into my handbag before I go.
The tube feels like an assault course. I stand back, quietly observing the frantic commuters contorting themselves into a section of space that could only accommodate a No. 2 pencil, faces mashed up against the glass like a Munch painting. All that effort feels pointless, energy that’s being poured into the wrong place. I watch four trains going past before I realize that I haven’t metamorphosed into an existentialist philosopher, and that I too must subject myself to the indignity of the Victoria line. It’s horrible in there, airless and close, my heart beating out a tattoo in my chest. Must not cry, must not cry. It spits me out at Warren Street, shaky and distressed. I get myself above ground, gulping in air as I search for emotional equilibrium. I can’t help but think of William, how it must have felt to wake up to today, how wrong it must seem that life has viciously kick-started itself again, the funeral nothing more than a memory. Would he even want to carry on if it wasn’t for Madeline? I think he would—despite his love for Sally, I sensed a stoicism in him that was about more than being a father. Was that what she saw in him, that he made her feel safe? The Sally that I knew was too fearless to fall for any knights in shining armor. I can’t stop myself from trying to fill in the blanks, even though I know that it’s pointless. Who was it that he was arguing so fiercely with when I crept away from him?
I decide that a double-shot macchiato might help pull me back to the real world, particularly if it’s delivered by the sexy Aussie barista at the trendy coffee place around the corner from work.
“You okay?” he asks. “You know there’s nothing in the world that a brownie can’t fix.”
“You’re right,” I say, promptly bursting into tears at the fact that it’s patently untrue.
“Hey,” he says, handing me a wad of paper napkins, “you’re having a shocker, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I reply, gratefully mopping my face. “Thank you.” I’m smiling at him a little too intensely, my gratitude for his kindness almost overwhelming. If our grip on life is as tenuous as I now know it is, then maybe this is all we’ve got: the minute-to-minute choice to be the best versions of ourselves we can muster up.
“Good morning,” says Mungo brightly, surreptitiously shoving a copy of the New Yorker under a pile of folders.
I’m actually relieved that I’m irritated. I obviously haven’t had a complete spiritual epiphany.
“Hi. Did you write up the notes from that directors’ meeting?”
“You’ll have them before you know it,” he says, then swivels his chair back toward his screen like I’m harassing him.
I roll my eyes at Rosie, my kindly, motherly colleague who sits on the next station.
“Cup of tea?” she signals, and I hold up my coffee in response. “Go on,” she mouths, and I slip out to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Mary’s vacant desk. Hopefully she’s gone to make a long personal phone call, rather than for a ruthlessly efficient fifteen-second pee.
“Poor you, it must’ve been terrible,” she says, giving me a hug. I’ve been trying so hard to switch back into work mode, and just for a second I allow myself to collapse into it.
“I can’t even tell you . . .” I say.
“At least you’ve got it out of the way,” she says quickly. “I know how much you were dreading it.” She gives me a big, open smile, hands tucked in the pocket of her roomy floral pinafore dress, and I feel a bit like her three-year-old son Alfie must when he’s fallen off the slide and she’s trying to persuade him to be brave.
“It doesn’t feel out of the way . . .” It doesn’t, it feels accordion-like, stretching and contracting, as I try to make sense of things that refuse to submit to small-minded logic.
“It’s the shock,” she says, rubbing my arm. “Now do you want black tea or herbal?”
I think about trying to
The tube feels like an assault course. I stand back, quietly observing the frantic commuters contorting themselves into a section of space that could only accommodate a No. 2 pencil, faces mashed up against the glass like a Munch painting. All that effort feels pointless, energy that’s being poured into the wrong place. I watch four trains going past before I realize that I haven’t metamorphosed into an existentialist philosopher, and that I too must subject myself to the indignity of the Victoria line. It’s horrible in there, airless and close, my heart beating out a tattoo in my chest. Must not cry, must not cry. It spits me out at Warren Street, shaky and distressed. I get myself above ground, gulping in air as I search for emotional equilibrium. I can’t help but think of William, how it must have felt to wake up to today, how wrong it must seem that life has viciously kick-started itself again, the funeral nothing more than a memory. Would he even want to carry on if it wasn’t for Madeline? I think he would—despite his love for Sally, I sensed a stoicism in him that was about more than being a father. Was that what she saw in him, that he made her feel safe? The Sally that I knew was too fearless to fall for any knights in shining armor. I can’t stop myself from trying to fill in the blanks, even though I know that it’s pointless. Who was it that he was arguing so fiercely with when I crept away from him?
I decide that a double-shot macchiato might help pull me back to the real world, particularly if it’s delivered by the sexy Aussie barista at the trendy coffee place around the corner from work.
“You okay?” he asks. “You know there’s nothing in the world that a brownie can’t fix.”
“You’re right,” I say, promptly bursting into tears at the fact that it’s patently untrue.
“Hey,” he says, handing me a wad of paper napkins, “you’re having a shocker, aren’t you?”
“I am,” I reply, gratefully mopping my face. “Thank you.” I’m smiling at him a little too intensely, my gratitude for his kindness almost overwhelming. If our grip on life is as tenuous as I now know it is, then maybe this is all we’ve got: the minute-to-minute choice to be the best versions of ourselves we can muster up.
“Good morning,” says Mungo brightly, surreptitiously shoving a copy of the New Yorker under a pile of folders.
I’m actually relieved that I’m irritated. I obviously haven’t had a complete spiritual epiphany.
“Hi. Did you write up the notes from that directors’ meeting?”
“You’ll have them before you know it,” he says, then swivels his chair back toward his screen like I’m harassing him.
I roll my eyes at Rosie, my kindly, motherly colleague who sits on the next station.
“Cup of tea?” she signals, and I hold up my coffee in response. “Go on,” she mouths, and I slip out to the kitchen, keeping an eye on Mary’s vacant desk. Hopefully she’s gone to make a long personal phone call, rather than for a ruthlessly efficient fifteen-second pee.
“Poor you, it must’ve been terrible,” she says, giving me a hug. I’ve been trying so hard to switch back into work mode, and just for a second I allow myself to collapse into it.
“I can’t even tell you . . .” I say.
“At least you’ve got it out of the way,” she says quickly. “I know how much you were dreading it.” She gives me a big, open smile, hands tucked in the pocket of her roomy floral pinafore dress, and I feel a bit like her three-year-old son Alfie must when he’s fallen off the slide and she’s trying to persuade him to be brave.
“It doesn’t feel out of the way . . .” It doesn’t, it feels accordion-like, stretching and contracting, as I try to make sense of things that refuse to submit to small-minded logic.
“It’s the shock,” she says, rubbing my arm. “Now do you want black tea or herbal?”
I think about trying to
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