Beth Thomas - Carry You

Abby is peering at me a bit oddly, her eyebrows lifted expectantly. It makes me think I’ve forgotten something else, so I check discreetly from my neck down, but it seems every item of clothing is in place. ‘I’m ready,’ I say, just in case she’s thinking I’m about to go and get some leg warmers on.

‘Don’t you want to, I don’t know, put some make-up on, or something?’ She peers at me from her flawless face and Barbie eyes.

‘Oh.’ I think about that for a moment. She’s obviously worried that I might scare children and old people as I tramp round the neighbourhood, arms swinging, in my baggy, paint-spattered outfit, glowing trainers and pasty face. I shrug. ‘Nah.’

‘Ohhh-kaaay.’ She opens the front door and the whiteness of the outside makes me blink rapidly. Good job I didn’t bother to get all mascara-ed up. ‘Let’s do this,’ she says, in an exaggeratedly dramatic American accent, then ushers me outside like a primary school teacher.

As we walk up the path to the pavement, I accidentally catch a glimpse of the ‘For Sale’ sign that’s still stuck in the front lawn, and quickly avert my eyes. Doesn’t matter how hard I try not to see it, it still punches me in the face every time I walk past. Maybe it’s because it’s bright blue, white and yellow and the size of Mum’s dining table. And now there’s red on it too, of course, with the arrival of the little ‘Sold’ sign that has been slapped on at what no doubt someone thought was a jaunty angle over the original wording. I catch sight of Abby glancing at it, then looking at me, but I’m making no comment. She knows what’s what already.

After we’ve been walking for about seventy-five seconds, we’ve completely filled each other in on what we’ve been doing over the weekend. That is, Abs has told me about the club she was in last night and the sleazy fifty-year-old guy who was there rocking his corduroy trousers and bushy sideburns. Why, I wonder, does brown corduroy appeal only to those over fifty? On second thoughts, why does it appeal to anyone at all, ever? It must be the single most drab, unattractive substance known to man.

She’s glancing at me repeatedly. I mean, more frequently than someone just out for a stroll with someone. It’s as if she’s worried I’m going to spontaneously combust in a minute. ‘What is it?’ I say eventually, after discreetly patting myself down.

‘Well, aren’t you even going to ask about the trainers?’

I glance down at the glowing trainers. ‘Um, yeah,’ I say, nodding vaguely, ‘I was kind of thinking about them. I didn’t even know I had any like these.’

‘No, you haven’t. They’re mine.’

I nod. That explains it then. It did seem a bit weird that I’m pretty much unable to function on any level except the most basic – foraging for chocolate cake, keeping myself sheltered, selecting DVDs – but still managing to buy trainers. ‘Right. I thought it was odd that I’d bought them.’

‘Odd? When you haven’t been out of the house for more than a few minutes for weeks?’

‘Yeah. Exactly.’

‘Daze, how could you have thought they were yours, when you have no memory of buying them?’

‘Um, yeah, that is odd too. I suppose I thought I’d just forgotten buying them.’

Her eyes widen further. ‘Oh dear,’ she says, in exactly the same way as Mrs Matthews did, when I was eight and had a childish accident in the toy cupboard.

‘What does that mean?’

She stops walking, turns to face me and takes both my arms. ‘Daze, come on. You’re in a state. No, don’t shrug, we both know it’s true and we both also know that it does matter, even though you’re trying to convince yourself that it doesn’t. I’m worried about you. Seriously, I am.’

‘Ah, Abs. You don’t need to. I’m fine.’

She nods, exaggeratedly. ‘Oh, yeah, sure you are. Spending days on the sofa? Living on Jaffa Cakes? This whole “trainer” thing, for God’s sake?’

‘The orangey bit makes one of my five a day.’

Her chest jerks with a tiny laugh. ‘No, Daze, it doesn’t. You …’ She stops and shakes her head. ‘You’re … You’re killing yourself.’

‘Oh what crap.’

‘All right, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration. But if you carry on like this, you will get rickets. Or scurvy.’ She pauses. ‘Or you know, zits. At the very least.’

I’m smiling again, making my lips curve up. ‘Zits are the least of my worries, Abs.’

‘I know that, but you need to start somewhere. Your appearance seems like a good place. I’ve been talking to Suzanne on Facebook, and when I told her what’s been going on, she was as worried as I am. And she’s come up with a really good idea. She suggested that …’

Wow, Suzanne Allen. I haven’t heard from her for a while. Suze and I used to work together, years ago when I first left school. It was some kind of terrible call centre, selling pet and home insurance. We had to make disastrous phone call after disastrous phone call, being roundly abused and insulted by virtually everyone. Hard to imagine really how we managed to forge any kind of friendship, as there was absolutely no conversation permitted during call hours. Or tea breaks. Even toilet breaks were closely monitored.

‘… so I’ve signed us up. What do you think?’

Abby looks excited. She’s grinning at me with her whole face, waiting for me to react to something she’s just said. Quickly I cast my mind back a few seconds and try to re-hear whatever it was. Oh, there’s a lovely thick band of daffodils all the way along the grass verge at the side of the road, waving gently in the breeze, their little yellow bells knocking together. Of course, it’s April already. I keep forgetting.

‘Daze?’

‘Yeah, sorry, Abs, I was just thinking about …’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t matter. Can you just say it again, please?’

She stares at me a moment, lips pressed together. Then she says something that completely changes my life. ‘Daze,’ she says, grinning in spite of herself, ‘I’ve signed us up to do a MoonWalk.’

Daisy Mack

is feeling a little perturbed. Is this a good sign?

Lou Stephens Depends what it’s about!

Jenny Martin Can perturbation ever be good?

Suzanne Allen Yes, that is definitely good. Perturb away – it will help.

Daisy Mack Great, thanks Suze. Now I know it’s good to be perturbed, I am less perturbed. Is this a paradox?

Georgia Ling Everything ok hun? xx

Five months ago, my mum died. It was her second outing into breast cancer, and unfortunately it didn’t go as well as the first. But isn’t that always the way with sequels – never as good as the original, are they? Look at Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason . Still a great film, don’t get me wrong. Col and Hugh are still geeky sex gods, they still fight like inept girls and Bridge gets to snog both of them again. But … We’ve seen it before, haven’t we? We know she’s hopeless, and can’t stop smoking and wishes she was thinner. And as much as we love her, in the end we’d have preferred to watch the first film again. It had a much better ending.

I’m watching Love Actually in my silky dressing gown now. Second time today. I’m supposed to be cleaning. Better get on with it, I suppose.

Daisy Mack

Gloves, actually.

Suzanne Allen OK, I’m deciphering that to mean you’re cleaning.

Daisy Mack Wow, you’re good!

Suzanne Allen Elementary. It’s spring so they’re not woollen gloves. You don’t own a motorbike. You don’t like gardening. You don’t work with radioactive material or infectious diseases. Oh, and puppets scare you. Ergo, cleaning. Well done! X