I have that feeling again.
The ‘I can’t manage alone’ feeling.
I squash it down.
I am strong. Capable. Tom and I can have a life without Olly. More importantly, we must have a life without him.
There’s no way back.
A memory unzips itself – me, crying and shaking, cowering in a bathtub as Olly’s knuckles pound on the door. Sharp and brutal.
Tears come. It will be different here.
I head up to the bathroom with its tasteful butler sink and free-standing Victorian bathtub on little wrought-iron legs. From the porcelain toothbrush holder I take hairdressing scissors – the ones I use to trim Tom’s fine, blond hair.
I pick up a long strand of my mousy old life and cut. Then I take another, and another. Turning to the side, I strip strands from my crown, shearing randomly.
Before I know it, half my hair lies in the bathroom sink.
Now I have something approaching a pixie cut – short hair, clipped close to my head. I do a little shaping around the ears and find myself surprised and pleased with the result.
Maybe I should be a hairdresser instead of a nurse, I think.
I fought so hard to finish my nurse’s training, but never did. Olly was jealous from the start. He hated me having any sort of identity.
Turning my head again in the mirror, I see myself smile. I really do like what I see. My hair is much more interesting than before, that mousy woman with non-descript brown hair.
I’m somebody who stands out.
Gets things done.
No more living in the shadows.
It won’t be how things were with Olly, when I was meek little Lizzie, shrinking at his temper.
Things will be different.
As I start tidying the house, my phone rings its generic tone. I should change that too. Get a ring tone that represents who I am. It’s time to find myself. Be someone. Not invisible, part of someone else.
My mother’s name glows on the phone screen.
Ruth Riley.
Such a formal way to store a mother’s number. I’m sure most people use ‘Mum’ or ‘Mummy’ or something.
I grab the phone. ‘Hi, Mum.’
There’s a pause, and a rickety intake of breath. ‘Did you get Tom to school on time?’
‘Of course.’
‘Because it’s important, Elizabeth. On his first day. To make a good impression.’
‘I don’t care what other people think,’ I say. ‘I care about Tom.’
‘Well, you should care, Elizabeth. You’ve moved to a nice area. The families around there will have their eyes on you. It’s not like that pokey little apartment you had in London.’
‘It was a penthouse apartment and no smaller than the house we had growing up,’ I point out. ‘We lived in a two-bed terrace with Dad. Remember?’
‘Oh, what nonsense, Elizabeth. We had a conservatory.’
Actually, it was a corrugated plastic lean-to. But my mother has never let the truth get in the way of a good story.
‘I was planning to visit you again this weekend,’ says Mum. ‘To help out.’
I want to laugh. Mum does the opposite of help out. She demands that a meal is cooked, then criticises my organisational skills.
‘You don’t have to,’ I say.
‘I want to.’
‘Why this sudden interest in us, Mum? You never visited when we lived with Olly.’
‘Don’t be silly, Elizabeth,’ Mum snaps. ‘You’re a single parent now. You need my help.’ A pause. ‘I read in the Sunday Times that Steelfield School is one of the top fifty state schools.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. Make sure you dress smartly for pick-ups and drop-offs. I paid a personal visit to the headmaster this morning. To impress upon him what a good family we are.’
I laugh. ‘You didn’t think to ask me first?’
My mother ignores this comment. ‘The headmaster was charming. Very presentable too. He tells me Tom is lucky to have a place there. Make sure you put a good face on.’
‘Social services got us that place. I’d feel luckier not to have a social worker.’
‘Elizabeth.’ Mum’s voice is tight. She hates it when I mention social workers. ‘Don’t be ungrateful.’
‘You really shouldn’t have visited the school, Mum,’ I say. ‘Teachers are busy enough.’
‘Nonsense,’ says Mum. ‘You need to make a good impression and for that you need my help. You never could do that on your own.’
‘I appreciate you trying to help. I really do. But can you ask in future? Before you do things like visiting Tom’s school? It feels a bit … I don’t know, intrusive.’
I feel Mum’s annoyance in the silence that follows. And I become that needy little girl again, doing anything to win back her favour.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Forget I said that. It’s wonderful you visited Tom’s headmaster. Look, come and visit whenever you like.’
When I hang up, I think about Olly.
You miss him sometimes. Admit it.
The voice comes out of nowhere and I try to squash it down.
Of course there were good times. But if I want to remember the good times, I have to remember the bad ones.
Do you remember him screaming at you? Calling you every name under the sun? And worse, so much worse … Saying things too shameful to think about.
How I could fall in love with someone who wanted to tear me apart?
‘So why the blindfold?’ I ask, as Olly leads me over crunching snow.
‘Because you like surprises.’
Did I say that?
This has all been such a whirlwind. I’m insecure, certain our romance will be over when Olly finds out he’s too good for me.
‘This way,’ says Olly, and I hear a chalet door creak. ‘Welcome home.’
‘Home?’
‘My chalet.’ Olly unties my blindfold. ‘Where you’ll be sleeping for the rest of the ski season.’
I laugh. ‘You’ll be lucky.’
As my eyes adjust to the light, I see a cosy sofa area and Chardonnay, a bowl of Pringles and glittering tealights laid on a chunky, wooden dining table.
‘I’m calling this evening “Lizzie’s favourites”,’ says Olly, plugging his phone into a speaker. ‘Your favourite food. Favourite music. Favourite everything. I’ve got sea bass.’ He goes to the fridge and slaps a wax-paper packet of fish on the kitchen counter. ‘New potatoes in the oven. Lots of tomato ketchup in the fridge, because we’re both philistines.’ He winks. ‘Sour-cream Pringles to start. And Joni Mitchell on the stereo. Oh – and black forest gateaux for dessert. The one you like from the café.’