Page 15 of Glitterland
The tapestry of my life was a ruin of unravelling threads. The brightest parts were a nonsensical madman’s weaving. And now every day was a grey stitch, laid down with an outpatient’s patience, one following the next following the next following the next, a story in lines, like a railway track to nowhere, telling absolutely nothing.
I’d wasted so much of my life. So many of my days, and all of my promise, all of my dreams, lost to hospitals, to depression, to wanting to die. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.This is not who I am.
Except, of course, it was. It was the only thing left to be.
I wandered the flat, opening curtains, plumping cushions, picking things up and putting them down again. Sitting distractedly on the arm of the sofa, I found myself going through the photos on my phone. I even plugged the thing into my computer to see if there was some sort of hidden recycle bin from which deleted objects could be restored. There wasn’t.
4
A Week on Thursday
I met Amy, as arranged, at The Three Crowns. It claimed to be a traditional English pub, which meant dark wood and warm beer. Not that I would be drinking. Not after Brighton.
Stitch on, lunatic.
Amy was sitting at a table in the dingiest corner, sipping a pint and reading on her iPad. Despite my terrible record for showing up to things, she still hadn’t given up on me. I couldn’t tell if that made her stubborn, foolish, or…nice.
“Hey you,” she said, jumping up and hugging me. I gave her an awkward squeeze. “Extravagant air kiss…mwah, darling…mwah…”
This was another fossil of a joke. I couldn’t remember where it’d come from. I had a horrible feeling it might have been me.
Leaning in, I went through the motions. Mwah. Mwah. Sigh.
“And I bought you a drink. Full-fat Coke, not diet, on the rocks, with lime not lemon.”
“Thank you.” I sat down, unbuttoning my coat and unwinding my scarf.
“It’s okay.” She smiled at me. “You’re a cheap date. It’s one of the things I like about you.”
“What about my swashbuckling charm and pretty face?”
“Went without saying, sweetie.”
I took a sip of my Coke to hide a smile. Amy was the sort of woman who occasionally made me wish I weren’t gay and clinically insane. She was pretty in what I thought was probably an Elizabeth Bennet sort of way: lively eyes, wicked smile.
“It’s colder than Satan’s arsecrack out there,” she went on cheerfully. “Where’s the bloody spring gone? How’ve you been?”
I hesitated, weighing fact and fiction, pride and friendship. “Well, truthfully, not entirely great. But I’m okay now.”
“Yeah, I heard about Brighton.”
Well, this was likely to be awkward. “Oh?” I adopted what I hoped was a neutral tone.
She nodded. “Max told me.” There was a pause. “Everything.”
“Oh.”
Yes, this was definitely awkward, and there was only so much mileage I could get out of “oh.”
She ruffled a hand through her pixie cut “I’m sorry, I don’t want to dump shit on you. Shall we talk about how everyone loves the new Rik Glass instead?”
“God, no.” I recoiled in revulsion. “You know I hate talking about my books. Also, you can dump shit on me. Figurative shit, anyway.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll tell you straightaway if my mental health starts to buckle under the weight of your feelings.”
“Don’t be an arse.” She rapped the table in a manner that suggested it was substituting for my head. “I didn’t mean it like that. Even non-depressed people have a right not be whinged at.”
