Koren Zailckas - The Grip Lit Collection - The Sisters, Mother, Mother and Dark Rooms

I unlock my front door and step into the hallway, which is much smarter than the cluttered communal entrance downstairs. I’m only renting it but the landlord decorated the walls a pale French grey and installed an antique oak effect wooden floor before I moved in. Then Mum promptly turned up and swiftly dressed the place with rugs, throws and framed photographs to make the flat look more ‘homely’, to give the only child she has left a reason to live.

As I hang up my wet coat my heart sinks when I notice my mobile phone on the black veneered sideboard. I pick it up with dread, hoping that I don’t have any missed calls, but there are ten. Ten. I scroll through the list. Most are from Mum but a couple are from Nia too, along with messages asking me to give them a call, their voices laced with barely disguised panic. I’ve only been gone two hours but I know they think I’ve tried to do away with myself. It’s been nearly a year since I ended up in that place – I still can’t bear to think of it – but they still believe I’m unstable, psychologically weak, that I shouldn’t be left on my own for too long. I pull the sleeves of my jumper over my wrists, subconsciously hiding the silvery scars that will never fade.

The flat is steeped in dark shadows although it’s only a little after five. Outside it looks as if a giant dirty grey sheet has been thrown over Bath. I switch a lamp on in the living room, instantly warmed by the bright orange glow, and sink on to the sofa, putting off ringing my parents. I’ll have to do it soon otherwise Dad will speed over here in his acid-green Mazda on the pretence that he’s ‘just passing’ when he actually wants to check that I’m not lying unconscious on my bed surrounded by empty bottles of pills.

My mobile punctuates my thoughts with a tinny rendition of ‘Waterloo Sunset’ by The Kinks and I drop it in shock and watch, bewildered, as it body-pops across the floor. Panic rises. I didn’t catch the name flashing up on my phone. I don’t know who’s calling me. My heart starts to race and I feel the familiar clammy palms, the churning in my stomach, my throat constricting. Calm down, remember your breathing exercises. It must be someone you know. That song means something to you. ‘Waterloo Sunset’ . London. Nia. Of course.

I almost want to laugh in relief. It’s Nia calling. Only Nia. My heart slows and I bend over to pick up my phone. By now the music has stopped and Nia’s name flashes up under missed calls.

‘For Christ’s sake, Abi, you had me worried. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours,’ she snaps when I call her back.

‘I’ve only been gone for two and I forgot my phone.’

‘What have you been doing?’ I detect the thread of doubt in her voice, as though she suspects I’ve been preparing to hang myself in the woods or stick my head in the gas oven. ‘Have you got no work on?’

I suppress a sigh. Work used to be commissioning editor on a glossy magazine. Now it’s the odd bit of freelance when I’m up to it, or usually when I’m running low on cash. I know if I’m not careful I’ll lose all my contacts. I’ve only got a handful of loyal ones left, which isn’t surprising after everything that’s happened over the last year or so.

‘Miranda says there isn’t much work around at the moment,’ I lie. Miranda, my old boss, is one of the loyal ones. I toss the leaflet I’m still holding in the direction of the coffee table; it misses and, weighed down by the rain, sinks to the floor. It’s unreadable now, turned into papier-mâché, but I’ve made a photocopy of it with my retina. I kick off my trainers then put my feet up on to the velvety cushions and stare out of the sash window over the rooftops of Bath, trying to pick out the spire of the Abbey among the mellow brick. The rain abruptly halts and the sun struggles to reveal itself from behind a black cloud.

Her voice softens. ‘Are you okay, Abs? You’re living by yourself now in a place you barely know and …’

‘Mum and Dad live four miles away.’ I force a laugh but the irony isn’t lost on me. I’d been desperate at eighteen to go to university to escape my parents and the small town of Farnham in Surrey where we lived. And now look at me. Nearly thirty years of age and I’ve followed them, like a stalker, to this new city where they’ve come in a bid to try and rebuild their fractured lives. Not much chance of that with me hanging around, reminding them of what they’ve lost.

I can’t bring myself to tell Nia about Beatrice. Not yet. Not after last time. She’ll only worry.

‘I’m honestly fine, Nia. I was walking around Bath and then it began to rain so I went for a coffee. Don’t worry about me. I love it here. Bath’s peaceful.’ Unlike my mind, I add silently.

‘Peaceful?’ she scoffs. ‘I thought it was full of tourists.’

‘Only in the summer. I mean, it’s busy, but not as frenetic as London.’

She falls silent and there it is. All that’s unspoken between us, wrapped up in one word. London. I know she’s thinking about it. How can she not? It’s all I think about when I speak to her. That cramped Victorian terrace that the three of us shared. That last night. Lucy’s final hours.

‘I miss you.’ Her voice sounds small, comfortingly familiar with its soft Welsh lilt. For a second I close my eyes and imagine how my life used to be; the hustle and bustle of London, the job that I had loved, the array of glittering parties and glamorous events thanks to Nia working in fashion PR, Lucy and Luke, Callum …

But looking back before that night is as if I’m looking back at someone else’s life, it’s so different to the one I lead now.

‘I miss you too,’ I squeak, then I force myself to make my voice sound cheerful. ‘How is it, living in Muswell Hill? Anything like Balham?’

‘Different, and yet the same. You know what I mean,’ she sighs. I know exactly what she means. ‘Abs, I’ve got to tell you something. I’ve been worrying about it for ages. I’m still not sure if you should know.’

‘Okay …’ I feel a sense of unease.

‘It’s Callum. He’s been in touch.’

I wait for the panic to descend upon me. But nothing, apart from a slight fluttery sensation behind my belly button. Is that what the antidepressants have done to me? Dulled the sensations, the memory of him? I try to conjure up an image of his six-foot-two-inch frame, his almost-black hair, his heavily lashed blue eyes, those tight jeans and leather jacket. I loved him, I remind myself. But he too is wrapped up in the memories of that night. He’s been sullied for ever, as has everything else.

‘What did he want?’ I’m trying to sound nonchalant but I know Nia won’t be fooled. She’s my best friend and she was there, she knows how much he meant to me.

‘He asked me for your number. He wants to talk.’

‘Shit, Nia,’ I gasp, taking ragged breaths. ‘Did you give it to him? Does he know where I live? If he knows, he’ll tell Luke. You promised me that you wouldn’t tell them where I’ve moved to. You promised.’ My voice is rising as I think of Luke’s face the last time I saw him, frozen in grief as he told me calmly that he would never forgive me for Lucy’s death. His words, along with his detachment, were as painful as the blade I took to my wrists.

‘Abi, calm down,’ she urges. ‘I haven’t told him anything. I don’t even think Callum lives with Luke any more.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp, making an effort to suppress my anxiety, my fear. ‘I can’t speak to him. I can’t. Ever again …’

‘It’s okay, Abi. Don’t worry. I haven’t told him anything about you. I have his number, if you ever decide that you’re ready to speak to him …’ she trails off.