The Switch(41)

‘What are you looking at?’ she asks suspiciously.

‘Your earrings,’ I say. ‘They’re beautiful. And the last pair I saw you in were lovely, too.’

‘Oh.’ She looks pleased. ‘Thank you. They’re 1940s – I found them at a flea market and polished them up myself.’

‘What a find!’ I hustle her out of Help the Aged towards the gigantic Oxfam where Fitz found himself three floral shirts. ‘Look,’ I say, as casually as I can, ‘they have a vintage rail. Gosh, look at the curious ivy pattern on this skirt!’

If Letitia were a cat, her ears would be pricking up. She sidles closer and reaches to stroke the fabric.

I need to change how Letitia views clothes. She’s a magpie, she collects beautiful things – so why not decorate herself with them too? If she paid half as much attention to herself as she does to her home, well. She might still look odd, but at least she’d be taking some pride in her appearance.

‘Shall I … try this on?’ Letitia says nervously, holding the ivy-patterned skirt.

‘Why not?’ I ask, already pushing her towards the changing room.





15


Leena


Ant/Dec wakes me, as has become our routine; I am actually becoming quite fond of a furry head in my face first thing. It’s much nicer than an alarm.

As he jumps down from the bed, he knocks Mum’s moonstone from the bedside table. I pick it up slowly, rolling it between my fingers. It’s tinged with blue, kind of alien-looking. I wonder who decided it meant ‘new beginnings’.

Hesitantly, I reach for my phone. There’s a goodnight message from Ethan, sent at one a.m., with four kisses instead of the usual three. He’s had to miss another weekend visit because of work – I’ve been here three weeks now and he’s not visited once. I get it, but it’s still frustrating.

I scroll through my contacts. Mum wakes up even earlier than me – she’s usually up by five.

I hit dial. I’ve sent Mum a text most days, just checking whether she needs anything, but she always says no. I should definitely have called her or dropped around again by now, but …

‘Hello? Leena? Is everything OK?’

The panic in her voice takes me right back there. It’s only because my phone rings so often that I’ve chased away the shadow of that instant, gut-dropping dread I’d feel every time it rang when Carla was dying, that conviction that this time it would be the worst news in the world. Now, as I hear that dread in my mother’s voice, the emotions start boiling in my stomach. I get up from the edge of the bed to pace, sweating, immediately desperate to end the call before I’ve even said a word.

‘Hi, sorry Mum, all fine!’ I say quickly. ‘I was just ringing to say hello – and – it’s bingo tomorrow night, I wondered if you wanted to come? I’ll be driving the van.’

There’s a short pause. ‘Oh, I … Yes, why not? If you want me to come?’

She waits.

‘Yes!’ I say, too shrill, and I press one fist at the point between my ribs where the emotions are roiling. ‘Yeah, totally, come along! Five p.m. OK. Great!’

If I hang up then this feeling of panic will go, but I’ve not said what I wanted to say, not really.

‘Leena, take a deep breath,’ Mum says.

I close my eyes and slow my breathing. The prickling sensation on my chest and face subsides a little, until it feels less like pins-and-needles, more like light rain on the skin.

I open my eyes and take one final deep breath. ‘Mum, Grandma told me you’d been to see the doctor and he’d given you some antidepressants.’

There’s a long pause. ‘Yes,’ she says.

‘I didn’t realise things were … that bad,’ I say. ‘I – I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK, love.’ Her voice is quieter now.

‘And they’re helping?’

‘They are, actually. Though it’s hard to tell whether it’s the antidepressants or the crystals, really.’

I roll my eyes.

‘Did you just roll your eyes?’

‘No?’

I hear her smile. ‘You’re so sure about the world, Leena. But I’m not like that. You know the best way for you to heal, and you’ve been doing it: working hard, taking time away from me and your grandmother. I haven’t worked out how to heal. So I’m trying everything. That’s my way.’

I twist the moonstone between my fingers again.

‘I’m not sure I do know the best way to heal,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not sure I’m doing very well at it, actually.’

‘Is that why you’re here?’ Mum asks. ‘In Hamleigh?’

‘Maybe.’ I swallow. ‘So I’ll see you at bingo?’

‘See you at bingo.’

I shake out my arms after the phone call – they’re tense, as though I’ve been gripping the steering wheel after a long, difficult drive. I’m too hot. I take myself out for a run, just a short one; by the time I get back and make a coffee, I’m breathing normally, feeling more in control, but even so I pace around the dining room with my mug cupped between my hands, unable to sit for more than a moment or two. I need a distraction.