in my office, on the floor under my desk, edge-downward in the deep-pile rug. It is exactly where Charlotte said it would be.
‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’ I stand, hand on my bag.
Violet and Len do not stand. ‘Darling.’ He takes her hand and folds his fingers around her talons. ‘I’m happy that you’re talking to someone. I’ll pay for anything you want. But can you honestly tell me it’s helping, seeing this woman?’
‘It does help.’ Violet smiles up at me conspiratorially. ‘It does. Every time I see her, I feel so much better. She makes me feel so grateful.’
I feel a rush of warmth for the scrawny little thing. I’ve come here, ready to accuse her of nicking something, of violating our counsellor—client relationship and she’s defending me to her plastic father. I could almost hug her.
‘Thank you, Violet. That means a lot to me.’
‘It’s true. Every time I see Stanzi, I think to myself: no matter what troubles I have, what else is going on in my life.’ She smiles, and it’s the sweetest, warmest smile I’ve ever seen. And then she says, ‘At least I’m not fat.’
And I am captured, standing here, a smiling giant statue of myself carved from granite, massive hand on my bag, huge legs, half-astride, atop bulbous feet as if I was about to walk tothe door. Back when I could walk. Even my face is petrified. It is a carving of wood that turned to stone long ago. It retains the appearance of a warm smile but the muscles are destined to remain like this for eternity.
Violet stands. ‘I’ll show you out.’ Then she notices the plate of pizza on the coffee table. She flips the top piece over so its guts are exposed. ‘I always order too much. I just feel bad for the driver, you know, coming all this way to deliver a small pizza. It doesn’t seem worth his while.’
On top of the pizza, the cheese has congealed. The salami is round, shiny and prettily pink. It could be jewellery. The tomato looks like rust. All at once, I am amazed that this is considered food at all.
She smiles at me. ‘Would you like to take it with you? It’s a shame to waste food, don’t you think? Go on. Take it. It’ll only go in the bin.’
I am sitting in my mother’s kitchen in Malvern. I have a vague recollection of saying my goodbyes, of driving here. I can only hope I did not cry before the door shut behind me. I think it’s possible I called her Vivian.
I drove back to my office and knelt on the rug beside my desk—hold the chair, steady now, first one knee, then the other—and threaded my fingers through the pile until I found the coin. It is in my fist, in my pocket, sweaty and sticking to my fingers. I don’t know how long I sat on the rug before hoisting myself up, but I am here now. It is late. My mother’skitchen is wallpapered in orange baskets of fruit: orange oranges and orange pears and orange grapes on a psychedelic orange background. She has made me tea with lemon, strong and sweet. Staring at me from the kitchen bench is a photo of me and Charlotte in our late teens, arms around each other, grinning. I’m not huge but there’s a roundness in my cheeks and throat that marks my future. Charlotte looks the same as she does now. She’s wearing Mum’s amethyst pendant, so the photo must have been after our eighteenth birthday. I wriggle. These chairs are uncomfortable despite the padding. My thighs hang over the side.
‘Would you rather something else?’ Mum is wearing her dressing-gown, the one with the satin cuffs that I bought her. It’s pulled tight around her slender waist and tied with a bow. Her hair is thin, that special shade of little-old-lady lilac. I am holding her tea cup in my mitt; one squeeze of my paw and it would shatter. The china is eggshell-thin, almost translucent, and old. So old I wonder how many people have held it as I am, how many lips have pressed against it just where mine would be. Kisses from strangers, transmitted by porcelain from
‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’ I stand, hand on my bag.
Violet and Len do not stand. ‘Darling.’ He takes her hand and folds his fingers around her talons. ‘I’m happy that you’re talking to someone. I’ll pay for anything you want. But can you honestly tell me it’s helping, seeing this woman?’
‘It does help.’ Violet smiles up at me conspiratorially. ‘It does. Every time I see her, I feel so much better. She makes me feel so grateful.’
I feel a rush of warmth for the scrawny little thing. I’ve come here, ready to accuse her of nicking something, of violating our counsellor—client relationship and she’s defending me to her plastic father. I could almost hug her.
‘Thank you, Violet. That means a lot to me.’
‘It’s true. Every time I see Stanzi, I think to myself: no matter what troubles I have, what else is going on in my life.’ She smiles, and it’s the sweetest, warmest smile I’ve ever seen. And then she says, ‘At least I’m not fat.’
And I am captured, standing here, a smiling giant statue of myself carved from granite, massive hand on my bag, huge legs, half-astride, atop bulbous feet as if I was about to walk tothe door. Back when I could walk. Even my face is petrified. It is a carving of wood that turned to stone long ago. It retains the appearance of a warm smile but the muscles are destined to remain like this for eternity.
Violet stands. ‘I’ll show you out.’ Then she notices the plate of pizza on the coffee table. She flips the top piece over so its guts are exposed. ‘I always order too much. I just feel bad for the driver, you know, coming all this way to deliver a small pizza. It doesn’t seem worth his while.’
On top of the pizza, the cheese has congealed. The salami is round, shiny and prettily pink. It could be jewellery. The tomato looks like rust. All at once, I am amazed that this is considered food at all.
She smiles at me. ‘Would you like to take it with you? It’s a shame to waste food, don’t you think? Go on. Take it. It’ll only go in the bin.’
I am sitting in my mother’s kitchen in Malvern. I have a vague recollection of saying my goodbyes, of driving here. I can only hope I did not cry before the door shut behind me. I think it’s possible I called her Vivian.
I drove back to my office and knelt on the rug beside my desk—hold the chair, steady now, first one knee, then the other—and threaded my fingers through the pile until I found the coin. It is in my fist, in my pocket, sweaty and sticking to my fingers. I don’t know how long I sat on the rug before hoisting myself up, but I am here now. It is late. My mother’skitchen is wallpapered in orange baskets of fruit: orange oranges and orange pears and orange grapes on a psychedelic orange background. She has made me tea with lemon, strong and sweet. Staring at me from the kitchen bench is a photo of me and Charlotte in our late teens, arms around each other, grinning. I’m not huge but there’s a roundness in my cheeks and throat that marks my future. Charlotte looks the same as she does now. She’s wearing Mum’s amethyst pendant, so the photo must have been after our eighteenth birthday. I wriggle. These chairs are uncomfortable despite the padding. My thighs hang over the side.
‘Would you rather something else?’ Mum is wearing her dressing-gown, the one with the satin cuffs that I bought her. It’s pulled tight around her slender waist and tied with a bow. Her hair is thin, that special shade of little-old-lady lilac. I am holding her tea cup in my mitt; one squeeze of my paw and it would shatter. The china is eggshell-thin, almost translucent, and old. So old I wonder how many people have held it as I am, how many lips have pressed against it just where mine would be. Kisses from strangers, transmitted by porcelain from
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