The Girl I Used to Be(49)

I hadn’t seen the other girls in three years, since leaving university, though it was clear they’d kept in touch all that time. They all lived in London now, had gone through graduate training, and were earning more than twice my salary. I was still friends with them on Facebook and kept up with their lives there, but I used private messaging to chat to them and never posted anything about myself.

There were six of us that weekend. I met them at the airport; they’d flown in from Gatwick and had waited around for my flight from Liverpool to come in. I know this sounds weird, but I felt like a normal person, meeting them. I’d had my hair and nails done, just as I knew they would have. I’d bought clothes and shoes and bags specially for the weekend, and spent a fortune on a cabin bag for the flight. I’d scoured Facebook for details of where they’d shopped and I made sure I went to the same places. I looked just like them when I arrived and saw a couple of them look at each other in surprise. I’d always been a bit of a mouse at university; I had so many responsibilities at home, making sure the bills were paid and my mum was fed and looked after, and I neglected myself a bit. I couldn’t see the point in wearing makeup or fashionable clothes when all I did was sit in lectures and go straight home again. I had been depressed—I can see that now—and it had showed in the way I looked. Now, now that everything was going well, I looked better. I spent a lot of time on my clothes, my hair. I went to the gym regularly. I felt great, really I did.

At university I’d never felt part of their gang; at least now I looked as though I was. I made so much effort to fit in that weekend, but by the time I came back, my face was strained with smiling too much, my head pounded with jokes I didn’t quite get, and I knew that now, just as then, I didn’t fit in. And I knew why—it was my secrets that kept me apart.

I’d never told them a thing about my mum when I was at university, and I didn’t mention her now. They had no idea she’d died or even how she lived. I don’t know why I said nothing; I knew they would have supported me, come to the funeral, helped me with the house. I couldn’t bear them to set foot in my house, though, to see it as it was now. I couldn’t bear to tell them about my mum and why she was the way she was. Our lives were too different and their pity would have been too much for me. It was easier to be alone, I’d found.

In those days at university, while they trooped off to a house party at the end of the night, I’d leave them to it and look for a taxi that would take me through the tunnel to the Wirral—not easy when the drivers knew they wouldn’t get a return fare. I’d tell them I was tired, that I had to go home, and they’d lose interest, sometimes going off without even saying good-bye. I got nervous if I stayed out too long; I had to check that my mum was all right, that she hadn’t set the house on fire or done some drunk-dialing.

Now, when I look at it objectively, I can see that I have to take some responsibility. I could have forced her to see a doctor. I could have moved away and left her to it. I could have told my friends about her. Instead I got used to living two lives; one in public and one in private. That was good preparation for now, really.

My mum would always be awake when I got back. Not waiting up for me, nothing like that. We’d switched the mother and daughter roles long ago. She’d be awake because she was drinking. She’d go out to the taxi to pay my fare, no matter what time of night it was, and would try to spark up a conversation with the poor taxi driver who just wanted to get back on the road. I’d hover around her, trying to get her back into the house.

“It’s a miserable night for you,” she’d say, and I’d hear the guy say, “What?” and I’d realize that by now she was so far gone that nobody else knew what she was saying. And of course taxi drivers are used to drunks; it was a sign of how bad she was that they couldn’t understand a word she said.

She’d stumble back into the house, having given the guy a huge tip or, once, a penny, and she’d look at me and my heart would sink. It would go one of two ways then: Either she’d cry and talk about the past, or she’d turn on me.

I don’t know which I hated more.

But all that was over now and I knew I shouldn’t dwell on it. That afternoon, as agreed, I called David and spent ten minutes giggling on the phone. I missed him so much; it was hardly worth my going away. I was sharing a hotel room with my friend Emma, so I wasn’t sure how much I’d be able to talk to him at night. He and I had never been apart since the day we met. I wasn’t sure how it would feel to be alone now, after being with him.

I must have looked miserable at that thought, then, because the bride-to-be, Laura, nudged me and whispered, “Are you okay?”

I smiled at her. “Yes, I’m fine. Having a great time.”

“Me too,” she said. “I’m sorry you can’t make the wedding.” This had been a bit of a sore topic within the group; we’d had over a year’s notice, after all, but as David said, there was no way we wanted our photos on social media.

“Oh I am, too!” I said. “I would have loved that. I’d already paid for the holiday, though.”

“That’s okay. And thanks so much for the wedding gift. It arrived last week.” She looked so pleased then, her irritation at my pulling out of the wedding assuaged by my choosing one of the more expensive presents she’d registered for at a top department store. She put her hand on my arm and the diamonds in her engagement ring twinkled. “It’s so good to see you again. You look great. So much happier.”