Page 36 of Statistically Speaking
“Well, I’d not been well at the history club event, as you heard from Erin.”
“Poor anemic child that you are...”
“Yes, well. So Karim and I went for a drink, and then he drove me home, and he helped me bring all the stuff back upstairs, and then we stayed up all night binge-watchingBridgertonon Netflix.”
I announce this very seriously, and I can see from the disappointed look on her face that she completely believes me. Good to see my fibbing skills haven’t completely deserted me.
“Really?” she murmurs. “I mean, I do loveBridgerton, but... I was hoping for more!”
I wink at her, and she widens her eyes and laughs again.
“Oh, you! You got me there! So... there was more?”
“There was more.”
“And was it good more, bad more, or mediocre more?”
“It was excellent more. And that is all you’re getting—a lady should never kiss and tell.”
I can tell that she is delighted, both with my new romantic developments and at my apparent change of mood. While that lasts, while I can maintain the subterfuge, I get to my feet.
“Right, I’ve got stuff to do. Is there anything you need, Margie? I was thinking of a trip to town later, or to the shops, if you want to keep me company?”
I always have to phrase it like this, so she doesn’t think I am being too kind, that she is being a burden to me. She has her pride, and I have my need for solitude, and somehow we manage to dance around both.
“Well, I’d have to check my diary,” she replies, “but that sounds lovely! I’m surprised you’ve got the energy after all that more-ing.”
We make a loose arrangement to check in with each other later, and I make my farewells. I manage to keep the smile in place until I am back round at the front of the building and making my way up to my flat.
Once I’m inside I shut the door firmly behind me and lean back against it, closing my eyes and letting out what feels like a long-held breath.
Being with other people has been hard this morning, for all kinds of reasons. Being honest with Erin was draining; pretending with Margie was tense. Now I am alone again, and I feel the bubble burst—the bubble of having to care what other people think, what other people feel, how other people react.
I like them, these other people—Margie, Erin, Katie, Karim. I like them, but I know it will always be a struggle for me tobelike them. To form easy relationships, to not overthink everything, to simply sit back and go along for the ride. To be myself around them, when part of me still doesn’t think I should take the risk. To have faith, as Margie puts it.
It is all so complicated, this simple stuff, and I am feeling the pressure build inside me.
I tell myself it is just that too much has happened in a short space of time. I can even calculate how many hours, if I really need to. Minutes, if I get extra fancy.
In that short space of time, over those minutes and hours and days, I have met someone who I became convinced was my biological daughter. I have discovered that I was wrong, and felt the pain of that discovery. By telling Erin about it, I have knowingly put myself in a vulnerable position, and I now have to deal with the consequences of it.
There are the personal consequences—that I may lose my budding friendship with Erin before it has even had a chance to grow. That it has roused all kinds of yearnings and secret hurts that I have been suppressing for years. But there are also professional issues, like facing a difficult situation with my star student at school, and making her life more complicated too. If Erin really wants to, she could make life difficult for me by making some kind of official complaint.
I have behaved recklessly with their feelings, with my own, and with my career. With hindsight I can see the mistakes I made, but I cannot change them. It is like watching a car crash happen in slow motion.
I also seem to have started something up with Karim, which was hard to resist last night, but in the cold light of day doesn’tseem quite so wise. The poor man has no idea what he’s letting himself in for.
I have, basically, become tangled up in a very messy web of life and emotions and potential disasters. Now I feel trapped, and like a giant spider is heading in my direction.
I splash some water on my face in the bathroom, make a mug of coffee, and walk over to my desk. It is, unsurprisingly, neat and tidy and well stocked. I usually spend at least a couple of hours a day here, so it’s got to be.
I open up my laptop and log in to my account at a recruitment agency I have used several times in the past. At the moment, I am marked as unavailable, so new job opportunities don’t get sent to me. I tick the box, indicate that I am once again looking for gainful employment, and log off.
I close the laptop lid, lean back in my chair, and feel an immediate sense of relief.
It is just a box on a form. It is just a net being cast. It does not mean that I am moving on. It does not mean that I am giving up. It does not mean that I will run.
It just means that I could.
