to ask if I’d left anything at David’s that I needed. My mind turned to the wall clock in the spare bedroom in the shape of a jam jar, my rattan bookcase, and my framed Frida Kahlo print, but Meg disagreed that these were crucial items for a seven-month trip to Norway.
“Where are you going?” I asked when she got up.
“I’m staying at David’s,” she said in a thin voice, looking away. “You can stay here. I’ll bring your stuff and take you to the airport on Monday. OK?”
Oddly enough, I wasn’t perturbed at all by the thought of my best friend shacking up with my long-term partner a mere fortnight after we’d broken up. I was more concerned—amused, even—by the thought of Meg discovering that he liked to spend weekends holed up in the spare bedroom with violent video games and a bag of weed, or his weird thing about digging half an inch of wax out of each ear, only to leave a ceremonious row of used cotton buds lined up along the sink instead of chucking them in the bin.
That night, it is safe to say I had the best sleep I’d had for months.
The next day Meg turned up with ham and carrots and a large suitcase of clothes I’d forgotten I even had. I was pleased to find that I now had seven tops, all with long sleeves to cover the ugly gashes along each of my forearms. The skin between my wrists and elbows was still raw and puckered, and the scars resembled the botched job I made once of repairing the hem of an old quilt. I didn’t want Gaia or Coco to see that. Plus, my cuts still hurt like hell and sleeves meant I could wear padded dressings without anyone asking awkward questions.
Meg had also packed some of my old makeup—she must have really dug through my gear to find that—and an old bottle of Body Shop perfume, deodorant, some earrings, underwear, towels, a hairbrush, painkillers, a pretty pair of white leather sandals I’d never worn, my best dress, some of my favorite books, and—luckiest of all—my laptop charger. I was stoked. She’d really put a lot of thought into what I’d need.
“I’m going to take the rest of your things to the charity shop, OK?” she said. “It would be weird, moving in with Dave and having all your stuff around.”
* * *
—
Mum phoned while we were driving to the airport. I hadn’t spoken to her in weeks and she was eager to share with me the latest plot developments in EastEnders, but I knew I had to be firm. I took a deep breath, recalled the epiphany I’d had, and said, “Mum, I’m going on holiday for a while, and I won’t be able to talk to you. So I love you, but for now I’m saying . . . au revoir.”
“Holiday?” she spat out on the other end of the line. “Where do you think you’re off to, eh?”
“I don’t think I’m off anywhere,” I said curtly. “I’m headed to Norway, as it happens, and for quite some time.”
“Norway?”
She started to shout and swear then, a fiery, threat-filled tirade that circled the question of who was going to acquire cannabis for her if I wasn’t around, and though I was sorely tempted to share the news about the end of my relationship and subsequent homelessness, I simply said, “You have David’s number, Mother dear. Ask him for weed yourself.”
I said good-bye to Meg, checked my suitcase, and took my seat on the plane. I’d been booked in first class, which meant that I was served an amazing meal of rump steak, garlic potatoes, and tenderstem broccoli, followed by sticky toffee pudding with banana ice cream. I’d even put on mascara and lipstick, and wore a smart white blouse with skinny jeans and white sandals, and when the other people in first class spoke to me they didn’t look wary or full of pity. I felt almost happy, excited instead of skewered by fear, like I could hold a conversation with someone without apologizing for my general crapness.
In short, I felt like I was a different person entirely.
And I was a different person. As I stepped off the plane at Ålesund and headed into the terminal, a woman was holding up a piece of white card with my name spelled out in red capitals:
SOPHIE HALLERTON
5
building a nest
THEN
Aurelia sits up in bed and glances woozily at the contraption to her