Jules Wake - Peony Place

‘Claire?’ he asked again gently as I struggled to stem the rising flood of tears. Shit, this was embarrassing. But it was no good. They were on a roll, and I knew I’d lost it when the sob burst free.

Suddenly I was in floods of tears and I had no idea why, and he was handing over tissues from the box on his desk. Snuffly and snotty, I grabbed them like a life belt but as fast as I mopped up, a fresh burst of sobs thrust their way out

Finally I was able to stutter, ‘Oh God, I’m… I don’t know w-what’s w-wrong with m-me.’

He gave me a kind but stern look. ‘Want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘It’s… nothing. Just… ev-everything. Just a lot on at work. It’s quite full-on at the moment.’ I found myself taking the step off the cliff. ‘I’ve got this horrible feeling that something bad is going to happen all the time and I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

‘Last night?’

I pulled a face as I acknowledged the truth. ‘Well, actually, I haven’t slept properly for weeks. I’m just so tired.’ Since missing my deadline, my confidence seemed to have crumbled. My anxiety levels were through the roof and I didn’t seem to be able to get them under control. Making the slightest decision at work suddenly had me tied up in knots. It terrified me. I’d always known what to do.

‘Are you eating properly?’ He eyed my face and I knew he was taking in the dark shadows under my eyes and the gaunt hollows under my cheekbones.

The gallic shrug didn’t fool him.

Five minutes later, while I was still feeling light-headed from the aftermath of the emotional outburst, he weighed me, took my blood pressure, shone a light in my eyes and asked lots of searching questions, especially about work.

After releasing the cuff on my arm, he sat heavily in his chair and pulled the lid from his fountain pen, holding it poised over a white pad he’d pulled out from the top drawer of his desk.

‘I think you’re suffering from stress, Claire. Your blood pressure is 180/100.’

I shrugged. ‘Everyone gets stressed at work. It’s okay, I just need to catch up on some sleep.’

‘No, Claire.’ Now Dr Boulter was brusque and curt. ‘You need to take a complete break.’

I laughed defensively. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve got far too much to do.’

He studied me through narrowed eyes and then began writing on the pad. ‘I’m going to sign you off from work for a month and give you some medication to reduce your blood pressure.’

‘What? No. I’m… I’m not that stressed. I mean, I’m a bit on edge and over-tired.’

He sat back in his chair, lifted his chin and then pointed to the framed certificate on the wall. ‘Do you have one of those?’

‘No.’

‘Exactly, so please extend me the professional courtesy of knowing what I’m talking about. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job.’ His serious tones shocked me. I’d never heard him speak like that before.

I stared at him for a moment before finding the words and it was only fear that gave them a voice.

‘But a month? That’s a long time. I can’t be off for a month. Can’t I just have the medication for my blood pressure? I’ll try to take it a bit easier.’

Didn’t he understand that if I took a month off my career could be over? People at my level didn’t take time off for stress.

‘If I believed you for a minute, I might consider it. This has been a long time coming, Claire. The last time you came to see me, I gave you the benefit of the doubt because you said it had been a particularly busy month. I can’t overlook it again. You need to look at your whole lifestyle. Start eating properly. Taking more exercise. And in the short term taking some time away from work.’

‘But—’

He held up a hand. ‘If I said you had a broken leg and couldn’t walk on it for a month, what would you do?’

I stared mutinously at him.

‘Your mind needs a rest. The work will be still be there. In fact, you need to talk to your HR people about your workload. You’ve said yourself that the department is a person down. They need to sort that out.’

Well of course they did, but complaining about such things was below my paygrade. I was the capable, efficient one. People like me did not get signed off with stress.

Apparently I was wrong. They did. Starting with immediate effect.

Feeling as if I was having an out of body experience, I left the doctor’s surgery and went home via the post office, standing for a full five minutes in front of the post box before I finally committed the toxic sick note to its open mouth so that it could wing its way to the HR department. Then I had to make the embarrassing phone call to my boss, Alastair, during which I had to admit the shameful truth. Me, Claire Harrison, rising star, had been mown down by stress. It was all I could do not to cry down the phone. He was surprisingly sympathetic and actually said he’d been a little worried about me and to take as much time off as I felt I needed since I was a valued member of staff. A small part of me wanted to say, ‘so why the bloody hell haven’t you done more about recruiting the missing body,’ but it wasn’t the sort of thing you said to your boss, no matter how understanding he sounded.

And now I was left, swollen eyed and lost, wondering what on earth I was going to do with myself. I couldn’t even phone Mum and invite myself into one of her soothing hugs because she was presently bobbing on a large boat probably somewhere in the Atlantic. She and Dad had left Southampton over a week ago.

‘Claire?’ The voice made me lift my head. I realised I must have looked a right idiot standing in the middle of the street, my mobile in my hand, with a vacant expression on my face. ‘Claire? What are you doing?’

My sister peered suspiciously at me. ‘Shouldn’t you be at work? Greasing the wheels of industry and making sackfuls of money?’

‘I’ve been to the doctor.’ Already I felt as if I was skiving.

‘Oh God, you’re not ill, are you?’ She peered at my saggy, red eyes. ‘Is it serious?’

And once again, completely against my control, tears flowed like tea from a leaky teapot.

‘It’s not cancer, is it?’

How like Alice to immediately jump to the worst conclusion.

‘No. I’ve…’ I could hardly bring myself to say it. In fact, she was the last person I wanted to admit it to. Our relationship was such that she’d probably say it was karma or something but I didn’t have the wherewithal to lie; I felt too battered, as if I’d just been rescued from a shipwreck. All that crying, probably, and so I said it: ‘I’ve been signed off with stress.’

‘Oh,’ she said with a slight air of disappointment as if to say, is that all? . Then her eyes brightened with sudden beady avarice. ‘Do you want to go to The Friendly Bean for a coffee?’

Even as listless and drained as I felt, like the last lone piece of spaghetti abandoned in the pan, some small part of my brain thought, that’s odd. Her response was quite un-Alice-like but I allowed myself to be steered down the street and across the road into the park, perhaps because I didn’t know what else to do.

The Friendly Bean, though it was situated in the middle of Victoria Park, was the place to go in Churchstone. It was a funky café run by Sascha, a statuesque young woman with wild, thick blonde curls piled up on top of her head, secured by a succession of paisley scarves that changed with the seasons. The old Victorian pavilion was eclectically furnished with a mix of church pews, softened by plump velvet cushions, old-fashioned school desks, stools made from tractor seats which were more comfortable than they appeared, and worn sofas that welcomed you into their lumpy embrace. It was always teeming with customers. This morning was no exception but Alice made a beeline for an empty corner with a battered leather chesterfield armchair and a padded stool, plumping for the armchair and calling over her shoulder, ‘Mine’s a cappuccino.’