nothing he could say to make me feel better. And if you see him, don’t tell him, OK?’
Stella sensed me weakening. ‘OK. But you’ll come to the pub with us? I promise you, Emma, I’m going to keep bugging you until you give in.’
I surveyed the scene around me with weary disgust; the frowsy sheets, the inevitable balled-up tissues, the sections of last weekend’s papers strewn across the bed – papers I hadn’t had the chance to read at the time, since I’d been too busy having a relationship with my boyfriend. Now time stretched endlessly ahead of me, winding off into misty grey void whenever I closed my eyes. I supposed that I should try to fill up at least a couple of hours of that infinity with something. I couldn’t stay in bed for ever - I had a worrying suspicion that I might be getting a bedsore. Either that, or it was just an enormous spot growing on my bottom. Knowing my luck, it would turn into a boil and I’d have to go to hospital to get it lanced, which was what happened to one of my aromatherapy patients. She said it was hideously embarrassing, because suddenly a whole roomful of medical students appeared and crowded round to watch the ignominious event….
‘ Oh, all right then. I suppose so – just for an hour or so.’
Stella kissed me, relief lighting up her face and making her skin even more peachy. ‘Good! Right, better go, otherwise I’ll be late for my life class, and Yehudi always moans at us if we’re late. Will you be OK?’
‘ Of course,’ I said haughtily, rolling my eyes at my bunny slippers, which were peeping out from beneath the bed looking, I imagined, relieved that they might get a night’s respite from being the footwear of choice.
‘ See you this evening, then. I’ll bring us back a Chinese first, if you don’t feel like cooking. Oh, and Emma?’
‘ What?’
‘ You will wash your hair before we go out, won’t you? You look like Neil from The Young Ones .’
‘ Thanks a bunch,’ I said morosely, rolling back into my stale pillows and pulling the duvet over my head.
Two minutes later I was fast asleep again. I seemed to be able to do nothing else but sleep, cry, and play recorder. I dreamed that my birthmother bustled into my bedroom, clucking and matronly – so matronly, in fact, that she wore an old-fashioned nurses’ uniform, with the funny starched white tricorn hat, and the red cross on her apron distorted by the contours of her huge, Carry-On-esque breasts and, worryingly, she looked exactly like Frankie Howerd. She tidied away all the detritus of my misery, the sweet wrappers and sodden tissues, and managed to change the sheets to crisp fresh ones, executing brisk hospital corners, with me still in the bed.
Then she sat down and stroked my forehead, whispering words of encouragement in my ears – proper, heartening advice and not merely placatory cliches like ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’ I felt the heavy weight of her bowing the mattress next to me and, gratefully, I reached out to her. But when I opened my eyes, there was nobody there. All was silent, except for traffic noises from outside the window and the sound of a pigeon tap dancing on my windowsill in the watery mid-morning sun.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to start searching for her – far more thoroughly this time than my last attempt, eight years previously. It wasn’t that anybody could ever replace Mum and Dad, because they couldn’t; but just to have someone, something of my own, some answers about my past. To stretch the iridescent walls of the bubble of my life to accommodate more than just me and Stella.
I got out of bed, my warm feet silent across the wooden floor, and gingerly opened the curtains. The pigeon jumped, and eyed me balefully for a second, before sailing off, affronted.
‘ You’ve got a nerve, to be annoyed with me ,’ I said, as it swooped across the road to perch in the gutter opposite. ‘Crapping all over my windowsill.’
Vapour
Stella sensed me weakening. ‘OK. But you’ll come to the pub with us? I promise you, Emma, I’m going to keep bugging you until you give in.’
I surveyed the scene around me with weary disgust; the frowsy sheets, the inevitable balled-up tissues, the sections of last weekend’s papers strewn across the bed – papers I hadn’t had the chance to read at the time, since I’d been too busy having a relationship with my boyfriend. Now time stretched endlessly ahead of me, winding off into misty grey void whenever I closed my eyes. I supposed that I should try to fill up at least a couple of hours of that infinity with something. I couldn’t stay in bed for ever - I had a worrying suspicion that I might be getting a bedsore. Either that, or it was just an enormous spot growing on my bottom. Knowing my luck, it would turn into a boil and I’d have to go to hospital to get it lanced, which was what happened to one of my aromatherapy patients. She said it was hideously embarrassing, because suddenly a whole roomful of medical students appeared and crowded round to watch the ignominious event….
‘ Oh, all right then. I suppose so – just for an hour or so.’
Stella kissed me, relief lighting up her face and making her skin even more peachy. ‘Good! Right, better go, otherwise I’ll be late for my life class, and Yehudi always moans at us if we’re late. Will you be OK?’
‘ Of course,’ I said haughtily, rolling my eyes at my bunny slippers, which were peeping out from beneath the bed looking, I imagined, relieved that they might get a night’s respite from being the footwear of choice.
‘ See you this evening, then. I’ll bring us back a Chinese first, if you don’t feel like cooking. Oh, and Emma?’
‘ What?’
‘ You will wash your hair before we go out, won’t you? You look like Neil from The Young Ones .’
‘ Thanks a bunch,’ I said morosely, rolling back into my stale pillows and pulling the duvet over my head.
Two minutes later I was fast asleep again. I seemed to be able to do nothing else but sleep, cry, and play recorder. I dreamed that my birthmother bustled into my bedroom, clucking and matronly – so matronly, in fact, that she wore an old-fashioned nurses’ uniform, with the funny starched white tricorn hat, and the red cross on her apron distorted by the contours of her huge, Carry-On-esque breasts and, worryingly, she looked exactly like Frankie Howerd. She tidied away all the detritus of my misery, the sweet wrappers and sodden tissues, and managed to change the sheets to crisp fresh ones, executing brisk hospital corners, with me still in the bed.
Then she sat down and stroked my forehead, whispering words of encouragement in my ears – proper, heartening advice and not merely placatory cliches like ‘there’s plenty more fish in the sea.’ I felt the heavy weight of her bowing the mattress next to me and, gratefully, I reached out to her. But when I opened my eyes, there was nobody there. All was silent, except for traffic noises from outside the window and the sound of a pigeon tap dancing on my windowsill in the watery mid-morning sun.
I wanted to do it. I wanted to start searching for her – far more thoroughly this time than my last attempt, eight years previously. It wasn’t that anybody could ever replace Mum and Dad, because they couldn’t; but just to have someone, something of my own, some answers about my past. To stretch the iridescent walls of the bubble of my life to accommodate more than just me and Stella.
I got out of bed, my warm feet silent across the wooden floor, and gingerly opened the curtains. The pigeon jumped, and eyed me balefully for a second, before sailing off, affronted.
‘ You’ve got a nerve, to be annoyed with me ,’ I said, as it swooped across the road to perch in the gutter opposite. ‘Crapping all over my windowsill.’
Vapour
Similar Books
