Page 23 of The Do-Over

‘Sounds interesting. What’s the plan?’

‘No idea.’

Her mouth drops open. ‘Wait a minute. Are you seriously telling me you’ve quit a lucrative career without the first clue what you’re going to do next?’

‘Yup.’

‘Bloody hell. You’ve either got lady-balls of steel or you’ve lost the plot.’

I smile. ‘I guess I’m about to find out.’

Rollo tugs at her sleeve. ‘Mum, we’re going to be late,’ he whines.

‘Sorry, darling. Listen, I’ve got to run but why don’t you come over for a glass of wine later if you’re not busy?’

‘I can assure you I’m not busy. What time?’

‘Eight? I’ll have fed this one and we can have a proper catch-up.’

‘I’ll see you later then.’

I stand and watch as Rebecca and Rollo hurry up the road and into her house. I’ve got something to look forward to now. It’s only a glass of wine with a friend-slash-acquaintance, but it’s a start, and maybe a proper friendship will come out of it.

Returning to my study, I stare at the paper again for a while, before scratching out number three on the list. Number one is easy to get out of the way, and number two is going to take a lot of figuring out. Everything else can wait.

I pull out my mobile and dial Mum and Phil’s number.

‘Thea!’ my mum exclaims when the call connects. ‘What a treat. You never call in the week.’

‘I’ve got some news,’ I tell her carefully.

‘You’ve been promoted again, haven’t you? Oh, darling, congratulations.’

‘I haven’t been promoted. I resigned.’

‘You what?’

‘I quit. I decided I didn’t want to do this any more and I handed in my resignation.’

There’s an uncomprehending silence. ‘But you love your job,’ she says eventually.

‘Ilovedmy job. Past tense.’

‘Oh, darling.’ Her tone has changed to one of concern. ‘Is everything all right? You aren’t ill, are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Then I don’t understand, sorry. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since forever, and you’ve worked so hard to get to where you are. Why would you chuck it all away?’

I sigh. This was never going to be an easy conversation, but I’m pleased she’s engaged, at least. Normally, she’d have switched to telling me about Saffy’s latest achievement by now. I tell her about my wobble after John Curbishley’s funeral, and how I just lost the love for what I do.

‘Do you think you ought to talk to someone?’ she says very carefully when I finish.

‘Like who?’

‘I don’t know, some sort of professional. A counsellor, maybe.’

‘What, you think I’m having some sort of breakdown?’ I ask incredulously.

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