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Seven Days before Christmas

‘Ah no! I knew this would happen! I’m so late! Shit!’

Bob jumps from his sleeping position on the armchair across from me, gathers his jacket, phone and wallet and races to the front door, the stench of stale smoke and alcohol wafting past me from my place on the sofa and my head throbs from lack of sleep from the night before. In a blink Bob is gone and here I am once again, left to pick myself up and get on with things, so I go stand in the shower, determined to wash away any traces of sadness and find the strength to face the day at my home office where I’ll read through letter after letter, email after email and choose which lucky members of the human race I’m going to share my worldly advice with in my next column or radio slot.

I hear the door slam as Bob leaves and it echoes into a skin-prickling silence, a sound that I should be used to by now, but I’m not. It’s suffocating, it’s overwhelming – and it’s a dark reminder that I am not moving on, not in the way my sister has or the way I’m pretending to be to the people who write to me with their problems.

The clock ticks and I drift off to sleep again, then wake in a cold sweat and sit up straight, so quickly that my head spins. I’ve had the dream again. Oh no, I’ve had that same dream and I can barely breathe because, as always, it’s so clear. She is standing at the top of the stairs, calling my name to come and help her with the Christmas tree. I try and find the stairs, but no matter what room I go into in this big, cold, empty house I can’t find her. I can’t find her and I can’t find the stairs. She keeps calling me, telling me she has been there the whole time; that she never really went away at all, that she’s still here somewhere and I just have to find her.

But I never do.

The house is silent. She is not here. There is no one here, except for me now and a solitary For Sale sign that stands like a stiff flag at the bottom of the front garden. I need to move away from this house, but until I get a sale, I need to do some work.

Twenty minutes later after a hot shower and with a very strong coffee in my hand, I squint at my computer and the list of emails that await my attention. Despite doing this job for years, every day until recently I’d always get a flutter of anticipation when I’d delve into the lives of others and contemplate which ones to publish on my blog, which to choose for the weekly news column and which to save for the once-a-week radio slot. It used to be exciting, it used to be challenging; sometimes it would be downright heartbreaking too, but it’s always something that I knew I could do so well after all these years.

Yet today I don’t know where to start.

I open the first one, knowing already who it is from, but I decide it’s best to have an easy start.

Dear Ruth,

I have a big problem and this is what it is . . .

You’re in my dreams every night. Are you still single? Please say yes. Love M

I lean my head on my left hand and roll my eyes. Yes, I am still single. No, I am still not interested.

‘M’ is my anonymous regular ego massage, my number one fan, and even though I have no idea who he (or she?) is, I know that I’ll hear from M at least once a week with a compliment on my physical appearance, my soothing voice of reason, my words of wisdom. There are a few like M who write me regularly just to give me empty faraway compliments, but if they knew how miserable I really am in real life right now they wouldn’t be so praising I’m sure.

I click on to the next one.

Dear Ruth,

My new partner says it’s him or the dog – what should I do? He’s allergic to animals but I don’t want us to break up, nor do I want to give up Henry! He has been my most loyal and best friend for eight long lonely years now. Please help. Nicky

I used to have a Henry, I smirk to myself. He wasn’t a dog though. He was a six-foot-two fireman who couldn’t remember my name the morning after. Next!

Dear Ruth

I never waste my time to write into silly newspaper columnists but on this occasion I can’t stop myself. Just who do you think you are, advising someone to leave his steady job to start up his own business when he has young kids and a crippling mortgage? Follow your dreams, my arse! We aren’t all rich like you in your designer clothes and fancy restaurants! You wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it stared you in the face!

Anonymous

I move along and try to digest some of them but today’s inbox goes from the sublime to the ridiculous, even more than usual. The typical affair dilemmas, minor money problems and a host of unrequited love dilemmas go in one ear and out the other, as well as the normal criticisms from people like ‘Anonymous’ who have no idea of what I’m like in real life. Rich? Asset rich now that I’ve inherited this crumbling four-storey terraced townhouse that has seen better days, but which is costing me a fortune to run on my own. Hardworking? You bet I am. I worked my ass off to get where I am today and no one can ever say it was easy. I feel my skin prickle with anxiety at the ignorance of the world sometimes. Why can’t we just be nicer to each other? Is it really that difficult? No wonder I try and shut real people out when they get under my skin.

I open one more.

Dear Ruth,

I’m not even sure you can help me, but I’ll give it a go and just say what I want to say to someone, to anyone who will listen. I’m married, I have a two-year-old son, we have a happy home and to the outside world I have everything, so why do I feel like there is something missing?

Everything I do is for them and there are days when I just want to run away from it all and do something just for me. I talk to myself; I actually talk to myself because most of the time I don’t feel like my husband is listening to me. We converse, but I know my words and thoughts are going in through one ear and out the other as he is always so tired and irritable these days or else blankly scrolling through his phone! At work, I don’t seem to fit in and everyone is so busy with their own lives that I am too afraid to rock the boat and suggest a drink or a coffee or to share lunch someday.

My husband has been made redundant and financially we don’t know if we can afford to have a Christmas at all as my wages only scrape the surface of our bills. I am so afraid, but I guess deep down, what I’m really feeling is that I’m very lonely in all this. What on earth can I do? How on earth can I get through Christmas with no money, no one to talk to and no support from anyone?

I just feel so alone and nobody knows. Please help me.

Yours,

Molly Flowers

I blink back tears as I read Molly’s words and almost choke on my attempt to reply, because I totally understand where she is in her mind right now. Isn’t it funny how we can be surrounded by people and look like we have it all, yet behind closed doors we feel like we are trapped on a desert island where no one can hear you scream? I totally understand, Molly.

I’ll get back to those I have marked for responses later . . . But for now I close down the laptop and rub my weary eyes. Today is going to be a tough one and I just can’t face other people’s problems at the moment. In fact, I don’t know if I will ever be able to again. I used to find it so easy and now every single one I read is a chore to interpret and find the right words to say. I just can’t seem to find the words any more. I text Nora from work to see how she is coping in the office with her hangover and to gauge her mood, which could be anything from still a little tipsy from the night before and loving the world, to hungover bat out of hell who wants to die immediately. She had a lot to drink last night. Thankfully, I didn’t.

‘Meet me at Gloria’s for coffee and comfort food. Please I’m begging you,’ she writes back, and without even thinking twice, I pull on my jacket, scarf and boots and make my way to my favourite little corner café where I know I’ll instantly feel better as the memories of happy times gone by wrap around me like a warm, fuzzy blanket on this bitter cold day.

Gloria’s has always been my safe haven. It’s where I used to run with my problems when my dad needed a break from teenage girls and hormones and I’d go there for some warmth and comfort, always knowing he’d be here when I’d get back with some unconditional love. Just remembering those days is enough to set me off again. This has got to stop. I need to move on.

Molly Flowers

Molly Flowers hadn’t had a drink in three days.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want a drink, it was that she simply couldn’t afford a bottle of wine this week and every time she thought of how she was going to find the money for some Christmas shopping she felt a lump in her throat the size of a tennis ball and had to remind herself to breathe before a panic attack set in and ruined everyone’s day again.

It was happening so many times since Jack’s redundancy, but what did she expect when she was carrying all this worry on her shoulders and Jack didn’t seem to get the big picture, believing that some big magic puff of luck would descend on them like a lottery win (he spent almost ten quid a week on tickets) or that his mum or dad would miraculously wire them through enough to get a turkey and some Santa treats for Marcus, who, at just two years old, thankfully didn’t know the difference?

She stared into her back garden which was covered in a blanket of snow and watched a robin search for titbits on the bird table until he gave up and flew away. Molly wished that she could fly away too. Somewhere away from all this pressure and pretending, far from financial strain and struggling to make ends meet.

No, no she didn’t wish that at all. How could she even let such a thought cross her mind? She had a great husband – he was just going through a rough patch but he’d find another job soon. He said he would. She had a healthy son, something to be hugely thankful for. She enjoyed her job at the beauty salon, even if she felt like an alien to the younger girls who had no kids and no responsibilities and who lived for the weekend where they’d go partying with their latest squeeze, a world away from her life with bills and a mortgage that was like a noose around her neck.

They all looked up to Molly. ‘Hashtag, relationship goals,’ they’d say, referring to her marriage to Jack and gorgeous baby Marcus. If only they knew how much she was feeling like such an imposter inside.

Today, her day off, was Christmas party time at the mother and toddler morning, but she couldn’t face all that smiling and false pretence to the other mummies that everything was fine. That she was just as excited about Christmas in her house as they were and that, like them, she had nothing else to worry about other than what they might wear to the Christmas party or what little Johnny was getting from Santa.

Poor Marcus. She lifted her toddler boy and snuggled into the safety of his soft, pudgy skin and downy hair, holding him so closely and wishing that things would change soon.

‘Next year will be better, I promise you, baby,’ she said to him. His baby teeth smiled back at her, oblivious to the pain and worry that was engulfing her every move these days. Jack would be back from his morning walk soon and would be hungry again. She’d try to talk to him about her fears but he’d change the subject as he always did, and she’d go to the bathroom like she always did and cry it out behind closed doors until Marcus needed her attention again and she’d promise herself that things were going to change very soon. They had to. They just had to.

At least the wine numbed the pain, even if it only did so temporarily. She knew it wasn’t good for her and that it certainly wasn’t a solution, but when you’ve no one else to talk to or turn to, Molly couldn’t think of what else she could do to get her through the day.