Page 10 of Out of Control

“Claustrophobic?”

She nodded. The chef shouted and Fiona jumped up to fetch their boiled eggs. She walked slowly back with the egg cups, pausing to gather her thoughts by the coffee machine. Whywas what Meeko thought of her changed relationship with Joe so important to her? The two of them could still enjoy their breakfast together and he would continue to gently adjust her hips and back to improve her downward-facing dog and plank positions in his classes.

Meeko cracked his egg with a spoon and peeled off the top of the shell. He’d already buttered his toast and chopped it into soldiers. She watched him dip and saw the satisfaction on his face when the yolk was just the right consistency. She tried to push thoughts of Joe away and concentrate on slow, mindful eating. She focused her mind on the feel of the velvet yolk on her tongue. It didn’t work; her shoulders remained tense and her brain felt as though it was in chains, being dragged in a direction it didn’t want to go.

“What will you do about him?” Meeko’s eyes met hers as she looked up from the half-empty shell. “Don’t just shrug. This is something that you can change. If you want to.”

Fiona watched the light catch the green Christmas-tree-shaped studs in Meeko’s ears. Her mind was clearing, as it often did in his presence. A thought was emerging that she’d never consciously been aware of before. “What Joe and I had together was good. If I ask him to leave that will be the end of us forever. And I’m not ready for that. We’re just having teething problems.”

There was no affirming or negative expression on the yoga instructor’s face. He was totally blank. Fiona had the weird feeling that she was on a psychiatrist’s couch.

“But also, it feels like I’m sitting in a trap waiting for vicious metal jaws to close around me and make me a prisoner for life.”

“Does recognising those feelings help you decide what to do?” The neutrality remained. Fiona wanted him to grin or at least smile. She wanted some credit for this great insight she’djust produced. She wanted to be told whether she was right or wrong.

“I don’t want to throw him out. Yet. But I do want to lay some ground rules. And maybe some timescales for how long the situation is going to last and what he might do as a permanent solution.”

Now Meeko’s lips did form a smile. “You had me worried for a minute, but the real Fiona-I-am-in-control-of-my-life has just re-emerged.”

Fiona grinned back. The dimples that appeared around the corners of Meeko’s mouth always made her smile. A braver woman than her would reach out and touch them.

Meeko looked at his watch. “I’ve got to love you and leave you. I want to grab the PC in the leisure club office to do some emails before my next class.” They hugged again and for a few seconds Fiona luxuriated in his warm male smell, unadulterated by aftershave or scented deodorant. He gave her a squeeze that told her he’d always be there for her. Then he was striding out of the dining room.

Fiona power-walked home — running on a part-full stomach didn’t aid her digestion. There was a note from Joe indicating he’d gone football training and wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon. She felt relieved.

Chapter 8

Fiona drafted the ground rules for their cohabitation in longhand. She was itching to type them up with space at the bottom of the page for each of them to sign and date the agreement. But even she could see that was too formal. Perhaps she’d produce an ‘official’ document when she’d talked him through the draft. She stuck to the practicalities that would give this unplanned life as a couple a fighting chance. Since Rob had destroyed her trust in men, she’d created her own structure for living, which at times had been lonely, but the prospect of sharing her life again had always been too scary. It still was scary. However, stuff happens and you have to adapt or walk away. She could say goodbye to Joe or she could give their relationship a proper chance. She wasn’t ready to say goodbye, so devising the ground rules felt like building essential scaffolding to keep everything in its place:

Separate bedrooms except for ‘date nights’ (this is proven to give each person a better night’s sleep).

Finances kept completely apart. NO joint accounts of any kind (probably not an issue for now but a rule for the future should this turn into a long-term living-together arrangement).

Joe to pick up the extra costs of him being here, e.g. extra council tax because the single person discount will disappear, fuel and water bills (I will pay the standing charge and the broadband because they will be unchanged) and food.

Housework to be shared — we need to discuss a rota.

She put the list to one side to ‘settle’ and then turned her mind to Christmas and the tasks it demanded, even from a non-religious person who had little in the way of family.

* * *

Fiona was updating the Christmas card spreadsheet on her laptop when she first noticed the girl. The little digital numbers in the bottom right of her screen said it was 15.03. It was a crisp, clear afternoon — one of those days that make you prefer the clarity of winter to the heat exhaustion of midsummer. The girl didn’t appear to share those feelings. It was impossible to see her facial expression — she was walking on the opposite side of the road — but the silhouette of her body sagged. Only the girl would know whether this was with tiredness or depression, or perhaps it was the effort of keeping a steady gait when loaded with a large rucksack at the back and an obviously pregnant stomach at the front. Fiona contemplated the figure for a few seconds, hoping she didn’t have far to go. Then the list of cards received last year reclaimed her.

She made a little test scribble with the gold gel pen on a piece of scrap paper. Then she tried the silver and the scarlet. She smiled and remembered her favourite childhood treat — a brand-new pack of felt tip pens and a colouring book. Not one of those cheap books with absorbent paper that encouraged the ink from felt tips to bleed outside the lines or go right through to the picture on the other side of the page. When she had one of those books, Fiona had always checked both pictures to make sure she chose the best one to colour in — invariably the one with the most scope for using a range of bright colours, for example, a girl in a striped party dress would always win over a picture of a fox or a badger in woodland.

She wrote the first five cards on her list. On the left-hand side of each card she wrote a couple of personal sentences. Something that had happened in the last twelve months which would amuse that person, or asking after their family. Then she laid them open for a couple of minutes for the ink to dry.

As she reached for the envelopes, the girl walked back down the road in the opposite direction and on Fiona’s side. This time, because she was nearer, the girl’s face was more visible. Tiredness was reflected in her face and the way she walked. Black leggings were visible beneath the coat, along with heavy black shoes that were probably fashionable but added weight to every step. The girl glanced at each house as she passed. Her eyes lingered on Fiona’s front door. The young woman was looking at the numbers. Suddenly on her guard, Fiona stared at the girl, willing her to carry on walking. She didn’t want to be picked out as a burglary target. The girl looked directly at her. Fiona leaned back in her chair, trying to put herself and her laptop out of sight. The girl carried on slowly down the road, but now she was continually glancing back at Fiona’s window. Fiona drew the curtains even though it wasn’t quite dark.

Fifteen minutes later there were voices outside the front door and then the key in the lock. She tensed; Joe had said nothing about bringing a friend home with him. She bundled the Christmas cards back into their box and closed the laptop. The rest of the room was tidy.

“Fiona! We’ve got a visitor.” She went into the hallway and Joe kissed her cheek. His skin felt cold from the December air. The pregnant girl had dumped her rucksack inside the front door. She was looking around and frowning.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” Fiona said. “You’ve caught me on the hop. I don’t remember . . .”

“Fiona, this is my daughter, Adele. Adele, this is . . . Fiona. I’m staying with her at the moment.”

Masking her shock with a smile, Fiona offered her hand, keeping her eyes on the girl’s face and not her bump. Adele shook hands briefly and then turned to her dad. “Why has Mum disappeared? And where am I supposed to go?”

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