Come to mine after?

Maybe later in the week. I’ll call you.

It was the ‘maybe’ that did it. There was something final in it, the slow closing of a door. I stared at my phone as the commuters swarmed around me and something in me shifted too. Either I could go home and mourn yet another thing I had lost, or I could embrace an unexpected freedom. It was as if a light had gone on: the only way to avoid being left behind was to start moving.

I went home, made myself a coffee and stared at the green wall. Then I pulled out my laptop.

Dear Mr Gopnik,

My name is Louisa Clark and last month you were kind enough to offer me a job, which I had to turn down. I appreciate that you will have filled your position by now, but if I don’t say this I will regret it for ever.

I really wanted your job. If the child of my former employer hadn’t turned up in trouble, I would have taken it like a shot. I do not want to blame her for my decision, as it was a privilege to help sort things out for her. But I just wanted to say that if you ever need someone again I really hope you might consider getting in touch.

I know you are a busy man so I won’t go on, but I just needed you to know.

With best wishes

Louisa Clark

I wasn’t sure what I was doing but at least I was doing something. I pressed send, and with that tiny action, I was suddenly filled with purpose. I raced into the bathroom and ran the shower, stripping off my clothes and tripping on my trouser legs in my hurry to get out of them and under the hot water. I began to lather my hair, already planning ahead. I was going to go to the ambulance station, and I was going to find Sam and I was –

The doorbell rang. I swore and grabbed a towel.

‘I’ve had it,’ my mother said.

It took me a moment to register that it was actually her standing there, holding an overnight bag. I pulled my towel around me, my hair dripping onto the carpet. ‘Had what?’

She stepped in, closing the front door behind her. ‘Your father. Grumbling incessantly at me about everything I do. Acting as if I’m some kind of harlot just for wanting a little time to myself. So I told him I was coming here for a little break.’

‘A break?’

‘Louisa, you have no idea. All the mumping and grumping. I can’t stay set in stone, you know? Everyone else gets to change. Why can’t I?’

It was as if I’d come halfway into a conversation that had been going on for an hour. Possibly in a bar. After hours.

‘When I started that feminist consciousness course, I thought a fair bit of it was exaggerated. Man’s patriarchal control of woman? Even the unconscious kind? Well, they only had the half of it. Your father simply can’t see me as a person beyond what I put on the table or put out in bed.’

‘Uh –’

‘Oh. Too much?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Let’s discuss it over some tea.’ My mother walked past me and into the kitchen. ‘Well, this looks a bit better. I’m still not sure about that green, though. It washes you right out. Now, where are your teabags?’

My mother sat on the sofa and, as her tea grew cold, I listened to her litany of frustration and tried not to think about the time. Sam would be arriving for his shift in half an hour. It would take twenty minutes to get over to the ambulance station. And then my mother’s voice would lift and her hands would end up somewhere around her ears and I knew I was going nowhere.

‘Do you know how stifling it is to be told you’re never going to be able to change? For the rest of your life? Because nobody else wants you to? Do you know how awful it is to feel stuck?’

I nodded vigorously. I did. I really did. ‘I’m sure Dad doesn’t mean for you to feel like that – but listen, I –’

‘I even suggested he take a course at the night school. Something he might like – you know, repairing antiques or life drawing or something. I don’t mind him looking at the nudies! I thought we could grow together! That’s the kind of wife I’m trying to be, the kind that doesn’t even mind her husband looking at nudies, if it’s in the name of culture … But he’s all “What would I want to go down there for?” It’s like he’s got the ruddy menopause. And as for the rabbiting on about me not shaving my legs! Oh, my days. He’s so hypocritical. Do you know how long the hairs in his nostrils are, Louisa?’

‘N-no.’

‘I’ll tell you! He could wipe his plate with them. For the last fifteen years, I’ve been the one telling the barber to give him a trim up there, you know? Like he’s some kind of child. Do I mind? No! Because that’s the way he is. He’s a human being! Nose hair and all! But if I dare not to be as smooth as a ruddy baby’s bottom he acts like I’ve turned into flipping Chewbacca!’

It was ten minutes to six. Sam would be heading out at half past. I sighed, and pulled my towel around me.

‘So … um … how long do you think you’ll be here?’

‘Well, now, I don’t know.’ Mum took a sip of her tea. ‘We’ve got the social services bringing Granddad his lunch now so it’s not like I’ve got to be there all the time. I might just stay for a few days. We had a lovely time last time I was here, didn’t we? We could go and see Maria in the toilets tomorrow. Wouldn’t that be nice!’