I’ve got some cash – even better, cash that Luke doesn’t know about. I might say we sold it for five hundred pounds.
I change lanes as I drive past the supermarket and I consider going in.
I can have what I want for dinner.
Ice cream if I like but I keep on driving towards home.
I park in the drive and get into the house. I ignore the cupboards and freezer, instead, I head straight for the laundry and I strip off.
There and then.
I throw them all in the washing machine and I watch the black water go around.
God, Lucy!
Despite my resistance to what Luke suggested about seeing my GP, I do read some of the pamphlets that Doctor Patel gave me. I sit naked at the table and read and apparently, not washing and poor personal hygiene can be a sign of depression.
I’m not depressed – I look up and into my tidy kitchen and things are starting to come together I’m sure.
I don’t have poor personal hygiene; I’m just overloaded at the moment.
Busy.
You’d stink too if you’d spent a day cleaning out shit.
I just need a bit of space.
And tonight I’ve got it.
I’m going to have a beauty night, I decide.
I’m going to exfoliate and shave and rub in moisturiser, I’m going to put on a face mask and cut my nails and then paint them.
I run upstairs and I run a bath then I look in the mirror and it’s me that wants to run. I see how much I’ve let myself go, how being the perfect yummy mummy was, in fact, a full-time job.
I’ve put on weight, I don’t want to know how much, but I step on the scales for the first time in six weeks.
I used to get on them every morning.
Up, have a wee, jump on scales.
Now, I step on slowly and I’m scared to look down.
They’re wrong.
I step off and let it go back to zero and then I step on again and I’m a pound heavier this time – bloody hell – I’m putting on weight at a rate of one pound a minute.
Almost.
I’ve put on a stone and a half in six weeks.
I’ve always felt like I’m a day away from things falling apart.
I was right.
I lift my arms and I’m like a French woman.
I look at my hairy legs and down to my toenails that need to be cut, then back up to my face.
I’ve got roots too.
I usually go to Ricky every three weeks – it’s been six.
I can’t pretend I’m naturally blonde now.
I’m a brunette.
With a smatter of grey.
I look for a razor but I can’t find one.
There’s only his and I’m not using that.
A bath, Lucy.
Baby steps.
I get in and I lie there.
A bath used to relax me.
It doesn’t tonight.
I can see my big fat body and when I get out I will cut my toenails I think, while they’re soft. As I wash my hair I decide that I’ll paint my toenails and pluck my eyebrows….
But I don’t.
I put on a dressing gown.
I watch the dirty water go down the plughole and I’m ashamed of myself.
I didn’t remember to exfoliate but I do rub in moisturiser, that expensive one I bought the Saturday before he died.
Jess said yesterday that I pong and I did nothing about it but I’m doing something about it now…Jess.
I should ring her and see how she is.
I’m a terrible friend.
My thoughts are all scattered but I’m feeling so much better, all clean and lovely and finally I’ve got some energy. I look in the mirror and I smile at a Lucy that is coming back.
My mobile is flat so I have to use the landline and I don’t know off hand what her number is but thankfully he programmed the phone and I hit dial when I see Luke and Jess.
Only when Luke answers, does it compute that I’ve rung the home number.
‘Jess isn’t here,’ Luke tells me. ‘She’s on her night out with the girls.’
‘Oh!’ I’m surprised; she crashed her car last night.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s fine. Just a bruise.’
‘That’s good.’ God, he’s really crap at conversation and I’m really in the mood to talk but this is Luke and he doesn’t attempt small talk. Then I remember how much he loathes me. ‘Well, give her my love.’
‘Yep. We’re going to drop by over the weekend,’ Luke says.
‘Thanks,’ I say but he’s already rung off.
He’s so brusque.
I know he’s been good and everything but he’s so bloody rude at times. I know