Page 22 of The Do-Over

God, my face is probably a mess. Funnily enough, I never considered how I looked while I was busy being convinced I was facing my untimely end. ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m fine. I just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. I’ll go and sort myself out while you carry on.’

Before he has a chance to say any more, I bolt up the stairs into my bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me. I look at myself in the mirror and I’m amazed poor Lukasz didn’t turn and run. I look like I’ve escaped from some kind of mental institution. However, before I get a chance to sort myself out, the tears restart. This is ridiculous; I can’t spend the whole day crying, particularly as I’m still not 100 per cent sure what it is I’m crying about.

‘Pull yourself together, Thea, for God’s sake,’ I tell my reflection crossly, before turning on the taps and attacking my face with the flannel. The end result is not pretty; my skin is red and blotchy, particularly around my eyes, but at least the sad panda look is gone.

When I tentatively make my way back downstairs, Lukasz has gone but I can tell he’s watered everything because the hanging baskets are dripping noisily onto the paving slabs below. What a strange way to earn a living, I think to myself as I watch the droplets of water hitting the ground. I wonder how many houses he has the keys to. How many houses does he visit each day, doing exactly what he does for me? I mean, he was here for, what, ten minutes? Instinctively, I start to do the maths in my head. Assuming he works an eight-hour day and allowing twenty minutes between appointments, that’s sixteen houses every day. My mind now switches tack, and I hurry into mystudy to find the paperwork for my garden contract. It only takes seconds to confirm what I thought; I pay £100 per month for ‘gardening services’. Assuming Lukasz is here for ten minutes, three times a week, that translates to half an hour per week or two hours a month, which means his employer is essentially charging me £50 an hour to pour water into some pots. I doubt very much that Lukasz is being paid that much, which means that there’s a middleman creaming a fat profit off me.

I’m just about to pick up the phone to call the company and tell them I’m cancelling the contract because their charges are ridiculous when the hypocrisy of the situation hits me. As a partner at Morton Lansdowne, I was charged out at over £500 per hour. I am, or at least I was, corporate Lukasz. The reminder of the sudden loss of my identity overwhelms me as the tears start falling freely once more. I have no idea how long I sit at the desk in my study crying my heart out, but it feels like an age. When it eventually stops, I go back upstairs and give my face another good wash before checking the time. Three o’clock. How can it only be three o’clock when so much has happened today? Normally, I’d be in the thick of things with at least another five hours to go before leaving the office. How on earth do people manage to fill their days if they don’t work? At this rate, I’ll be stir crazy by six, and that’s just today. What the hell am I going to do tomorrow, and the day after that?

Thankfully, before I can go too much further down this particular rabbit hole, my phone pings with a message and I see it’s from Alasdair.

You RESIGNED? WTAF Thea?? I’m in meetings till 8.30 but will call you after.

Shit. What am I going to do? After thinking for a while, I tap out a message that I’m pretty certain won’t get me into trouble, even if they find it.

Turns out it wasn’t just a wobble after all. I’m fine, don’t worry about me. This is what I want. Plus, I’m not really supposed to talk to anyone from work while I’m on gardening leave – sorry *sad face*. Take care of yourself, won’t you. Tx

I am really going to miss him, but the more I think about it, the more I think it’s for the best. A clean break for both of us. Although I enjoy his company and the sex is fun, he probably needs to meet someone who can give him more than I can and, after nine months of enforced no contact, he’s bound to have moved on. As for me, who knows? I do sometimes wonder if my ‘one’ is out there, but on balance I doubt it. All my relationships to date have been casual, like Alasdair. On the rare occasions I’ve allowed myself to contemplate taking things to a deeper level, something inside me has pushed back; proper relationships sound very needy and draining to me.

After staring aimlessly out of my study window for a while, I decide I need to make a to-do list. I rummage in my bag and pull out my notebook and fountain pen. Most of my colleagues take notes with biros, but I’ve always preferred the feel of a fountain pen, much to their amusement. Turning to a fresh, blank sheet, I start to write:

Update family.

Figure out what to do now.

…

I stare and stare at the empty third item, willing my mind to come up with something, but it’s overpowered by item two. What on earth am I going to do with the rest of my life?

12

I’m still staring at the piece of paper when a movement outside catches my eye, and I look up to see Rebecca’s SUV pull into the space in front of my car. I smile as she carefully positions it to make sure it’s not on the kerb, before opening the back door to allow Rollo to climb out. Feeling the need to hear a friendly voice, I quickly cross to the front door and open it.

‘Nice parking,’ I call.

She turns and grins. ‘You have to be so careful round here. I haven’t worked out who it is yet, but some busybody reports you to the council if there’s so much as a wheel out of place.’

‘Really?’ I reply. ‘I wonder if that’s the same one who reports your car as abandoned if you don’t move it frequently enough.’

‘Bound to be,’ she says, laughing. ‘Anyway, how are you? I don’t think I’ve seen you working from home on a weekday before.’

‘I’m not working from home,’ I tell her. ‘I quit this morning.’

‘Really? Someone made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?’

‘Nope. I decided I needed a change of career.’

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