Читать книгу My Pear-Shaped Life - Carmel Harrington - Страница 14

‘I’ve put the good stuff in.’ Upstairs in the bathroom, Emily held up her Jo Malone birthday gift set to Greta. She had also put tea-light candles onto every available surface, which were few and far between in the small family bathroom. But they did look pretty as they flickered in the dusky evening, throwing shapes and shadows on the wall. There was a large glass of red wine for Greta, which sat on the ledge beside the bath. Emily was prepared to do anything to get her daughter to relax and fall asleep without the need for any tablets. How could she have let it go on for so long?

‘I think I’ll skip dinner, Mam. Once I get out of the bath I’ll just go straight to bed,’ Greta said.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Emily asked.

‘I’m trying to cut down,’ Greta said, trying not to think about the chocolate bars from the tin. There was a time when Greta and her mam had no secrets. Emily was always on her side. She used to say, ‘Us women have to stick together! Stand united against your dad and the boys!’ It had been a while since Greta had heard that or felt it either.

‘Oh love, that’s great. I think this is your time to shine, do you know that? Just try to forget about everything and relax in the bath. Have a total switch-off and let all your worries disappear. Tomorrow is another day.’

‘To mess it all up again?’ Greta joked, but it landed wrong and just made her mam frown.

‘Ah no, love.’

‘Ah yes, Mam.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ Emily asked.

‘Course I don’t. I’m joking. Now scoot. Let me get the full benefit of your Jo Malone!’

Greta slipped out of her dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door. The mirror above the sink had clouded over with steam. She ran her hand across it and revealed her naked body. Her breasts were OK, she supposed. And her waist had always been small. But her stomach protruded so much that people thought she was pregnant. In fact, one day a guy had stood up to give her his seat on the bus. She had been too embarrassed to say she wasn’t pregnant, so Greta had patted her tummy and smiled her thanks. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.

Now, she sank into the tub and felt the sting of the too-hot water as it covered her body. This was one of the main problems she had with baths. Greta was always bored by the time the water reached optimum temperature. She preferred showers; there was less pressure to relax. The other issue with baths was that no matter which way she manoeuvred her body in the tub, parts of her white, flabby flesh were exposed through the bubbles. It wasn’t like this in the movie, where the heroine always looked so petite as she frolicked in a large bathtub. Mind you, the way her career was going right now, Greta would never have to worry about a bath scene in anything.

She looked up to the ceiling and became distracted by a crack. How long had that been there? The more she tried to relax, the more her body tensed. She should never have let her mam talk her into this. It was different when they were kids. They used to call it Splash Time. Her mam would squeeze the suds out of a yellow sponge, letting them run down Greta’s back, while she sang nursery rhymes to her. Greta blinked away tears and gulped down a mouthful of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

A fly appeared out of nowhere. There weren’t any open windows in the bathroom, yet somehow it had done a Houdini on it and was buzzing around like it owned the joint. It paused to take a rest and joined in Greta’s fascination of the ceiling above her and its new crack.

Rest. If only. Her body and mind were stretched so taut that she could feel cracks splintering through her just like the one above her. She imagined the ceiling collapsing on top of her, splashing water onto the floor. Her mam would hate that. And she loved her mam, even if she bugged the life out of her sometimes. She closed her mind to the worried frown that had been etched across Emily’s forehead as she closed the bathroom door a few minutes ago. And instead, she watched the fly, which watched the crack in the ceiling.

I’m cracking up. She grabbed her phone and saw a new text message had come in from her agent Michelle. With a shaking hand she pressed open.

Michelle: I’ve just heard from Louise. It was down to you and one other actress but unfortunately they went in a different direction for Clara. Give me a call and we’ll arrange a time for you to call in. I think it’s time we had a chat.

The disappointment was crushing. Greta was so tired of playing this game, but never winning. How was she supposed to tell her family that once again she was close but no cigar. She flicked through her feed, until she found her balm.

Dr Gale was looking directly into the camera, with tears in her eyes.

Drgretagale We’re all damaged, some of us are better at hiding it than others, that’s all. Can I get a hell yeah?

#timetoletgo #wellness #drgretagale #whatsinyourcupboard #mindfulness #inspire #drgretagale #positivethoughts #findyourtribe

Once again it was as if Dr Gale was speaking directly to Greta’s pain. The pain of rejection, the pain of being ‘Big G’. She put the phone back in her toiletry bag, her fingers brushing against a pack of cotton-wool pads.

Greta had another swig of wine as the fly landed with a tickle on her right shoulder. He was fearless. Or stupid.

‘There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, Perhaps she’ll die,’ Greta sang, remembering one of her childhood nursery rhymes. ‘Run for your little life, fly, before this old lady goes in for the kill.’

She swiped him off her with a gentle pat. Now that the rhyme was in her head, it refused to leave, and over and over again she repeated each line until she wished the ceiling would collapse, if only to put an end to the blasted song.

Like a guilty kid reaching for the good biscuit tin, Greta watched the door in case her mam was hovering outside ready to pounce. She counted to ten, and when the handle didn’t move, she reached inside her toiletry bag and took out the pack of cotton-wool pads. She removed a bundle of them until she saw what she was looking for. Her sleeping pills. She had kept an emergency stash hidden from her parents. And there was no doubt that this was a code red emergency.

‘I’m sorry.’ She apologized to her family. She’d made and broken promises to them and to herself. Then she swallowed a tablet with another gulp of red wine.

With great clarity, she realized that – because of the terrible week she had just been through – one more tablet couldn’t hurt. In fact, she reasoned, as she shook the tablets out into her hand without really counting them, her taking a second tablet was for her mam’s sake. Because when she got into bed and slept, Emily would think her bath had done the trick. She popped them into her mouth just to be safe …

Safe, that’s all I want to be, safe and sound, asleep, away from all of this …

Safe, not sorry.

Minutes moved on, or at least she guessed they did. Greta began to feel the familiar, heavy, melting sensation snake its way through her arms and legs. She loved and craved it. Greta sank further into the tub, and the water felt as if it was giving her a warm hug; no longer shaming her, it was her friend. Her eyes were heavy, and she couldn’t see the fly any more.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly …’ Greta mumbled.

And as she finally felt that blessed relief of sleep, her last thought was: Perhaps I’ll die …

Hands, rough, tried to grip Greta’s body, but they kept slipping with the soapy water.

‘Is she dead … Stephen, is she dead, please god, no, is she dead … my poor baby, is she dead?’

Who was Mam talking about? And why was Mam screaming like that? Ow! That hurt. Greta tried to open her eyes, but they felt so heavy, so she closed them again. She awoke feeling something cold and hard underneath her. The tiled floor. Glimpses of the drama unfolding slipped through the slits in her eyes. Her dad and Ciaran. Her mam, hysterical, kneeling beside her, sobbing. Greta was cold.

Someone placed a towel over her naked body. She trembled not just with the chill but with shame. It must be a nightmare. She willed herself to wake up, to make it stop. I don’t like this. Please. No more.

‘Oh love, what did you do, oh my love.’ Emily was cradling Greta’s head in her arms, stroking her hair and sobbing.

She tried to speak, but no words would come out. Why was her dad so wet? His two arms were stained with water, right up to the collar of his shirt. Ciaran was the same. Only his joggers were wet too. Had he jumped in water?

The bath. She had been taking a bath.

And now she was on the floor with a towel covering her, with her mother crying and her father and brother wet. Greta opened her eyes and saw the fly one more time. It paused for a moment before it escaped through the open bathroom door, past Aidan and Ciaran.

I’m dead and this is hell, with me naked on a cold floor.

But Greta wasn’t dead. She was in the centre of a tornado, spinning so fast and fierce that she might never leave it.