Page 22 of The Promise of Tomorrow
Elena tried not to stare at him. That’s how Rory was broken – his mum must have died relatively young. Elena had dated a therapist once. He told her that his job was to find out what made a client cry and then to get them to talk about it. The things we strove to hide did the most damage, he’d said, like a kind of mental dry rot. She studied Rory more closely, as if he were one of her books that had a misleading cover or title. Up until now, with the bright clothes and boyish smile, he’d been a light-hearted genre, nicely easy to read, with a happy ever after ending – eventually he’d meet someone, settle down and swap parachutes for nappies. But now a darker subplot had emerged. It created an ache inside her chest. She didn’t know why. Rory was only a colleague.
He suggested they order two Boujee Burgers – with satay and hoisin dressing on the side for him. She’d never understand why he enjoyed mixing flavours so randomly. She went to pour herself another glass.
‘Slow down, Elena! I’m not carrying you home.’
She ignored him, having already forgotten her recenthangover. She was owed a few evenings with hazy memories, after so many years of being cautious. Her colleagues often got sloshed on a night out. Gary would break into Salsa moves, Caz would put the world to rights, Derek would talk about his stamp collection and the whole team would get more affectionate. As for Mum and Dad, they’d get silly, duetting their favourite songs by Rick Astley.
Now it was Elena’s turn. She raised her glass to his bemused expression and carried on drinking. They ended up getting a taxi back. Rory helped Elena upstairs and into the bathroom just in time. She threw up into the toilet bowl whilst he rubbed her back. He fetched her a glass of water and took off her shoes and coat, before helping her onto the bed. She lay down and he slipped an extra pillow under her head.
‘Stop fussing, I’m fine,’ she said, throat burning.
‘I’ll remind you of that sentiment tomorrow morning, Ms Swan. Good night. Bacon and eggs, first thing?’
She gagged.Yet, she thought,look at me, no holds barred, doing exactly what I want. She waved two fingers in the air at Rory as he chuckled and departed. Elena was living her best life, she was. Holding that thought, she rushed into the bathroom and once again threw up.
14
RORY
Rory stood by the window, journal in his hand, transfixed by a fox trotting across the lawn in the moonlight. It sat down at the bottom of Elena’s garden and cleaned a paw. A distant car revved its engine and the fox lifted its head. It jumped to its feet again and, at top speed, spun around, snapping playfully at its own tail. A leaf blew in its way and the fox chased it across the grass, as if in flight itself. A few months ago Rory had spotted a hedgehog in Dad’s front garden and the two of them had spent an hour watching it. Of course Rory did a deep dive online and discovered that the average hedgehog had between five and seven thousand spines. His dad had put out a bowl of biscuits he’d bought for Coco, the stray cat Dad had adopted a few years earlier – or rather, Coco had adopted him, and Dad adored her for it. Mike loved his job, had mates at the pub, but there wasn’t that special someone. Coco was the nearest thing he had to a companion – until he met Jenny.
Dad was moving on.
Easier said than done.
Rory closed the curtains. Like the fox, Elena hadn’t a care inthe world this evening. Christ, it was good to see. She’d even kicked the front door shut when they got home, not bothering to lock it. Her behaviour reminded him of Uncle Tony, Dad’s brother. He’d turned forty and got divorced when Rory was fifteen. At the time, Dad had teased Tony about the new haircut, the pierced ear and electric guitar lessons. Yet, in the long run, Dad became so proud of his brother and said it took a lot of guts to dramatically change your life. Uncle Tony had always hated his job in investment banking, but it had already paid off most of his mortgage, despite the cost of his divorce. He’d always dreamed of becoming a roadie and, twelve years later, was doing exactly that. He’d encourage Rory’s dad, Mikey, as he called him, to follow his dreams too. At the time, Rory had asked his dad if he had one. Dad had given a wry smile and said to grow old with Linda was all he’d ever wanted – and to annoy his son for as long as possible. ‘Mission accomplished so far,’ Rory had replied with a smile, and they’d hugged. Dad reassured Rory his life was great as it was. He had food on the table, a roof over his head, and six seasons ofPeaky Blindersin a box set.
Rory was glad Dad had finally managed to move forwards. He’d been dating Jenny for eighteen months now. She’d found the number of his plumbing business online and called him out to fix her low water pressure. Within a month they were seeing each other several times a week. She was good for him, and a massive cat person, which sealed the deal. Dad started to finish work early, bought a new wardrobe and the balance shifted towards him focusing more on the future, rather than simply the day to day.
Thirty could be an exciting age for Elena. Clearly she was on a road of discovery. Perhaps she’d give up the office job and go travelling, having never been abroad before. Unlike his friends, who’d moaned about turning twenty-five, Rory had alwaysembraced his big birthdays – sixteen, eighteen and twenty-one as well. Losing Mum had taught him at an early age that there were worse alternatives to growing old.
He clambered into bed and leant against the headboard. After pulling the duvet over his legs, Rory scrolled on his phone for a while before brandishing his pen.
Thursday 28th November
84 miles an hour, to be exact, on the moterway to work this morning… I mean motorway. My spelling might be off. Gotta admit I’m almost seeing double after trying to match Elena’s number of wine glasses. Wouldn’t normally comment on a bit of speeding, but this is Elena! Yo, to the new rule-breaker!
15 minutes treadmill, 4 sets of plate squats, 30 seconds of sit ups and then reverse lunges, bicycle crunches too. 1 smug look from experienced Gary, sailing through. Bastard!
5 coffees.
2 donuts that hit so many pleasure spots they, weirdly, made me realise I haven’t had sex for a while. Like for a loooong time. Yet actually, if I’m honest, I don’t want to play the dating game any more, unless it’s with someone who’s more than casual, who’s the vinegar to my gherkin (told you I was a little wasted).
1 revelation from me, about my mum – i.e. telling Elena exactly where she is in Stockport. School taught me that hiding the truth was better. Once other people knew, they shot me piteous looks and asked me how I was doing every time they saw me. I just wanted to get on with my life. But excuse me, now, whilst I shed fucking tears – not because of the booze, but because tomorrow it’s exactly 25 years since Mum passed. A whole 1/4 of a century. She would have been 53this year. It always hits me the night before because Dad says that’s when he finally accepted, for sure, Mum wouldn’t survive, even though she’d been in the hospice for a while. It’s when they said goodbye to each other, before she lost all strength and couldn’t talk any longer. When I was in my teens, I asked him to tell me about the last moments. I wanted all the details. They didn’t talk about the future and plans she’d dreamt of, to go backpacking around the world when I was old enough. She was something of an adventurer, and had loved the road trip movie Thelma and Louise that came out in her early 20s. Instead, their conversation was about me. He sang Mum’s favourite song as she passed – ‘Take A Bow’ by Madonna. In her opinion, the most romantic song in the world. It had been played as their dance at their wedding. It was 1999, 3 years later, when their happy union was ripped apart. By a mere ripple in time, she missed seeing the new Millennium and everything it brought with it – me growing up, Dad’s plumbing business really taking off, the introduction of mobile phones, Facebook, and AI. She didn’t get to know cultural references, from the Twin Towers to Tiger King. When he got home from the hospice, Dad apparently told 2-year-old me that she’d gone to heaven, a place where the trees were made of chocolate and the rivers of honey. I’m still angry at the injustice, at the reason she died. The pain never lessens. I’m 28 next year, which is great, bring it on. But at the same time, fuck, that’s shit, because this time next year I’ll be older than she was when she left. *Sigh*. Sorry, Mum, if you’re reading this. Booze brings out the youngest, most scared, most sweary part of me and that huge void that filled me at the school gates when other mums were hugging their kids hello or goodbye; the fear that I’d never, ever see you again – or go to heaven. Have toadmit, part of that concern was because I wanted to swim in honey.
3 ferocious glares from a taxi driver that told me there’d be a huge price to pay if Elena redesigned his upholstery with the contents of her stomach.
10 minutes of Elena retching into the toilet bowl, which sounded like Uncle Tony singing his heroes’ rock music.
1 long grin from me over a declaration Elena made tonight. Wonder if she’ll remember it.
2 foxes and 3 fun facts, retrieved from my phone a few moments ago – they are the only breed of dog that retracts its claws like cats; they can hear a watch ticking 36 metres away; they run up to 30 miles an hour.
Time: 1:45am. Sleep now, with 1 eye open, in case Elena is ill again.
15
ELENA
