keep my eyes closed for that long; every sound disturbed me. The first few times I did it, I found the old perfectionism, the desire to control my life, meant that I would admonish myself for getting it wrong if I opened my eyes before the timer went off, if I turned my head to the window at the sound of a noise in the street below.
This is how it all starts. I do something that seems like a good idea. Locking the flat is a good idea, after all, right? Then for some reason I’ve not done it properly one day, and that’s no good at all, because if you’re going to do something that’s for your own benefit, you’ve got to do it properly or there’s no point. Then I start fretting about it and picturing all the bad things that might happen if I get it all wrong, if I screw it up the way I’ve screwed up so many other things in my waste of a life.
So, the first time I tried my deep breathing exercises, it was all a bit crap and I ended up doing it twice, failing both times, and then going to check the flat again three times to make up for my failure.
That was all a bit shitty, and I found myself wondering whether seeing a doctor and being in touch with the medical profession again had been the best way forward. I was doing all right, wasn’t I? I was still alive, wasn’t I?
I tried again, later, before bedtime, and the second time wasn’t so bad. In fact, while I was doing the deep breathing I found myself remembering Stuart, his hand holding mine, talking me through my breathing just as he had sitting on my cold floor, his voice soothing, calm, his eyes anxious. Before I knew it the timer was going off, and I’d managed three minutes without opening my eyes.
That night I slept better than I had in a long time.
I placed Stuart’s note on the floor in front of me, crossed my legs, spent a moment listening out for sounds in the flat and outside, and then shut my eyes and started. In. Out. In. Out. Picturing Stuart with me was the only way it was going to work, I decided. What the hell, if it worked it had to be a good thing, right? So I took him away from the cold, drafty floor and went upstairs instead, into his living room, the wide, deep sofas, relaxed back into their softness. It was sunny and warm, the sun streaming through the windows onto his face, and he had one hand on my upper arm, and was saying the things he’d said to me before, and a few other things too.
“I’m here. It’s all right, you’re safe. Now breathe—in. And out. And again, in . . . and out. That’s it, you’re doing fine. In. And out.”
Five minutes later I opened one eye and looked across to the kitchen clock.
I’d forgotten to set the damn timer.
Wednesday 24 December 2003
By the time I made it home, it was nearly two in the morning. I had company most of the way back: three drunken lads and two of their girlfriends happened to be staggering in my direction, and I walked with them, chatting to one of the girls, Chrissie, who turned out to be a cousin of Sam’s.
The last little walk along Queen’s Road wasn’t too bad, really. The wind had dropped a little and although it was frosty, I’d had enough vodka to keep the worst of the chill off. And my wool coat was warm and toasty. I might make a nice cup of tea when I get in, I was thinking, and then a nice long nap in the morning . . .
A figure was sitting on my doorstep, and stood up when I approached.
Lee.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
I fished my keys out from the bottom of my handbag. “Out, in town,” I said. “Didn’t feel like staying in. Have you been here long?”
“Ten minutes.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Are we going in? Fucking freezing my nuts off out here.”
“Why didn’t you use your key?”
“You told me not to, remember?”
“What?”
“You said I wasn’t to come in and mess up your stuff.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you can come in.”
Inside the doorway, he pulled me around and pinned me against the wall, pulling my coat open, his mouth