Page 24 of Cuckoo

‘Yes, I’m looking for my boyfriend. He’s registered at this gym and I think he comes here a lot?’ I hold my phone up.

‘Yeah, I recognise him. He comes either early morning or pretty late, right?’

‘Yes,’ I reply, even though I don’t know when my boyfriend goes to the gym because I don’t even know where he lives.

‘So… what do you want from me?’ the guy asks.

I realise for the hundredth time today that I really have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, or what I hoped to gain from leaving the house. I was just so desperate not to be at home, to be doingsomethingto try and fix my relationship, that I came out in search of answers.

‘I guess just… Does he come alone?’ I eventually settle for.

The kid shrugs. ‘He signed up with one of our personal trainers and so he has pretty regular sessions, which he does alone.’

‘Okay.’

‘You want me to tell him something next time he checks in? I can leave a note on our system?’ he offers.

I give a tiny smile. ‘No, I think he’s got the messages. It was more just for me to know that he’s coming, working out, staying healthy, you know?’

The boy stares at me when I say this. ‘Er, right. Do you want to join? We do joint PT sessions for couples?’ he asks.

‘No. I’m good. Thanks,’ I tell him.

As I turn to leave, outside the gym I see a flash of golden hair above the groups of lunchtime workers.

‘Noah,’ I say out loud, rushing out of the gym reception. ‘Noah?’ I call again, pushing through the crowds. He’s walking away from me, a takeout coffee in one hand, a phone I don’t recognise in the other.

‘Noah!’ I call louder, several heads turning my way before returning, uninterested, to their lunches.

He’s walking towards a small park, and I’m weaving between people on the crowded pavement before finally grabbing his arm and spinning him around, my heart in my throat and my chest bursting with adrenaline.

But it’s not him. It’s another tall City boy, frowning at me.

‘Oh, God. Sorry, I thought you were someone else… sorry, sorry!’ I tell him, backing away. He’s already returned to his phone call, heading for a nearby bench, and I hear him say, ‘I dunno, some weird girl,’ to the person down the phone before wiping my presence from his mind.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Back at home I’m hot with embarrassment at my escapades at the gym, at grabbing that stranger like a thirsty desert-dweller reaching for a mirage. I cradle the glass of white wine I’ve poured myself to help me relax. The bottle is put away in the fridge, out of sight. I’m nervous of picking up a habit I didn’t think I’d ever develop, a dependency on alcohol that mirrors Mother’s too closely for my liking. So I’m just being cautious, keeping an eye on it. Earlier when I took my first cool sip, I could almost feel her next to me, breathing down my neck and demanding I pour her a glass too.

I distracted myself from Noah briefly with memories of Mother, but eventually my mind cruelly flitted back to him: how he discarded me on the phone with no care for who I was, for how I was… and then again, at his office. The cruelty, the demand that I go home without him. Is that how easy it was for him to leave me?

I was once invited to a birthday party. A seventh birthday party for a boy in my tutor group; I can’t even remember his name. The entire class had been invited, and I had definitely been included out of duty rather than desire. My mother found the invitation crumpled at the bottom of my schoolbagand insisted we go, set on the idea that not turning up would reflect badly on her. She cared a lot about what others thought of her.

‘I don’t want to go, Mother,’ I told her weakly when she brandished the invitation in my face.

‘Why not, Claire? It’s aparty, for God’s sake. It’ll be fun, there will be cake!’

I didn’t know how to answer, how to explain the crushing anxiety of socialising in an unknown setting. I was only seven, after all. So I clasped my hands together pleadingly, hoping she would somehow sense my worries and smooth them all away.

‘They’ll think us rude if we don’t go. You don’t want to be the weird one, the only one to miss out,’ she said instead, emphasising the wordweirdwith a wrinkle of her nose. ‘Do you?’ She peered at me as though interested in my response, but I felt the threat behind her words.

‘No, Mother,’ I responded dutifully, avoiding eye contact.

In the car on the way there I wrung my hands until they hurt, worrying about what would happen once we arrived. Would I be left out? Made fun of, perhaps? What would I say? Who would I speak to? At best it would end up with me standing awkwardly on the fringes, unsure how to behave or join in. At worst, I would be made the centre of attention and mocked mercilessly. By the time we pulled into the driveway, three sad balloons bobbing against the gates, I was in such a state of panic that I refused to get out of the car though Mother was standing outside. I shook my head feverishly, clutching white-knuckled on to my seatbelt.

‘Come on, Claire, darling, don’t be ridiculous.’ Mother laughed shrilly, rolling her eyes at other parents who gave her sympathetic smiles as they dropped off their rosy-cheeked cherubs. But nobody came over to us or tried to convince me to join in. The other children rushed past me, clutching gift-wrapped parcels, not a second glance thrown my way as I clung to the seat in fearful desperation.

Eventually, much to my embarrassment, I began to cry, and I saw my mother’s eyes harden. ‘Okay, love. If you’re not up to it, we can head back home,’ she announced loudly, making sure that the other parents were witness to her show of sympathy. But when she got back into the car, she reached over and pinched my thigh, hard. I bit my lip to stop myself from crying out– I knew it would only make her more angry. As soon as the car had pulled away from the driveway, she launched into a terrific rage, shouting that she would never drive me anywhere again, that I had wasted her afternoon, that I was a useless, boring child.

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