learned the hard way what happens if I tell her the truth.
‘We’ve been through this, Mum,’ I say. ‘Tom didn’t stay overnight—’
‘But it was a seizure.’
‘Yes. And it was terrifying for both of us. But I’m trying not to dwell on that.’ I say the last words through gritted teeth.
Mum cups Tom’s face in her hands, then pulls him into a dramatic, perfumed chest-hug.
Tom accepts the hug limply, without pleasure.
‘I handled it okay by myself,’ I say. ‘I’m not as useless as you think.’
‘A seizure. Oh my God, Elizabeth. How on earth could something like that have happened? Could there be something genetic? On his father’s side, perhaps?’
My heart races as I wait for the next inevitable question. And then it comes.
‘Has he seen Oliver since you moved?’ Mum’s eyes roam around my living room.
‘No.’
‘I thought—’
‘I told you what Olly did.’
‘Couldn’t you have tried counselling? I always thought your father and I should have given that a go.’
I let out a shocked laugh. ‘It went way beyond counselling. Olly has deep-rooted psychological issues. Good God, I wish you’d been there at the court hearing.’
I turn then, realising Tom might be listening. But he’s frowning at a school book – something he used to do when Olly and I were together. Shut himself away.
‘You don’t even give Olly visitation,’ says Mum. ‘That would give you a few hours to yourself, at least.’
‘Olly will never see Tom without me being there,’ I say, my voice low. ‘Not while I’m still breathing. I failed Tom before. I won’t fail him again. Anyway, Tom doesn’t want to see his father. They can’t make him if he doesn’t want to.’
Mum shakes her head. ‘But you need help. You can’t do this alone.’
‘What time did you book your taxi for, Mother?’ I ask. ‘How long do we have the pleasure of your company?’
Mum gives me sad, disappointed eyes, and I feel my inner strength dwindling. ‘I was hoping we’d have a nice lunch. I’ve come a very long way.’
My mother was the first shadow I found myself standing in.
At least Olly noticed me from time to time.
‘You are absolutely stunning.’ Olly lies back on the sofa, broken leg propped up on a coffee table made of wine corks.
His leg is still in plaster, and I know it’s itchy, uncomfortable and driving him mad, especially at night. Sometimes he scratches inside the plaster with a knitting needle.
The plaster has been on for a few months now.
Typical Olly – he’s made his leg plaster cool, getting an artist friend to felt-tip a multi-coloured effect on the bandage, copied from a Ride snowboard design. He’s even cut pairs of Boma jeans to accommodate the plaster.
Olly is indisputably handsome, with blond hair, tanned skin and white teeth. He could dress in a business suit, sports clothes or as he does – in scruffy surfer clothes with hair messy and long around his ears – and still look like a model. I suppose it’s the years of snowboarding. He’s so fit and healthy.
I’m wearing a floaty, daisy-patterned summer dress, something I picked out from Snow and Rock – one of Olly’s favourite shops. It’s not my usual sort of thing, if I even have a usual sort of thing, but I feel relieved and happy that Olly likes the choice.
Olly never tells me how to dress. Not overtly. But I’ve learned what he likes and what he doesn’t.
We got together so quickly. Sometimes I think about how Olly doesn’t really know who I am, and that if he did he’d leave me. I’m still insecure about it, so I try and be everything I think he wants me to be.
We’re at Olly’s flat in Earl’s Court – three storeys up and with its own roof terrace. It’s a big place, especially for this part of London, and is what you’d call a ‘bachelor pad’.
There is a mini-fridge full of beer in the living area, a snowboard propped up behind the sofa and a chair made of recycled Coca-Cola cans.
Olly’s friends are round often, playing on his old SNES, making jokes about his leg, drinking beer and smoking joints until the small hours.
I prefer the days when his friends aren’t round, but it’s not my flat so it’s not my place to say who comes here.
We’re in that weird in-between stage, Olly and I, where I’m not officially living with him, but most of my things are here. I haven’t committed to making this my address, but Olly keeps asking me to move in and talking about marriage.
We love each other. Desperately, at times. We can’t stand to be apart and when I’m working Olly calls me ten times a day.
Most people think I’m lucky to be in this situation – living in West London, adored by a champion snowboarder.
So why do I feel, sometimes, like I’m losing myself?
Music is playing – Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. The proper vinyl version. Olly has a turntable and boxes of records – all given to him by his mother.
‘I never know what to wear to your friends’ parties,’ I admit, rummaging in my makeup bag for my turquoise earrings.
All Olly’s female friends are so pretty. Effortlessly so. Hardly any makeup. A lot of them snowboard too, but only one is pro.
‘Do you know what?’ Olly pulls himself up on the bed, dragging his plastered leg onto the sheepskin rug. ‘I’m not really in the mood for this party. I shouldn’t drink right now. And getting across London with this leg … So if you’re not up for it either, why don’t we do something else?’
‘Like what?’
‘Jump in the camper van, head down to Devon, camp, have a BBQ, hang around on the beach. It’s supposed to be amazing weather this weekend.’
‘Olly, I don’t think camping with your leg is a good idea.’
A flash of annoyance passes over Olly’s handsome face. ‘It’s only a broken leg, Lizzie. I haven’t got cancer.’
‘Yes, but you should keep the plaster dry and clean. And what about your meds?’
