Forever Yours by Debbie Johnson

Author:Debbie Johnson [Johnson, Debbie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Orion

Chapter 15

I have just dropped Margie back home when the message from Erin lands on my phone.

I am tired, and feeling grey and washed out despite my best efforts. I think Margie enjoyed our trip, to an elegant café near the cathedral, where we ate cake and admired the waiters and watched the beautiful people go by.

It was hard, though, to stay chatty and cheerful when all I really wanted to do was retreat beneath my duvet and cry.

Walking back into my flat, that is exactly what I hope to do when I hear the ping. I have already had a message from Karim, checked in and told him I am fine, that I will see him tomorrow. I want the whole world to leave me alone now, but it seems insistent on snapping at my heels.

Come to ours at 7 p.m., the message says, and wear comfortable shoes.

I sit down and hold my face in my hands. It is not far from seven now, and the very last thing I want to do is see more people. I have reached the upper limits of my ability to socially interact, and I give at least a few moments’ thought to ignoring it, or replying saying I can’t come.

I take a deep breath, remind myself that this morning I was determined to make changes. To evolve, to move on. I can’t give up at the first hurdle – and I owe it to Erin and Katie to try harder, be better, to at least attempt to make things right, for all kinds of reasons.

I take off my going-to-town shoes, and slip on my socks and trainers. I have no idea what they have planned for me, and am too exhausted to even try and guess. I suppose I will simply have to take my medicine, and hope it doesn’t kill me.

I drive to their little terraced house, even though it would only have taken fifteen minutes, if I’d walked. I need to feel safe, cocooned, and a few minutes in my car gives me that. I park nearby, glancing over at the lavender pots, and force myself up and out.

I knock on the door at exactly seven, and Katie answers. I don’t know what I expect to feel when I see her again, but embarrassed and humiliated pretty much covers it. I feel very much like the child, and she seems very much like the grown-up, standing in the doorway smiling at me.

She is wearing black leggings, a black top, and a hot-pink tutu. I have no idea why, but it works.

‘Come in, miss,’ she says, ushering me into the hallway, ‘and don’t look so scared. It’ll all be OK.’

She is comforting me, and I am grateful. She might not be my biological daughter, but she is still a fine and admirable young woman.

Inside the living room, the clutter has been cleared, the sofas have been pushed back to the walls, and a large space created in the middle of the room.

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