Another Night, Another Day

  Abby checks her watch. The car’s early. It’s fortunate she’s finished her lunch. ‘Oh well, better go, I suppose.’ She pushes back her chair.

  ‘You were going to give me your number,’ says Karen, pausing midway through her lasagne to reach for her phone.

  ‘So I was.’

  Karen taps as Abby dictates. ‘I’ll call you in a bit, then you’ll have mine.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘And you must come round for coffee.’ Karen has worked out Abby lives only five minutes’ walk away.

  ‘So, best be off,’ says Lillie, yanking up the handle to her wheeled suitcase. ‘Have a good weekend, Michael.’ She gives his shoulder a squeeze with her free hand.

  Michael pauses midway through a mouthful. ‘I’ll try.’ Abby follows Lillie out to reception, lugging her bag.

  ‘I can’t wait to get out of here,’ she says, and buzzes to ask Danni to unlock the coded door. It’s Friday and the first time she’s been home since her arrival.

  ‘They must think you’re doing well to allow you two nights away straight off,’ says Lillie. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Though Abby doesn’t believe she’ll need it. I’m back soon anyway, she thinks. She’s looking forward to not being answerable to staff, sleeping in her own bed and cooking her own meals. Above all, she’s keen to see Callum.

  ‘I’m a bit scared of being on my own,’ confesses Lillie in a low voice as Danni lets them through.

  ‘You’ll be fine. You were OK last weekend, weren’t you?’

  Lillie nods, but appears worried. ‘It’ll be good to see Tamara and Nino.’

  At that moment her sister pulls open the front door of the clinic.

  ‘Hi!’ says Tamara. She has her child scooped up in one arm close to her chest. Both have the same corkscrew curls and golden skin – it’s strange to see Lillie’s familiar features echoed in Tamara’s face.

  ‘Hiya.’ Lillie leans in to hug them both and gives her nephew a kiss. ‘Ooh, hello, you scrumptious boy!’ In the wake of her revelation earlier in the week, her affection for Nino brings a lump to Abby’s throat. ‘I just need to say goodbye to my friend – her taxi’s waiting.’

  Friend, notices Abby, pleased.

  Lillie turns to her. ‘So you’re here all next week?’

  ‘The plan is to stay Sunday night, then do Monday, Wednesday and Friday as day care. Ease down gradually, that’s what they recommended. How about you?’

  ‘I’m in on Tuesday and Friday, so we’ll overlap then.’

  ‘Great.’ Abby is tempted to ask for Lillie’s number too, but decides against it. Yet again it had slipped her mind that Lillie is a celebrity. I bet she hates being pestered, she thinks.

  * * *

  It would be rude to leave before Karen has finished eating, thinks Michael. He feels a touch awkward that they’ve been left alone to make conversation.

  Karen swallows a mouthful of lasagne. ‘So was the florist you used to run in Rottingdean?’

  The question startles him. He’s mentioned where he lives to fellow patients, and that he had to close his shop, but no more.

  ‘Er . . . No, it was in Hove.’

  ‘Where, exactly? I live near there.’

  ‘By the station,’ he says. He can feel the colour rising in his cheeks.

  ‘I drive past there all the time!’ says Karen. She frowns, considering. ‘You know, I think I bought some flowers from you not that long ago. Was it a green and blue frontage . . . and facing . . . what’s the name of that street?’ She lays down her fork and draws a map in the air to gauge her bearings.

  ‘Cromwell Road,’ says Michael.

  ‘I did! Pansies. In a basket. For my mum.’

  ‘You know . . . I might remember you,’ he says slowly. I do, he realizes. I thought she was attractive. Which she is. The knowledge makes him flush more.

  ‘You put the basket in the back of my car.’ Karen smiles. ‘It’s funny, I thought I recognized you when we started, but couldn’t place where from.’

  ‘So I did.’ Michael nods, but that Karen is privy to his past makes him feel exposed, vulnerable. He pictures the shelves of the florist lined with plastic buckets, the marks on the concrete floor. He can hear the ‘ping’ of the till, smell a dozen mingling blooms. But he masks his consternation. ‘I hope your mother liked the pansies.’

  ‘She did,’ says Karen. ‘Oh, what a shame you had to close up. I only came in that once, but whenever I drove past I used to look out for your displays. They always looked so pretty.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says Michael, unsure how else to respond. That she noticed the care he lavished is enough to make him want to sob, and he’s grateful when he sees the office manager, Phil, making his way over to their table. Doubtless he wants to speak to Karen – so far Michael has had little to do with this neatly suited, goatee-bearded man, other than on the previous evening. Michael looks away guiltily, recalling how he poked fun at him.

  ‘Excuse me interrupting while you’re eating.’

  Michael starts – Phil appears to be addressing him.

  ‘When you’ve finished, could you pop round and see me, Michael? I need a word.’

  ‘I’ve finished now.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps you’d like to follow me, then?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Michael, and gets to his feet.

  * * *

  As long as we don’t get stuck in traffic, we should be there in twenty minutes, Abby calculates. She settles into the back seat of the taxi. It’s a luxury to be chauffeured like this, not to be behind the wheel, watching the road whilst keeping an eye on her son in the rear-view mirror. No jams so far, she observes as the driver speeds through the Cuilfail Tunnel out of Lewes. Good. Although she told Glenn to expect her early evening, when it came to it she decided to forgo the afternoon group in order to have a couple of hours to herself before Callum returns from school. Whilst she is grateful that Glenn and various carers have taken over in her absence, she is like a cat marking its territory – she wants to reclaim the space as her own.

  She leans her head against the window and watches as meadows swish by in a blur of green. Home. The prospect brings up a mix of apprehension and optimism.

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever learned so much in a short time span before – certainly about myself,’ she’d admitted to Beth in her one-to-one that morning. ‘It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to focus on my needs in years. That’s one upside of having a son like Callum – I’ve never had a moment to dwell on my problems. But the downside – I can see it now – is that everything built up inside me.’

  ‘The mind is a bit like a pressure cooker,’ Beth had said. ‘We need to let off steam or else we can explode.’

  ‘I’ve found it helpful to talk about everything – I feel so much better than when I came in. Still, I’m worried I’m heading back to everything that drove me here in the first place. Selling the house, separating from Glenn, looking after Callum . . .’ Even saying the words had made Abby break into a sweat.

  ‘It can be a difficult transition. How might you help yourself stay well?’

  ‘Ask for support. It’s true that Glenn often seems more able to say no, but the result is I hate him for it . . . So instead of resenting him, perhaps I should relinquish control?’

  Beth had nodded. ‘Sounds a sensible starting point – certainly that would give you time to enjoy more positive experiences. What would you like to do more of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ It had been hard to imagine having spare time.

  ‘What have you enjoyed particularly about being here?’

  Abby had smiled as she’d recalled Rick with his ‘coke’ addiction, Lillie in hysterics about the madhouse, and their recent disco. ‘Laughing,’ she’d said. ‘And it’s been brilliant to have such honest and open conversations.’ She’d pictured Lillie in the art room. ‘Mm, and maybe I’d like to try something creative again.’ Then she’d frowned. ‘Though I still can’t see myself being able to s
it around chatting or sketching – I’ve not found anywhere else to live.’

  ‘But maybe you can see, having had some distance, that your current circumstances won’t last forever?’

  That morning Abby had concurred, but now this remark troubles her. It’s true that one day, hopefully in the not too distant future, I’ll be through the separation, but the need to care for Callum will remain, she thinks. And whether I’m catastrophizing or looking out for myself, it makes no odds what therapists would call it. Because the older and bigger he gets, the more chronic the stress of looking after him will become.

  She sighs. It’s not going to be easy to remain buoyant. ‘Remember to focus on the positive,’ she murmurs as the taxi heads up the hill towards the turn-off for west Brighton.

  So . . . I need to sort out better respite options as well as asking Glenn for more support, she vows. After all, he has coped surprisingly well without me. It’s been great that he seems to have bonded better with Callum while I’ve been gone. My time at Moreland’s seems to be proving good for all of us.

  * * *

  Phil shuts the door of his office and pulls out a chair so Michael can sit down.

  It’s scruffier in here than the rest of the building, Michael observes. I suppose it’s not maintained as well because fee-paying patients take priority over staff. I wonder how the people working here feel about that.

  ‘I’ll cut to the chase,’ says Phil. At once Michael feels he must have done something wrong. His thoughts hurtle: maybe Phil saw me make rabbit ears – though how, I’ve no idea. ‘An NHS bed has become available.’

  It’s like a blow to Michael’s stomach.

  ‘The good news is it’s much nearer to where you live.’

  ‘Oh?’ Michael’s head is spinning. He needs a moment to gather himself. But I was beginning to feel better, he wants to protest. You can’t move me! I know the other patients, I was starting to make friends. We had a laugh last night, what with the dancing, and I slept for five hours straight afterwards – haven’t done that since Christmas. I like it here, all things considered.

  ‘It’s in Woodingdean,’ Phil continues, but Michael’s panic is rising so fast he barely hears.

  What about Gillian, he thinks. We’d just been getting somewhere. Do they know how hard it was for me, sharing that stuff with her? I’d been beginning to understand what a huge amount I’ve had hit me in the last few months. I wanted to talk to Dr Kasdan about trying antidepressants – other patients seem to think they’re not so bad after all – but my appointment’s not till Monday . . . I’m in favour of the NHS, but going somewhere new at this point seems a ludicrous decision, even cruel . . .

  Gradually Phil’s words permeate.

  ‘Woodingdean . . . ?’

  ‘Yes.’ Phil smiles. ‘You’re in Rottingdean, aren’t you?’

  Michael nods. He starts to tremble. Inside he is screaming: You mean you’re transferring me to that giant white block where I won’t know a soul? Chrissie’s friend Della said it was grim inside and people get locked in their rooms . . . Yet he can’t speak.

  ‘Sunnyvale House has a room free in the general ward.’

  When Michael gets his voice back, he can only say, ‘When have I got to go?’

  Hopefully not till next week, he prays. Presumably no one gets admitted over the weekend.

  Phil rotates his chair to check his computer screen. ‘Really, we should check you out straight away – once an NHS bed is free, we’re not supposed to have you here when you could be there. It’s all down to costs, I’m afraid.’ He sighs. ‘Hundreds of beds have been cut in the NHS, you know. We take on overflow patients when there’s no space, but now, as I say, a bed is free. I realize it’s going to upset your continuity of care and I really am very sorry. Would it help if I were to call you a cab for later, so you can stay for this afternoon’s session?’

  If Michael weren’t sitting down he fears he’d collapse. For some reason he’d allowed the knowledge that he might be transferred to the NHS to recede right to the back of his mind. You all made me focus on the positive, he longs to cry. So many sessions, making me believe getting out of depression was merely a matter of changing my thoughts. I deliberately pushed that worry away!

  Michael stares at Phil. How can he have pretended, even for a second, that this is good news? At this moment he hates him.

  I’m back where I started, he thinks. It’s like Tim from the hotel all over again. Once more I’ve been shafted.

  Yet he can’t express any of this. He can only sit there, shell-shocked and shaking, like an animal in fear for its life.

  III

  Darkness Falls

  32

  Abby unlocks the front door and steps over the threshold. She drops her bag, picks up the pile of post on the doormat and goes into the kitchen. Her feet crunch on the lino floor: she looks down – there are cornflakes scattered everywhere. She makes a swift appraisal: the sink is piled high with washing-up, the surfaces need wiping and there’s a faint pong coming from the rubbish bin.

  Bang goes my relaxing couple of hours settling back in, she thinks, reaching for the broom. Typical. And there I was thinking Glenn was coping so well. He could have made more of an effort, given that I was due home.

  Half an hour later, she’s less rankled. Cleaning the kitchen didn’t take that long, she says to herself, hoicking her bag with difficulty up the stairs. Maybe they left in a hurry. And Glenn wasn’t expecting me till gone five, he probably planned on tidying later.

  As she pauses on the landing to catch her breath, a picture on the wall catches her eye. It’s a trio of monochrome photographs of the West Pier she mounted in a single frame many years earlier; she’s not looked at it properly in a long while. In the first picture the pier rises like a black skeleton out of the sea; in the second the wrought-iron structure is half hidden by mist rolling in over the water; in the third only the top is visible, the rest swallowed by white.

  They’re rather beautiful, she realizes. I’m sure being creative again would do more for my well-being than cleaning, but when would I find time? Maybe you should relinquish control, she hears an inner voice say once again. Isn’t that what others do? They leave mess where they find it – certainly Glenn does. Perhaps rather than cursing him, I could learn from his example.

  She picks up her bag with a grimace and carries on up the stairs, but when she gently kicks open the door of her bedroom with one foot, anger rises in her yet again. The bed is unmade, and Glenn’s dirty laundry is thrown over the chair in the corner.

  I can’t believe he’s slept in here, she thinks, shocked.

  Although they made no specific agreement, she’d assumed Glenn would continue using the attic. Yes, the sleigh bed is bigger and more comfortable and his clothes are still in the wardrobe, but it seems disrespectful, given that he’s not slept in the room for months. I bet he was going to change the sheets and pretend he’d been upstairs all along, she fumes.

  Like the mist in her photographs, a familiar sensation begins to creep over her. Don’t be swamped by it, she tells herself, and sits down on the bed. Deep breaths, Abby. In through your nose, out through your mouth . . . Gradually she feels the anxiety subside.

  As she inhales she notices a scent – unfamiliar, cloying. Maybe Glenn has a new aftershave. She leans down to the pillow. There is a distinct aroma of flowers. Perhaps it’s a different washing powder.

  Then she lifts her gaze.

  On the bedside table – by the side of the bed she always sleeps on – is her favourite white porcelain mug. She picks it up, examines it more closely and her heart stops.

  There it is on the rim, bright pink and pucker-marked, unmistakable.

  Lipstick.

  * * *

  Dr Kasdan checks his paperwork and looks up. ‘So how are you doing?’

  It’s a question Karen was expecting the psychiatrist to ask; she has the answer ready. ‘I’ve been much less tearful. I reckon I’m starting to understand what?
??s caused me to feel so down.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. What’s been helping, do you think?’

  ‘Well, the groups are great. Meeting other people who feel similar to me in one way or another is very comforting. I often get as much from what they say as when I share stuff myself.’ She stops. I mustn’t make light of my problems, she thinks. If I’m too effusive he’ll conclude I’m better and can stop coming to the clinic. The security of being a day patient is keeping Karen grounded and able to function; without it she fears the slightest breeze might carry her back to where she was.

  Just then Karen feels her mobile phone vibrating in her handbag. I hope it’s nothing to do with the children, she thinks. She’s tempted to answer, then reminds herself she only has a few minutes with the doctor – whoever it is will have to wait.

  Dr Kasdan continues, ‘I recall that we discussed antidepressants before, but you wanted to hold off.’

  Karen nods. ‘I’d like to keep them as a fallback option, if you’re agreed?’

  ‘Sounds sensible.’ The psychiatrist reaches for his pen. ‘I’ll recommend you continue coming twice a week for another month. We’ll reappraise the situation in a fortnight.’

  The prospect of having less support in the not-too-distant future is upsetting, but Karen reminds herself she has come a long way already. ‘OK . . .’ She rises from her chair. ‘I’ll see you then.’

  Outside in the corridor, she reaches for her phone.

  Abby, says the missed-call display.

  * * *

  ‘It’ll pass . . . It’ll pass . . . It’ll pass . . .’ Abby is murmuring like a mantra. Yet however hard she tries to remind herself that it’s a physical reaction brought on by emotions she can’t control, the power of panic is stronger. Breathe . . . breathe . . . What is it she’s been told to do? Ah yes, a paper bag . . . She stumbles down the stairs from the bedroom, rummages in the drawer by the sink, fingers shaking and twitching, pulls out reams of carriers – all plastic.