‘He didn’t do anything to indicate he has feelings.’
‘Apart from drive you several hundred miles and back, spend the whole time looking out for you, dance with you all night and pay for the whole thing.’
‘He was being a friend.’
‘Really? Does a friend need to shave off his beard in order to—?’
‘POW POW POW POW POW!’
To my huge relief, we were destroyed.
And honestly, if Ellen was even partway right, and my stupid, evil emotions had snuck up and taken control of my rational, moral brain, I might find a way to destroy myself with more than a potato gun.
39
I woke before dawn the next day, wretched and exhausted, unable to eat or go back to sleep. And this, despite the joy of showing Dawson the Hickleton Press email, everyone decamping to a celebratory meal at Scarlett’s, and umpteen texts from Sarah and Kiko reassuring me it wasn’t that big a deal. I was sick and tired of myself.
The black was hovering, just out of sight at the corner of my vision. It gleefully gobbled up my self-hatred, my doubt, my guilt. And it grew.
I dragged myself through the next couple of weeks, on the one hand glad the Mini had gone, and Mack with it, preventing me from messing things up any more. I hoped he’d gone because the black kept reminding me I deserved to feel terrible. To have lost him. And it was getting louder. Harder to ignore.
But on the other hand, I now lived alone in the forest with the criminals who were trying to force me out still prowling around. I didn’t want to think about what their next step would be. I was seriously rattled, flinching at every creak and bang, back to cycling the long way home, locking the door and praying Jamie would soon be free for his very own game of Hunt and Destroy.
I drifted through the motions with the kids. School had finished for the summer, so Will only needed me when prepping timetables or otherwise getting ready for the next school year. I used every last drop of energy on taking care of them, listening, playing, helping, encouraging. Dawson showed me his new Squash Harris character, a woman who lived in the woods and had special powers to take damaged things and make them beautiful and useful again. ‘She’s the Bester. Because she sees the best deep down and knows how to bring it out. She does it for houses, look.’ He flipped the page over. ‘And for people, too. She always has brilliant advice to turn bad situations into good ones.’
‘She sounds incredible. I love her hair, and her amazing blue eyes. I could do with a bit of advice from the Bester right now.’
‘Duh, Jenny!’ Dawson goggled at me. ‘You’d better look in a mirror, then!’
I buried my head in his hair instead, managing an eight-second hug before he prised himself away.
‘Jenny?’ he said, as I made to go home that Thursday, looking forward to some peace so keenly I could taste it.
‘Yes?’ I slipped into my trainers while he hovered on the stairs.
‘I’m glad Mum picked you as our childminder. I’m going to miss you when we go on holiday.’
The chunk of my heart not yet submerged in black squeezed. ‘Me too.’ I winked at him, for want of anything better to say. ‘Now go and sort that messy room out before Dad comes home.’
‘On second thoughts…’
* * *
The day of Lucille’s Tough Muck, I strolled to Frances’ farmhouse across golden fields ripe for harvest, the beaming August sun chasing back the shadows.
‘I’ll have some of that, please,’ I mumbled, as I pushed through the wheat sheaves, not really sure who I was asking. I stopped, briefly, at the farm gate and closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of the glow penetrate my eyelids. Sucked in a deep, deep breath of gentle air and a soft breath of peace kissed my frazzled brow, my knotted jaw. Hope.
‘Jenny?’
I opened my eyes to find Frances, leaning heavily on her stick, a few metres away. ‘Are you all right?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’ And for a brief moment, I truly meant it.
‘You look worse,’ Frances announced, as we started off towards the Tough Muck location, high in the hills of the Peak District.
‘I could say the same to you,’ I retorted, with a smile.
‘My body, maybe. But look at my eyes. Not while you’re driving, please. My soul is strong. Yours is sinking.’
