Page 25 of The Do-Over

‘You won’t be under my feet. You’re always welcome here, Thea. Stay as long as you want. It’ll be a treat having you around again.’

I can’t decide if she’s being genuine or just over-compensating for suggesting I’m having some sort of breakdown yesterday. As she gently releases me, I look into her eyes and try to read her, but it’s impossible.

‘Why don’t you take your things upstairs now, and then you can settle in after lunch. I told Saffy you were coming and she’s promised to call in after she’s finished work.’

Of course, she would have been on the phone to Saffy the moment our call was over. I do feel a flash of irritation as I carry my overnight bag upstairs to my old room. Could I not have had my mother to myself, just for once? I banish the thought as soon as it appears. Now is not the time for childish competition. She’s probably a bit anxious because she doesn’t know if I’m going to suddenly start acting all erratically, and has called in Saffy for backup. Actually, it will be nice to see her and maybe she can help me manage Mum.

I’m no longer surprised by the tears that spring from my eyes as I open the door of my bedroom. Nothing has changed in here since I moved out to go to university and, as I gaze around the room, it feels a little bit like all the years since have been for nothing. I was so certain what I wanted to do back then, and I’d laid out every step to achieving my goals. I open the top drawer of the desk I spent so many hours at, doing schoolwork and revision. Inside, among various other nicknacks, is the A4 pad I was using for revision notes during my A levels. I turn to the back page and there, in my neat handwriting, is my career planlaid out like a flowchart. My eyes blur as I read it; I achieved every one of those goals apart from senior partner by forty. In fact, I hit junior partner quicker than I’d originally planned; on my world domination chart I’d written that I’d get there when I was thirty-five.

I wonder what eighteen-year-old Thea would make of the soggy mess standing here now. I don’t think she’d be very sympathetic. I’ve always been a fighter and I think she’d feel that I’d let her down by giving up and throwing in the towel like this.

After listening carefully to make sure that Mum’s still downstairs, I cross the landing to the bathroom to sort out the mess the latest crying bout will have made, before going down to join her for lunch. A couple of days is all I’ll need, I tell myself. Make it clear to them that I’m not mad, enjoy Mum’s cooking, and I’ll be right as rain by the end of the weekend.

13

So, that worked out well then. Having thought a few days would be all I needed, it’s actually four weeks later when I finally point the Porsche back towards London and home. To say it’s been intense would be an understatement. Things unravelled as soon as I got downstairs for my first lunch with Mum; she’d obviously been working her socks off between my call and my arrival, as all my favourite foods were on the table. The sight of it set me off, and of course me crying started her crying, and we were still fairly soggy when Saffy joined us late in the afternoon. By the time Phil got home, you’d have been forgiven for thinking that we’d just come back from having a much-loved pet put down, from the state of the three of us.

The other thing, apart from the semi-constant weeping, that caught me by surprise was how tired I was. After the first, very emotional, day, Mum had to wake me and send me to bed just after nine as I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, and I didn’t surface again until nearly midday the next day. In fact, for the first week or so, I think I slept more than I was awake. This was probably a good thing in retrospect, because I still spent an awful lot of my waking hours in tears. Mum and Phil were obviously worried,but thankfully salvation arrived in the form of Tim, Saffy’s GP husband, who was summoned to examine me after a few days had gone by with no visible sign of improvement. After asking a lot of questions about my general wellbeing and whether I’d had any suicidal thoughts, he pronounced his verdict.

‘I don’t think you’re having a breakdown, Thea,’ he’d told me. ‘I think you’re bereaved.’

‘Bereaved?’ I’d asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘You may not have lost a loved one in the traditional sense, but you have lost something very precious to you. It’s not about the job, the salary or the prestige, although I’m sure those things were nice. Your whole identity was tied up in your career. You’re grieving for yourself.’

My first thought had been to dismiss what he was saying as gibberish but, rather than jumping down his throat like old Thea would have done, I let his appraisal sit with me for a while and, in the end, I had to agree he was spot on. It was such a relief to have a diagnosis that I could relate to that I burst into tears yet again, but for the first time I knew why I was crying. After that, I started to feel better. I’ve been very fragile, but I’m feeling much stronger now. Even so, we’ve agreed that I should only return to London for a few days this time, just to see how I get on.

I do feel totally different, like I’ve shed my armour and I’m suddenly soft and vulnerable. There are still flashes of ‘old’ Thea; she hasn’t departed completely, but the constant drive to do better, to chase after the next life goal, has gone. I still have no idea what I’m going to do next, but I’m much more at peace with that. I’ve also taken a surprising amount of enjoyment in things that would have horrified ‘old’ Thea, including a rapidly developing addiction to the daytime TV programmeHomes Under the Hammer. If you’ve never seen it, it’s a similar concept toGrand Designs, inasmuch as every episode follows two or three people who have each bought a run-down property atauction. UnlikeGrand Designs, the participants in this show generally transform the house or flat on a comparatively modest budget before selling it on for a fat profit. There are occasional disasters, but it’s generally feel-good viewing that reminds me how lucky I was with both my house and Brian the fabulous builder.

I feel unexpectedly anxious as I pull up and get out of the car. After the intense emotional journey I’ve been on, to be confronted with ‘old’ Thea’s life is challenging. The first thing that strikes me as I let myself in is how cold it is in here. I’m never usually here at this time on a weekday, so the heating doesn’t kick in automatically until six. I’m shivering as I hit the override button on the boiler control, before running upstairs to find a thick jumper to put on until the house warms up. Mum insisted on washing my clothes before I came home, so I unpack them into the chest of drawers and sit down on the bed. This would have been a dangerous manoeuvre a couple of weeks ago, as I would almost certainly have crawled under the covers and gone straight to sleep, but now I take the opportunity to look around. I’ve spent countless nights in here, mostly on my own and sometimes with Alasdair, but the thing I notice now is the lack of pictures. There are a couple of prints on the wall, but no photos. In fact, there aren’t any photos in the whole house. It’s my home, and it’s nicely furnished and decorated, but there’s actually nothing ofmehere. It could be an Airbnb for all the personality I’ve injected into it.

Feeling the need for a cup of coffee to help warm me up, I make my way back down to the kitchen. What I find in there is just as depressing. The cupboards aren’t completely bare, but again it looks like the kind of thing you’d find in a holiday home. A small bottle of olive oil that I don’t even remember buying, salt and pepper and a barely used bottle of vinegar that I got ages ago because Alasdair kept complaining that the local chippynever put enough vinegar on his fish and chips. There is a tin of some fancy ground coffee that I probably bought when I first moved here, but a quick sniff of that is not encouraging. I try to remember the last time I made my own cup of coffee, but I can’t. Anytime I’ve wanted it before, I’ve just popped to the excellent coffee shop round the corner for a takeaway.

The fridge is completely bare apart from another bottle of milk that I can tell has gone solid without needing to open it, and the freezer contains nothing except a small bag of peas that have definitely seen better days, two ready meals, and some furry ice cubes in the tray. After four weeks of Mum’s cooking, the ready meals look unappetising to say the least. Did I really live on this stuff? Of course, the truth is that I hardly ever ate here except for Saturday and Sunday nights when I wasn’t travelling. I can’t even remember the last time I cooked a meal from scratch.

This is enough to energise me, and I pull out one of the cookbooks that I bought as part of the kitchen décor and start leafing through it, searching for inspiration. However, I’m quickly put off by the lists of weird-sounding ingredients that I’ve never heard of. What even is za’atar, anyway? I push the book back into the rack and take out another one that looks more user friendly. After a while, I come across a recipe for shepherd’s pie. Perfect, warming comfort food. I take a picture of the ingredients on my phone before writing a list of everything else I think I need, including coffee. I’ve hardly touched a drop of alcohol while I’ve been at Mum and Phil’s as Tim thought it would probably be better to avoid it while I was so vulnerable, but the idea of a nice glass of red to go with the shepherd’s pie is very appealing, so I add a bottle to the list.

I’m feeling very pleased with myself a few hours later. The house is warm, I’ve stocked up on the essentials, and the onion and carrots I’ve lovingly chopped are sweating nicely in the pan. I’ve peeled potatoes and cut them into chunks ready to boil at the right moment. I’m just about to add the lamb mince to the vegetables when the doorbell goes.

‘Hi,’ Rebecca says when I open the door. ‘I saw your car. You haven’t been around for a while.’

‘Yeah, I’ve been away,’ I tell her.

‘Anywhere nice?’

‘Just spending some time with my family. How are you?’

‘Yeah, I’m all right.’ Her tone is surprisingly downbeat.

‘You don’t sound it. Is everything OK?’

‘It’s been better, but I’ll live. I’m a fighter.’

Her final sentence resonates hard with me, and I decide I can’t let it go.

‘What’s up? Talk to me, Rebecca. It’s not Rollo, is it?’

‘Oh, no, he’s happy as a lark now that he knows he’s not going to have to go to boarding school. We’ve had a long chat about his extra-curricular activities too, and dropped all the ones he didn’t like, so he’s like a pig in clover. The issue is the house. I haven’t told him yet, but I’m going to have to sell.’

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