Jules Wake - Peony Place

‘But I just need you to tell the team that I—’

‘Claire. You are signed off. I’m telling you, you’re not my boss at the moment. So I get to boss you around. And I’m telling you: clear your head. Work will carry on, just fine. I’m going to miss you but you have to give yourself some time.’

‘But there’s nothing—’

‘I’m no doctor but even I could tell you haven’t been right these past months.’

‘What? That’s rubbish.’ Even as I said it, I could feel a slight trembling of my hands.

‘Claire. You’ve been running on empty for a long time. Now, make the most of this time. Learn to dance, enjoy the sunshine, and smell the flowers. Do the things you enjoy instead of being cooped up in this stuffy place. It’s just a job, honey.’

I reached for the cobweb and noticed my hands really were shaking. Do things I enjoy? What things? I enjoyed work. I wanted to be there.

It had never ever been just a job . I was a career woman. On track to make partner.

My stomach lurched with the horror of realisation.

They wouldn’t give a partnership to someone who’d been signed off with stress. My career was toast. And my kitchen was a mess. Just look at the state of it. I couldn’t even manage to get that straight, so how the hell could I hope to salvage my career?

The panic that, like a malignant shadow, had been dogging me all morning with the frantic cleaning, suddenly engulfed me. My throat closed up and my breath stuttered in my chest.

I put my head down on the kitchen table and wept.

The bout of crying left me feeling worn out and lethargic, too tired to do more than raise my head from the table and glare around at the kitchen with all the half-finished jobs. I was as wobbly as a new-born giraffe and didn’t trust my legs to stand up yet.

For the first time, it occurred to me that perhaps Dr Boulter had a point and that I should think about taking better care of myself. I was clearly run-down. I scowled at the tatty kitchen floor which looked no better for my manic scrubbing and the hideous red and orange wallpaper on the ‘feature’ wall. This was supposed to be my grown-up, Instagram-perfect, I’ve-made-it home. It was laughable; I couldn’t even get my house straight let alone do my job. An epic fail on both counts.

Oh God, I had to sort myself out. Prove to them back at work that I was fine. Dr Boulter might be right about my need to be healthier but he was wrong about the stress. I snatched up the BBC Good Food Magazine . In the next three weeks, I was going to cook. Proper nutritious meals. Get myself back on track. Proper exercise, proper meals, just like the doctor had ordered. But would it help?

I didn’t know any of the mums in the playground and felt just as self-conscious waiting outside Ava’s classroom as I had that morning. Poppy, apparently, was old enough to be released into the wild by herself and was allowed to come and find me. Alice had had to give approval for me to collect the girls and this morning yesterday I’d had to check in with the teacher, Miss Parr – a smiley, fresh-faced girl of at least twelve – whom Ava clearly adored.

Keeping my head down, I focused on my phone to avoid the other mums’ speculative looks. Had Alice told them what had happened? I was embarrassed that they might know about my health issues and that I wasn’t currently working.

I’d managed to fill the rest of my day by doing some cooking and tidying up the bedroom Ava and Poppy were sharing. Neither were thrilled about having to share the big double bed, and I didn’t blame them, but I hadn’t got around to furnishing the third or fourth bedrooms since moving from my two-bedroom flat in Headingly. Ava’s rumpled side of the bed had looked as if rampaging squirrels had run amok in her sheets overnight, scattering the pile of soft toys she’d insisted she had to bring. Nine in all, each of which had a name and a reason as to why it had to accompany her. And at bedtime, every last one had to be given a goodnight kiss and cuddle before Ava would climb into bed. In contrast, Poppy hopped straight in and opened up her book. She was currently reading something called Skulduggery Pleasant with a slightly macabre front cover. On her side of the bed, the covers had been neatly pulled up and her pyjamas were folded on top of the pillow. Ava’s PJ bottoms hung from the shade on the bedside light and the top dangled from the bed post at the end of the bed.

After bringing order to Ava’s side of the room, I’d been relieved to find that it was nearly three and time to collect the girls and that somehow I’d managed to fill my first non-working day.

When Ava’s teacher, Miss Parr, beckoned me over with a stern expression, I immediately began to worry that I’d forgotten something this morning.

She gave me a tight smile. ‘It would be really good if you could do some reading with Ava this evening. We do encourage children to read every day, if possible.’

I glanced down at Ava at her side and winced. Ava’s hair was an astonishing bird’s nest that had long-ago escaped from this morning’s plaits. Clearly, I also needed to do better on the hairdressing front. ‘And if you could practise spellings with her too, well…’ She paused and gave me one of those non smiles that contained a definite touch of admonishment, ‘that would really help her.’

‘Of course,’ I said a little too eagerly, wanting to be the perfect mother-substitute in Alice’s absence. Ava’s hand snuck into mine and I remembered her tears and her woeful cry that she was always bottom.

It was something I had intended to ask Alice about when she called but my sister hadn’t been in touch at all since she’d left last Friday which made me feel faintly uneasy. I had to remind myself that this was typical Alice. Trying to curb my irritation, I decided to send her a chatty text telling her the girls were great and suggesting that she video-chatted with them this evening.

Surely they had Wi-Fi at the retreat? Even Mum had sent an email from the middle of the ocean. She was thrilled that Alice had managed to get a holiday and I got kudos for being such a good sister.

‘Did you bring a snack?’ asked Ava as we crossed the playground, Poppy skipping towards us.

‘No but you can have something when we get in.’

‘But I’m starving,’ she wailed. ‘Can we get some sweeties from the shop?’

‘Why don’t you wait until we get home? I’ve bought some nice grapes and bananas.’

A pout appeared on her face. ‘Hello Poppy,’ I turned with relief to my elder niece.

‘Hello, Auntie Claire. I’ve got a letter about a school trip. Can I go?’

‘I got letters too,’ announced Ava, lifting her plump arm and waving her book bag at me.

‘Let’s get home and then we can look at the letters,’ I said with a sudden surge of pleasure at being needed and having something to do. Letters I could do. This was something I could deal with and be efficient-Claire again. The Claire I was at work. ‘And who likes spaghetti Bolognese?’

‘Me, me,’ cried Ava dancing around my feet.

‘My favourite,’ said Poppy with quieter enthusiasm. ‘Did you make it or is it a packet one? You know they’re full of trans-fatty acids.’ Her small pink mouth pursed in disapproval.

‘I made it,’ I said. ‘Well, the sauce.’