



* * *



A little later, I go down to cook some pasta.

From the kitchen, I can hear them even clearer than I did upstairs.

“So, how did your talk with Sam the stallion go?” one of them asks. “Back together yet?”

I sneak closer to the door. “Almost,” Jo responds. I picture her with her head thrown back, her mouth open, and the cooling sun on her face, surrounded by friends who look and sound just like her. “When he came by, we had a good, long chat. He said he was sorry for ending things so abruptly and explained that it was because he wasn’t in the best headspace at the time.”

“Yeah, his friend, right?”

“Yeah,” Jo confirms. “Anyway, he was talking about how it was less complicated when we were friends and I thought that too, but … I didn’t tell him this, but now I think I want more from him?”

The girls all squeal with delight.

“What about that Conrad guy from work?”

Jo sighs and I imagine her swiping at the air dismissively. “It wasn’t the same, you know?”

“If we go out for your birthday, I’m definitely inviting Sam,” someone says.

“Yes!” Jo says. “You have to!” And I can tell she’s smiling.

I suddenly hate that she’s smiling, because that’s all she does. Laugh and smile and talk to her friends about boys who really like her. Does Sam really like her? Of course, he does—people like Jo. Men must be attracted to fun, to simplicity, to a lack of baggage. Or at least to someone who can hide their baggage well. My problem is that I’m not simple; I’m not a good time, unless I’m lying or pretending to be okay.

More laughter spills from the garden. I move away to boil the kettle and I think about Sam. Sam and his easy smile. Sam and his mum, who sounds a lot like my own. Sam and his friend—it sounded like something had happened, maybe he had a fight with a close friend of his. But he seemed fine when he came over that time, so perhaps they’d made amends? Then I’m thinking about what Jo said. How since they got back from Florence, I’ve just been sitting in the living room and watching TV or existing alone upstairs.

“I’m sure there was a time when I was happy,” I say to the boiling pot of pasta. “But how do you measure that? How do you know if you’re genuinely happy or if you’re just mostly all right, with sprinkles of laughter and occasional shit storms of sadness? Maybe I’ve only ever been all right.”

I was a happy baby, Mum once told me. I laughed so much I always had the hiccups. My pre-teenage years were uneventful and maybe that’s happiness: a lack of tragedy. Maybe when Mum started staying away for longer and the responsibility grew? Definitely when Dad became ill and every single day was marred with moments of worry and concern and guilt.