‘I think they’re getting bored. Mum and Dad are so busy running everything, they haven’t changed the activity programme for years. One person told me that during the last 1940s tea party he’d started fantasising about breaking his hip just to liven things up a bit. I’m their only hope; they know they need to stay on my good side.’
‘They’re going to love you.’
‘The feeling’s mutual.’
His eyes caught mine for a brief moment before dropping to Penny, who straight away got up and padded across the corridor to his bedroom door opposite the kitchen before turning to look at him.
‘You’re right. Damn. I must stink.’ Elliot hastily put his glass in the dishwasher then followed his dog, looking back at me as he reached the doorway, his movements jerky, face flushed. ‘Sorry. I got distracted seeing you here. I should have waited to start a conversation after a shower. More slobbiness from one of your housemates. Sorry.’
Lifting his T-shirt to wipe his face, he realised that this revealed a wide stretch of flat stomach, causing his agitation to increase as he tugged the top back down. ‘Next time, just… well. Yeah. I’m… see you later. Shower. Clothes in the wash. Dinner.’
He disappeared into his bedroom too fast for me to say that if he did smell, I’d not noticed. Or that having spent the day broiling in my own perspiration, I probably smelled equally as bad. Or the hundred other thoughts that plagued me after I’d gone to bed that night – that once upon a time I’d happily hung around with him after countless runs or football matches. That the few times he’d celebrated a win or a personal best by hugging me, drenching me in second-hand sweat, I’d been tempted to avoid a shower myself afterwards, so I could carry the scent of him for as long as possible.
I lay in bed, staring at the bumpy ceiling, heart hammering through the vest top of my pyjamas.
I’d expected to feel gut-wrenching shame at seeing Elliot every day. To be swamped in self-loathing and crippled with sadness.
I’d had this picture in my head of how he’d be. His life a wreck. Broken. Lost.Weak.
All those things I’d felt the need to be, too, in the years before my therapy.
He was nothing like I feared.
I don’t know why I never even contemplated that he’d still be soElliot.
Not for one second had I imagined that the sight of him would bring back these old feelings. Which was somewhat naïve of me, given how fiercely they’d once burned beneath my skin.
To my huge relief, Seb called at one in the morning, bringing me back to reality with a bump as he described his new job hiring out boats on a tiny island I’d never heard of. I was not eighteen-year-old Jessie, hopelessly infatuated. I was twenty-eight-year-old Jess, in a committed relationship and very happy about it.
As I finally flopped down to sleep, grateful that the night brought with it a breeze to dissipate the stuffy attic air, I acknowledged that it was understandable, how coming home and confronting familiar faces would stir up old feelings. Understandable, even if not really acceptable – or in any way helpful. I whispered what had become my nightly prayer since arriving in Chimney Cottage, that my boyfriend would be well enough to come home, soon.
* * *
My second day at work passed in a similar way to the first, except that this time I wore green, calf-length culottes and a white T-shirt with sandals so managed to avoid hovering on the brink of heat-exhaustion. I did some more brain-shrivelling policy reading, spent a lot of time chatting and sat in on the two organised activities for the day, a music quiz and glass painting.
The music quiz, done well, had the potential to be a lot of fun. It didn’t quite turn out like that.
Mum was with one of her old home care clients with dementia, who was having a particularly rough day, and Dad was stuck in the kitchen due to the leak having returned with a vengeance. That left Lance standing in as quizmaster.
Lance had been working for my parents since they’d first started the domiciliary care business. I’d paired up with him several times for home visits. He was brilliant at working with older people. I’d seen stubborn grumps melt in response to his unpatronising kindness, and the most anxious, fretful clients laughing at his jokes within moments.
However, it was immediately apparent that Lance was not made for a larger audience. Around fifty people had turned up in the main hall for the quiz, and as each one entered the room he seemed to shrink another inch into the floor. By the time he’d stumbled over the welcome and basic quiz rules, he was a gibbering wreck. The only thing that saved the afternoon was that having done the quiz so many times before, everyone was proficient at organising themselves into teams and passing around the answer sheet and pot of pens.
Unfortunately, they were equally as proficient at remembering the answers.
‘We’ve had this one before!’ became the ongoing grumble.
‘Let me guess,’ called out a man who’d introduced himself to me as Mr Wonka with a tip of his top hat. ‘The sixties round. Could the first answer possibly be Marvin Gaye?’
At least they all did well, with the worst score being twenty-seven out of thirty, and four teams scoring full marks. That led to the absolute highlight of the day, when Lance played a clip for the tie-breaker question, only instead of stopping the music after the introduction, like he was supposed to, he couldn’t find the right button on the sound system, and ‘Dancing in the Street’ carried right on playing.
By the time he turned around to ask if I could help, half the room were clapping along, tapping their toes or clicking arthritic fingers. The other half had pushed back their chairs, stood to their feet and starting swaying, twirling or in some cases full-blown boogeying along. The volume rose as more of those with enough breath left starting singing at the tops of their voices and others banged their mugs on the tables, tapped walking sticks on the chair-legs or found whatever way they could to add to the percussion.
It was like a scene from a musical. A wild, joyous, raucously good time.
‘Do they always do this?’ I asked Lance, having to shout above the chorus.
‘Never,’ he replied, his face a picture of panic.
