I remember that time in my twenties, burned out and broken by my time at Beatnik, Bump in the Night, the wrap party. For months after that night at the vicarage, I was in lockdown, long before it was a thing. Although I was getting up and going to work, just about, I wasn’t really there at all, just going through the motions, waiting to be let out again. After declining so many invitations they fell away, I would just go home to my basement flat and shiver in bed, afraid to go to sleep because of the nightmares, afraid to be awake because my mind would dwell on the what ifs, backwards and forwards, over and over again until I wasn’t sure if anything was real and maybe the whole thing was a dream.
Banishing bad things as a figment of my imagination was the solution, it turned out, the same way I would if I caught sight of a ghostly figure in an empty room. Shake your head, snap out of it, it doesn’t exist, wasn’t there. Some people choose to believe; I chose not to. So I dragged myself out of bed, put one foot in front of the other, and let myself out again. And it was OK. Having dealt with her letchy vicar, Susie found a job for me on Songs of Praise, and I found God. Well, I didn’t, really, but it felt like I’d gone from Hades to somewhere lighter and purer. I was going up in the world, professionally, spiritually and also physically. Thanks to Susie and my credits, I was now an assistant producer, finally leaving the paranormal behind, and thanks to my pregnant friend Laura, I was able to move into the ground-floor flat she’d just vacated in Herne Hill, which had a very sweet and absent-minded landlord who hadn’t got round to putting up the rent.
It wasn’t happily ever after, by any means. The flat was still punishingly expensive, my promotion meant harder work and more responsibility, and I remained an emotional wreck. But working on Songs of Praise, I was asked to write a treatment for a show about Richard Madeley embracing his own spirituality and becoming a monk, and then the BBC gave us development money, and I booked a train to Northallerton to recce a ruined priory and there met a lovely young lawyer with an interest in relics, and an even bigger interest in me. I may not have found God, but I did find a husband, my perfect match, the one who could restore the balance. One thing leads to another, and everything happens for a reason.
29
I’m starting to wonder if I should take Vince up on his offer of a massage at Babington House. My bag is so full that it’s really dragging and I might end up with a rotator cuff injury. In addition to my unread Blind Assassin, it’s now Bigwig’s carry-case, and also the repository for my latest acquisition, the golden finger. My bag is huge, one of those Mary Poppins holdalls for all the bumf that, as a woman, you’re obliged to carry. Not just your own stuff, like tampons and lip balm, but items for others – tissues for snotty children, plasters, snacks, water bottles, sun cream, chargers and sunglasses for Robbie, because he always forgets them. I got rid of most of the crap to fit the rabbit in, but despite the bag’s commodiousness, it’s straining at the seams, and so is my shoulder.
I’m also feeling quite light-headed, since I’ve had a skinful this afternoon on very little food, so I decide to pick up something tasty and take it to the green. In a café nearby, I find a dainty selection of gateaux and buy a maple pecan slice, and a coffee to sober me up. I even get an apple for the rabbit. The park is fairly busy with the post-work crowd, but I find a tranquil corner under a tree to have my picnic, settling on the grass and spreading out my spread. Bigwig presents a problem initially – it feels unfair to leave him in my bag, but I don’t want him hopping off to find a new warren and fight General Woundwort. I decide to let him out, and keep a close eye on him – in the event, there’s no need, because as soon as I put him down next to me, he ignores the apple, stretches out and falls asleep. He really is the world’s most bone-idle bunny. I’m starting to get quite fond of him.
At nearly six o’clock, the punishing heat of the day has subsided, and it’s pleasantly warm sitting there, scoffing my treat, sipping my drink and contemplating world domination. Having spent the day flexing my new superpowers, I figure I’m ready for what lies ahead. A plan is coming together, the pieces steadily slotting into place to form a revelatory scene. It will require nerves of steel and lashings of audacity to pull it off, but I don’t think I have a choice. When I first saw the name on Imogen’s list, I thought I could ignore it, run away, like I have done for years, but gradually it’s become clear that the ghosts are gathering, pointing, showing me the way. Yet I have the sense – maybe a sixth sense – that when it’s over, I’ll have the moment of peace I’ve been craving.
I suppose I should tell Robbie I won’t be coming home till late tonight, even though he’ll be working late anyway, as he always does. There’ll be no one to make the twins’ supper; unlike five-year-old Clover, they don’t know one end of a wooden spoon from the other and will undoubtedly resort to Deliveroo for their dinner, but that doesn’t matter. Some things matter, but not that. I have always sweated the small stuff, and now I see I used it as a distraction to stop me seeing the bigger picture. Like being in a field with a raging bull, and worrying about nettle stings.
Munching my pecan slice, I call my husband. ‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Hello, what are you eating?’
‘Carrot sticks.’
‘Is that why you’re calling? To boast?’
I snigger. ‘No, just to tell you I’m going to that wrap party tonight after all.’
He sighs. ‘You didn’t want to go. Did Vince reel you in?’
No, I saw an email that changed everything, turned the world upside down, sparked a revolution. ‘Something like that. You know how it is.’
‘You can say no, you know.’
That was always the trouble. I never could. ‘What will you do for dinner?’
‘I’ll rustle something up.’
‘Takeaway?’
‘How dare you? Yes. Enjoy your carrot sticks.’
I lie back on the grass with shortbread crumbs on my lips, staring at the sky; an abiding, deepening sapphire, fringed with horse chestnut branches that stretch out across my vision in their network of ever-narrowing boughs. There are the sounds of summer – children shouting; aeroplanes overhead, filling the skies again; a mower in the distance, rumbling away, seagulls crying as they soar over the gorge. I close my eyes and just listen, my senses tapering like the tree, until it’s just the music of city life, weaving together in a gentle counterpoint to carry me through this moment of repose.
‘Excuse me. I said, excuse me.’
Opening one eye, I realize there’s a woman leaning over me. Since I’m looking up into the sun, her features are indistinct, but when I raise myself onto my elbows, I see she’s tall and lean, sporting leisurewear and carrying a rolled-up foam mat. Her thick blonde hair is piled into a careless topknot and everything about her screams ‘natural beauty’.
I squint, with one hand shading my face. ‘Yes?’
‘Would you mind moving? This is our area.’ Smiling, she gestures to the patch of grass I’m lying on.
‘Whose area?’
‘Christchurch Yoga Group. We’re here every week.’ She points to a group of women standing behind her, also with mats, all staring at me like I’ve just defecated on one of the park benches. A couple nearby who were lounging on a blanket hastily get to their feet, bundling it up and hurrying away, ushered by another woman who’s wearing a tank top that says ‘BELIEVE, ACHIEVE’.
‘Oh, do you book the space?’
Blondie laughs as if I’ve just said something hilarious. ‘Bless you! There’s no booking system, as such, but we’re always here and it’s become our special place. You’re welcome to join us, if you’d like. If you think you could keep up?’ She tilts her head, eyeing my thighs sympathetically.
‘No, thank you, I’ll just sit here with my rabbit.’
‘Well, you can’t really sit here while we do the class?’ She says it like she’s coochy-cooing a child.
I lie back, arranging Bigwig in the crook of my arm. ‘Don’t mind me, I won’t get in your way.’ Closing my eyes again, I try to tune back into the buzz – the laughter, the planes, the seagulls, the mower melody.
‘Ahem.’ Blondie is clearing her throat and, when I sit up, she’s put down her mat and folded her arms. I take it that’s not a yoga pose, more a declaration of intent. Bless her, she has no idea. ‘I’m afraid you are in our way. You can’t stay there while we’re doing the class.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s our space.’ The other women – five of them – have now flanked her, all of them adopting combative stances in their leggings.
‘It’s a public amenity, open to everyone. I was here first, but I’m willing to share. You go ahead.’
Blondie is now wearing the fixed, stunned expression of a medieval queen who’s been spat at by a serf. ‘You don’t understand,’ she says. ‘We’re here every week.’
I shrug. ‘And I’m here today.’ Today is my day, and no Nimby Namaste is going to shift me.
There are scandalized mutterings from the henchwomen as Blondie bends towards me, smiling broadly. Up close, it’s obvious that her lustrous lashes are false.
‘Let me make myself clear,’ she murmurs. ‘You are going to pick up that monstrous sack of yours, and that creature, and you are going to take yourself off somewhere else, far away, and leave us to our important business.’
