‘That’s too many notebooks.’
I bared my soul to the guy on that step and all he could say was, ‘That’s too many notebooks.’
What a strange way to turn an evening of what almost felt like bonding into foolish drunk ramblings to an impassive ear. The words have played on my mind since I woke up (the first time, and every time since) in all of their plain, dry, offensive and subtext-less glory.
‘That’s too many notebooks.’
He may as well have called me ugly and boring there and then.
My phone vibrates harshly against the glass of my bedside table, the sound grating violently against my deeply tender eardrum. I groan at the sound, rolling over and blocking my ear with my hands, but it’s no use. It keeps going, message after message.
It’s 11 a.m.. . . Are you dead?
The latest in a string of texts from Kimi. I turn the brightness down completely before even starting to reply.
Me:Worse. Hungover.
Kimi:Oooo, so the Lounge was good?
Me:It’s so blurry. But I think I danced on Aiden. . .
Kimi:ON?! FaceTime debrief. Now.
Me:No one is seeing my face today. Not even you.
‘Maddison?’ Mum calls from the bottom of the stairs.
It’s her chores call. Her ‘help me peel three tons of carrots for dinner’ call. Any other day I’d take it on the chin as part of my living-rent-free tax, but today it makes me want to be sick.
‘Maddison?!’ she yells louder, sounding slightly more irate.
I’m hit by the blinding light of the corridor the second I step out from the comforting darkness that was my cave of a room. Each step down the stairs is my own personal Everest, complete with the icy chill of my dad’s stinginess.
‘Can we please turn on the heating?’ I call into the distance and my voice comes out gruff and croaky, ringing between my ears.
‘It’s practically spring!’ my dad says from the comfort of the front-room sofa.
I moan. ‘It’s February.’
‘Exactly!’
I don’t know why I even bothered trying. The central heating is his third and favourite child, and no one touches it without his explicit permission. I’m met with a look of horror as I finally land at the foot of the staircase.
‘You look awful. Are you ill?’ Mum presses the back of her hand against my forehead.
‘No, just tired. And I drank quite a lot last night,’ I say.
‘I thought you were working?’ she asks, grabbing my wrist to check my pulse.
‘Yes, I was, and I’m fine.’ I snatch my wrist back. ‘Just need coffee. Or water. Or. . . bread, I don’t know.’
My parents were in full support of me living at home for as long as I saw fit. ‘Why rent when you could stay here andsave to get on the property ladder?’ they would say. I agreed wholeheartedly. It’s a massive privilege to have. I did not, however, still see myself living here at almost thirty years of age. But, to be fair, I also didn’t see the mortgage rates and rent prices climbing to where they are right now. My parents do their best to make me feel better about the whole thing, insisting I have ‘full freedom as an adult’ and attempting to treat me as such. But, at the end of the day, I will always be their child in this house and they can’t help but remind me of the fact.
‘Why did you drink so much?’ Mum follows me into the kitchen.
‘It was a cocktail tasting; I had no choice.’ I let out a small whimper as the fridge light smacks me across the face. She thinks I’m being dramatic; I could already tell by her tone, but her new eye-roll-and-sigh combo pretty much solidifies it.
She tuts. ‘Sit down.’ She pulls out a kitchen stool and takes my place in front of the refrigerator. She grabs a few eggs, some peppers, red onions, milk, bacon and cheese, and gets to work at the counter immediately. Within a matter of minutes an omelette mix is ready to go, butter sizzling in the pan in anticipation.
