The End is Where We Begin by Maria Goodin (open ebook .txt) 📕

“Thanks. I’ve called. I’ve… I’ve told them he’ll be late.”

“Again.”

I ignored her and opened the front door, desperate for them to be gone.

“You gonna see a doctor today?”

“I’m fine, it’ll pass,” I told her quickly.

“Jay, for God’s sake—”

“I don’t have time!” I managed to spit out, wondering when the hell I was meant to get to a doctor. What was I meant to do? Take time off the job I was already barely hanging onto by the skin on my teeth?

“Make time!”

“I’m late for work.”

“Yeah, me too!” she shouted, gesturing to the smart suit she wore behind the hotel reception. I couldn’t imagine how she had conned any interviewer into thinking she had good customer service skills.

“I’m sorry,” I sighed, running my hands over my head. The bristles still surprised me.

“And what the hell happened to your hair?”

“I rubbed glue in Daddy’s hair and he had to shave it all off!” beamed Josh with delight.

“You need to get some help with this,” Laura told me, sternly.

“I don’t need help—”

“What’s the matter with you?! Why is it such a struggle for you to ever ask for help?!”

“I did! I asked you for help!”

“Not me! Not just someone who can take Josh to school! I mean medical help! From a fucking doctor! Whoops, sorry—”

“Auntie Laura said fucking.”

“And I shouldn’t have done that, Josh, so just ignore me. It’s just your daddy drives me effing mad sometimes and I don’t know why he has to be so effing stubborn all the time and why he can’t just get the effing help he needs!”

“I’m fine,” I growled.

“You know what you are?” Laura hissed. “A martyr. You would rather suffer than seek help because you get some kind of perverse pleasure from your own suffering.”

“Yeah, I love it,” I wheezed, bundling them out into the hallway.

“Bye, Daddy!” Josh called over his shoulder. Laura held his hand down the stairs, shaking her head angrily.

I closed the front door and slumped down on the sofa. For a moment I monitored my breathing, unsure whether this thing was going to take hold or not. It could go either way. Was it leaving, freeing me from the threat of its clutch?

If I left for work now I wouldn’t be too late. I needed to get paid in full this month. No deductions for poor timekeeping or missed hours.

I’d be fine. It would pass. It always did.

I grabbed my jacket, trying to ignore the band that was tightening around my chest.

I didn’t need help. I didn’t want help. I just wanted to get to work.

Chapter 17

Truth

Given the enormity of the situation with Hellie, I shouldn’t even be thinking about Libby, but as I head through the crowded streets of Covent Garden that’s exactly what I’m doing.

The morning after we watched Tyler and Theo play at the Canal House – when she showed me her attic room and I fled like an awkward schoolboy – Josh and I turned up to help her paint the wall again. Following a brief demonstration in how to slap on and roughly blend two tones of blue paint, Josh once again plugged his headphones in and took himself off to the far end of the terrace, leaving me and Libby together. But it was clear something had shifted between us. It felt like I’d overstepped a boundary the night before, mentioning the constellations, reminding us both of that private time on the boat. If I ever wondered whether she remembered that evening, there was no room for doubt now. It sat between us like an unspoken intimacy that we were both shuffling around, trying to avoid disturbing any further. Instead, she talked about Will a lot, supplying tedious details about his career, his family, his plans for the future. I told her (probably equally tedious) details about Josh’s schooling, his GCSEs, his lack of plans for the future. It was all excruciatingly polite and, most importantly, neutral. The situation’s been playing on my mind ever since, keeping me awake at night, making me feel agitated and confused.

I could entirely do without today, but there’s no turning back now.

* * *

I’m struck how much she’s changed since I last saw her. She looks thinner, her hair’s a bit longer and darker, and she’s wearing glasses. I watch her for a moment through the café window. She’s peering thoughtfully into her coffee, chewing her bottom lip, checking her watch anxiously.

I weave my way through the customers queuing for their drinks and in between the busy tables. Chatter mingles with the bang and hiss of the coffee machine and the clatter of cups and saucers. I feel hot and claustrophobic before I even reach her table.

She looks up and I see her eyes travelling the length of me, sizing me up. She stands and takes a couple of steps forwards. Hesitantly, she reaches out and places her hands on my upper arms. When I don’t stoop towards her, she stands on tiptoe to plant a brief kiss on my cheek.

“It’s lovely to see you,” she smiles awkwardly.

I stand rigid, angry at her for tearing me away from more pressing matters at home, angry at her for so many things.

But then, as always, I soften.

“Good to see you too, Mum.”

We meet once, maybe twice, a year. The conversation is always slightly stilted and awkward, and it pains me to remember the closeness we once shared. I think it pains her, too. But at least we talk. Laura – more stubborn and less forgiving – hasn’t spoken to her in years.

With time, I’ve learned more about her relationship with Jack, and it’s helped me view her leaving with a maturity I wasn’t capable of at the time. I understand that Jack was the love of her life, and that they were together, on and off, throughout most of their twenties. He was spontaneous, creative and carefree. He made her feel alive. But he had no interest in ever