I started with the best intentions. I knew a week out of the office would be pushing it, what with the months of imaginary tube delays and doctors’ appointments that I subtly implied were too personal for my boss, Duncan, to question. As managers went, he was ridiculously tolerant, but exasperation had recently started to morph into anger, maybe even hurt. He was a civil servant to his bones, and I could tell that he took my lack of respect as a moral failing. The truth was that I felt that same disappointment in me that he did, but I was too distracted polishing my excuses until they gleamed to let myself own it. That first morning, it was easier than I expected to get out of bed and push myself back out into the world. How hard could a single Friday be? And besides, Amber’s visit had infused me with a weird kind of energy. It was a high, a natural high – the kind that people in kundalini yoga classes claim exist, their eyes all glassy, with a chaser of B. O. – that I’d always assumed was down to the fact they’d never had a real one. Mum was on a client call in the living room when I came downstairs, and I half hoped I’d be able to slip out without seeing her, but as I slugged back a quick coffee, she came through to find me. ‘Thanks for looking after me,’ I said, giving her a quick hug. Was it guilt telling me that she felt bonier than ever? ‘Say thanks to Dad too. I’m going to go back to mine after work. Please don’t worry about me. You’ve done enough of that, I think we can agree!’ She didn’t raise a smile. Instead she looked at me beseechingly. ‘You will see her again, won’t you?’ she said, her thumb hard against my palm, blocking my way out of the kitchen. We hadn’t really talked about the session since the moment Amber left. She’d looked at my swollen, blotchy face with a slight disgust that I’m sure she thought I wouldn’t notice. ‘Well, that was certainly intense,’ she’d said, efficiently scooping up the coffee cups, not quite making eye contact. ‘But worth it, yes?’ I couldn’t form a coherent thought yet – that would take a few, dangerous weeks – so I’d simply muttered ‘Think so’ and dived for my phone. ‘Definitely. Mum, I actually want to carry on,’ I told her now, trying to work out how to dodge my way past her without any more reminders about what a disaster I was. I knew I’d been moody while I’d been here, but I’d been too ashamed to risk emerging – at least until Amber opened the door. It scared me. I wasn’t sure yet what to do with it. ‘This is a new start. I actually mean it this time.’ I felt her body relax, her grip loosen. Back then, I still wanted to make her happy, maybe even more than I wanted to make myself happy. Or was it that I still believed that only the first one mattered? ‘I’ll call you later.’ She gave a tight nod. ‘Stop worrying about me, okay?’ I kissed her cheek again. ‘That’s your job for today,’ I added, laughing, and slipped down the corridor away from her. I hoped my lightness would infect her. By the time I approached Sh epherd’s Bush tube, that lightness had evaporated, anxiety rushing into the void. Could I do this? The tube heard my prayers, idling in a tunnel for a good five minutes, but soon it started up again, and I was standing in front of the slab of concrete in Westminster where I worked. I swiped my pass through the barriers, then watched my finger approach the button for the lift, seeing it light up. For a moment, it felt as if I was watching a reconstruction of my last day on earth. I was edging my way across the floor when he spotted me. ‘Rachel!’ I’d hoped to sneak to my desk and then hide behind my computer, staring so determinedly at the screen that my diligence would r epel any
conversation, but Duncan was heading straight for me. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it back this week.’ Flecks of white gunk – baby food, I guessed, unlikely to be cocaine – p eppered his moss-green jumper, his shaggy brown hair sticking up in spikes like a drunken hedgehog. He and his wife – a policy adviser in the Treasury – had had expensive IVF twins a year ago, and since then he exuded ‘harassed dad’ as if it was a particularly overpowering aftershave. Duncan’s wariness made his smile go crooked, but he couldn’t quite stifle his natural warmth. ‘Well done.’ ‘I didn’t want to leave you all in the lurch. There’s so much to do...’ He lowered his voice. ‘So, it wasn’t appendicitis in the end? From what your mum said, it was pretty dramatic.’ ‘They’re still running tests,’ I said, my voice staying impressively steady. If lying was something people actually looked for on a CV, I’d be headhunted daily. ‘It’s possible it was a virus. They’ll monitor me for a few weeks, but hopefully it was a one off.’ ‘Well...’ His shoulders slumped downwards. Admitting to himself it was a blatant untruth would add an extra ton of stress to his already impossible load. Better to kick the problem down the field, deal with it later. ‘Excellent. We should still be on track to get the proposal on teachers’ housing done for the end of next week. If you can just plough on...’ ‘Consider me your favourite lady farmer,’ I said, then cringed in case he thought I was flirting. He had nothing to fear. Duncan – or at least single Duncan – was exactly the kind of man I should have fancied, but never did. ‘Great,’ he said, and we lingered awkwardly for a second too long before heading to our respective desks. It was a graduate traineeship originally, hard won. Dad’s a property lawyer with a big practice, and I’d worked for him in my year off, and then in all the university holidays, so I’d had the kind of practical experience that sparkled alongside my first-class degree. Mum and Dad were thrilled when I’d got it – I think they even had ludicrous fantasies of me being prime minister – and the first couple of years were great. I moved between d epartments, soaking up knowledge and smugly reflecting on how much more ‘important’ my work was than the friends who were selling their souls as city traders or fledgling PRs. While they were writing press releases about new waxing treatments or swotting up on the Yen, I was learning about urban regeneration and social care. But then, somehow, I stalled. I stopped staying late: it was far more fun to stay out with those friends I’d sneered at, with their fat salaries and their glamorous party invites, and then sneak into the office stinking of the night before. I took my eye off the ball, missed the promotions and the pay rises that the eager beavers I came in with were all too happy to hoover up. Soon the friends with the glamorous invites started staying in with boyfriends or, with alarming speed, fiancés. Now I was a mid-level government drone in the housing d epartment – it felt like a job for life in the worst possible sense. ‘Are you really better?’ said Julia as I slid into my chair. She was a couple of years younger than me but you’d never know it: she and Hillary Clinton must’ve signed a pact to take joint responsibility for ke eping trouser suits relevant. She was wearing a navy one that day, a crisp silk shirt peeking out beneath it, her neat blonde bob jutting forward over her strong jawline as she swiveled towards me, eyes bright with concern. Julia was horribly good.
‘Think so,’ I said, ostentatiously powering up my ancient government issue computer as if I couldn’t bear to waste another moment. ‘Thanks for asking.’ ‘Of course.’ She k ept her swivel chair angled in my direction. ‘Fred had appendicitis when we were at Oxford.’ Julia never said university, like a normal person might. ‘It was a complete miracle he didn’t miss his finals.’ Her gaze didn’t leave my face – a cold trickle of unease ran down my spine. Was she testing me? I should have forensically studied the symptoms, worked out how my mystery illness diverged from the real thing and confused the doctors. A wave of shame washed over me, but I refused to engage with it. I had work to do here. ‘Poor him,’ I said sympathetically. ‘Typical Fred, though! He’d never miss an exam, would he?’ Julia beamed. Masterful swerve – she couldn’t resist such a golden opening to talk about the world’s most perfect husband. I’d only met him a couple of times, while chinking a glass of soupy white wine with his at some lame work function, but she bought the casual intimacy hook, line and sinker. I scanned my 216 emails as she described his emergency admission, turning and cocking my head enough times to convince her I was listening. It took a good three minutes before we reached his triumphant limp into the exam hall, ready to ace it. At least now I’d have a few bits of medical colour to add to my own story. ‘Anyway, sorry, I’ll let you get on,’ she said, finally petering out. ‘Don’t apologize, I really appreciate that you give a shit,’ I said, realizing as I said it that I actually did, and immediately hating myself for the lies I’d been scattering so easily since I entered the building. ‘I loved that picture of Hobo at the dog park on Instagram by the way.’ Hobo was their Pit Bull, a rescue with a gruesome snarl and his own social media paw print, @homeofhobo. Judging by the number of photos they posted, any future human offspring would likely crash the internet. ‘He’s so adorable, isn’t he?’ she said, her face lighting back up. ‘I never regret giving our little guy a home.’ I started to subtly swivel my chair – this line of conversation could run and run. ‘Ugh, so many emails!’ Julia gave a sympathetic yelp and turned back to her monitor. Duncan’s dishevelled head was bent over his desk too, the low hum of phones and earnest policy conversations a monotone lullaby. I felt deflated, the sugar high of surviving their questions crashing to nothing. Was this it? Was life back to normal? Was this actually what I was meant to want? I started to plough through the emails – some of the research about the impact of rising suburban commuting costs had started to come in, ready to be woven into my r eport. It mattered – and yet... It was too soon for coffee, so instead I opened up a browser window, my eyes darting left to check that Julia’s gaze was trained on her own machine. A couple of quick keystrokes later, and I had landed on Amber’s hom epage. I wouldn’t have admitted to anyone – least of all Mum – how many times I’d visited it since Wednesday. Amber’s dark hair was longer in the picture, flowing down over the shoulders of a floral red boho dress. Her face was cocked towards the camera, an almost-smile playing around her lips. Her eyes drew you in, as if it was you specifically they gazed on, not some random internet stalker who’d chanced on her site. It was crazy, but it felt in that moment like she knew I was sitting here, on a government-issue swivel chair designed specifically to guard against costly lower back pain, wondering what the point of my existence really was. Maybe it wasn’t crazy: she’d said she would be ke eping me in her thoughts.
No, she’d said she’d be ke eping both of us in her thoughts. Mum, too. I clicked on the ‘About Me’ section. Amber Greville has a passion for helping her clients become their best selves. After a hugely successful career in the advertising industry, Amber was set to take over as creative director of a blue-chip agency. It was not to be – within days of starting the role, she was struck down by a crippling autoimmune disease, with no apparent medical cure. Looking back, Amber couldn’t be more grateful – as for many of her clients, her breakdown proved to be the ultimate breakthrough! I risked reading that sentence a couple of times, even though it made me emotional. I steadied myself and carried on. While her doctors remained baffled, Amber took herself to an ashram in South East Asia, which began her journey on the spiritual path. Working with a range of healing modalities, she finally got to the root course of her disease and became determined to help other stressed-out Westerners recover from the spiritual burnout that blights our frenetic lives. Amber’s sincere desire is to help you rediscover your innate goodness, your right to be here and the blissful tranquillity that is your true destiny. My innate goodness. I rolled the phrase around my mind – it felt alien, a language I didn’t even have a phrasebook for. I clicked back to her photo. She looked different this time. More enigmatic. Wiser. I looked down at the pile of printouts on my desk, then over to the row of glass-fronted meeting rooms that ran down the length of the room. Duncan was in one of them with a whiteboard, a gaggle of graduate trainees hanging off his every word. One more section, then I’d carry on. The next tab across was Testimonials. I hadn’t read these before. I felt a little thrill of anticipation. ‘Thank you Amber. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Without your wisdom, your patience, your stubborn belief in me, I’m not sure I’d be here today.’ (Freya, 35, London) ‘You were right, it wasn’t too late! A year after we finished our sessions, I was holding my beautiful baby girl in my arms. Thank you for teaching me that my dreams could come true – what we can believe, we can achieve. xxx.’ (Maria, 43, Winchester) ‘If you’re wondering whether to take the plunge, just do it. Amber will challenge you, enlighten you and, best of all, make you laugh like you’ve never laughed before. Tomorrow really is another day!’ (Chris, 44, Gloucestershire) Was Chris a man or a woman? Were there even men like that, men who longed to be ‘enlightened’? That guy Rob, the friend of Lou’s who’d left me to swim in my own vomit on a cold London pavement, certainly didn’t seem like a guy who had enlightenment on the top of his Christmas list. Shame twisted up inside me at the memory, followed by a further blast at the realization that I was currently drawing a government salary to dick around on the internet. I swiftly shut down the website without gobbling up any more of the ecstatic quotes. Besides, even a skim told me all I needed to know – they were riddled with excited capital letters and exclamation marks and little paths of kisses like birds hopping through snow. Amber meant a lot to a lot of people, it seemed. I pulled up my emails again, forcing myself to become immersed. This work was important. It mattered. So why couldn’t I make it matter more to me? I k ept it up for the rest of the day. I powered through my r eport, refusing to let myself waste any time on pointless apps. I distractedly ate a soggy BLT at my desk, all my focus on how we were going to square the circle of flat teacher salaries and rising London rent with our ambitious building project in commutable towns. I emailed the draft of my document to Duncan around four, earning a double
thumbs up from across the office. This surely earned me the right to a cup of coffee and a Kit Kat? Each floor of our offices had a little kitchenette in the corner, known as tuck shops since before the war. Hot water whooshed into my cup, the tea bag floating up towards me. I squished it, comforted by the mundanity of the action, by the sense of simply performing a task and awarding myself a tiny, deserved reward. But then my phone began to ring: Josh. His name flashed up again and again, an accusation. I knew I needed to speak to my brother. Mum had wasted no time telling me my refusal to pick up his calls was ‘de eply hurtful’. I’d asked her to tell him that I needed time to get my head together, but if I ignored him all the way up to the christening – even thinking the word christening made my stomach lurch – it would become an international incident. I reluctantly pressed my thumb down on the angry, flashing surface of my phone’s screen. ‘Josh, I’m sorry. I was going to call you tonight—’ My brother cut across me like I was a hapless witness in his courtroom. He was a human rights barrister, used to defending the downtrodden with ferocious, articulate indignation. It had provided him with an excellent skill set for this particular phone call. He was mid rant within seconds. ‘It’s bad enough that you put Mum and Dad through this – this shit – without ignoring me and Chloe too. Do you not want to be in this family, Rachel? Is that it?’ When he was behaving like some Victorian patriarch, it was hard to believe he was only two years older than me. ‘Jesus, Josh, I was in hospital! It’s fair enough if I needed some space.’ A couple of heads twitched in the old leather armchairs around the periphery of the tuck shop. I abandoned my tea, the bag drowning itself in the darkening water, and headed for the semi privacy of the corridor. ‘We needed to talk to you.’ I hated the way he always styled himself as a ‘we’, gave himself strength in numbers. My sister-in-law was aggressively, blandly pleasant, but always made it crystal clear where her loyalties lay. ‘We asked you to be Nancy’s godmother. You can’t just ignore us.’ ‘That’s why!’ I said, my voice rising, my vulnerability catching me unawares. ‘I felt shit enough, without you having to tell me I’m not good enough to be responsible for a baby’s moral welfare.’ Air audibly sw ept up Josh’s nostrils, the pause stretching out meaningfully. It had the desired effect: anxiety prickled my flesh as I waited for his next insight. ‘Oh, Rachel, what are we going to do with you?’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice as high and reedy as a child. I dug my bitten nails into the soft flesh of my palm. He continued, conversational now. ‘I was with this nineteen-year-old in court this week. Somali prostitute, oldest of six. Her brother’s disabled, her parents are dead. It’s no wonder she fell into the hands of a pimp. She had no options. Trafficked here and locked up in a brothel for nine months before they got raided. Now we’re fighting to let her stay.’ I looked out onto the oval, cobbled courtyard at the back of the building: its steely grandeur was the perfect backdrop to my brother’s lecture. ‘Mum and Dad gave us everything, Rachel. Why do you ke ep throwing it in their faces?’ Amber flitted across my mind, her calm gaze searching me out. The thought of her was weirdly comforting. ‘I don’t know,’ I said. There was nothing else I could say. He didn’t want to hear the truth, and I was still only groping for it. It would sound like a rambling excuse, pinned to teenage angst I should have long since left behind. Who knew if that really was why I was such a fuck up, anyway? ‘Sometimes it all feels incredibly hard, finding the point of it all. I know you can’t understand that.’
‘Don’t tell me what I do and don’t understand,’ he snapped, before his voice unexpectedly softened. ‘We care about you, Rachel. We just want you to stop this – this craziness.’ He paused again. ‘I was going to say it wasn’t appropriate for you to be Nancy’s godmother. That’s what we’d decided. But now I think it’s exactly what you need. Surely there’s a point to Nancy?’ He gave a dry little chuckle. I was dreading him telling me I was unfit, but the news that I was fit filled me with an equally violent tidal wave of dread. No skulking at the back of the church and quietly slipping away from the drinks. ‘Thank you,’ I said stiffly. Any exchange with my brother somehow seemed to in volve a grovelling apology and a tugging of the sisterly forelock. ‘It’s a real honour.’ ‘Don’t make me regret it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go back to court. See you next weekend.’ I stood there a few seconds longer, looking down at the ground. A gaggle of pigeons squabbled over a crust of bread, wind ruffling their feathers as their beaks pecked in a desperate frenzy at the ground. Then, before I went back to my desk, I made a call. ‘Lou, it’s me. What are you up to later?’ The words es caped my lips before I could swallow them. ‘I’m feeling Tigger-ish.’