“Thank you so much!”
Sophie’s voice sounded, sending a javelin of fear right through me, and I sat back in my seat, sweat streaming down my back and my heart clanging in my chest. As Sophie and Seren tucked into their croissants and coffees I scrolled through my phone and zoomed in on the images I’d taken. Some were blurry, most were lopsided, but it didn’t matter. I’d got what I needed.
My name was now Sophie Hallerton and I had a brief CV detailing my nannying experience, an e-mail address for a reference, and a saccharine statement in florid prose about my passion for looking after children. In other words, I was set.
I set up an e-mail account. [email protected]. I downloaded the form and copied out the answers and Sophie’s responses. If there was one thing I was good at, or at least something I used to do all day long in my last job, it was completing forms and setting up e-mail accounts. Finally, I sent off the application from my new e-mail address.
As the train pulled into Birmingham New Street three hours later, my phone bleeped with an e-mail.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: job application
Dear Sophie:
Many thanks for your application for the position of Nanny.
We would like to invite you to interview for this role as soon as possible.
Would you be available to meet with myself and Mr. Faraday next Wednesday at 1 p.m.? The address is: 313 Rowan Gardens, London, NW3 5TD.
We will contact the person(s) you have listed as employment references in the meantime, if that’s OK?
Kind regards,
Maren Larsen
My heart leaped. I felt sick and excited at the same time, exactly the same feeling I had when I jumped off the top diving board at the swimming pool, or went on the Ferris wheel with the creaky carriages.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Re: job application
Hi, Maren,
Thank you for your e-mail.
Yes, I’d be delighted to attend this interview.
Kind regards,
Sophie Hallerton
A reply swooped back within seconds—wonderful, see you then—and I leaned back in my seat, my nerves pinging with excitement and adrenaline. Sophie and Seren sat in front of me sucking croissant flakes from their fingers and discussing baby names and birth plans, the job application long forgotten.
Next Wednesday was exactly a week away. The rail pass expired at midnight that day, though David could easily cancel it before then once he worked out it was missing. If he did, I didn’t have enough money to buy another ticket. Come to think of it, I hadn’t enough money to book a place to stay until then.
Using the last of my phone’s battery, I dialed Meg.
3
a place to stay
NOW
Meg didn’t answer her phone.
I sat on the train, watching the platform fill up with people making their way to the exit. I tried Meg again, and again.
“Aren’t you getting off, miss?” a train conductor asked from the aisle.
“Oh. Yes,” I said, trying not to be “weird and twitchy,” as David had often accused me of being. I hoisted up my bag and saw him eyeing the contents. I stepped onto the platform and headed for the exit. Outside I spotted a café, and in a series of highly focused nonweird and nontwitchy movements, I ordered a coffee and parked myself at a table.
What happened next wasn’t ideal. First, my phone battery died, then the waitress came and told me they were closing in ten minutes. I realized with shock that it was almost six o’clock in the evening. This is the thing with depression, and particularly with antipsychotics—your internal clock goes AWOL, as does your libido, hunger, balance, focus, sense of humor, and short-term memory. So I wandered around trying to forage for a phone charger, then caved and got back on the train to Newcastle, which was now full of drunk, red-faced blokes shouting about a football match. I found a seat as far away from them as possible and curled up in a ball, hoping they wouldn’t shout at me, which they did. And then, at York, the train broke down. Signal failure. We had to get off, were promised we’d be refunded. It was freezing cold, the platform was swarming with aggressive football fans, and I had nowhere to go.
I approached one of the police officers who had serendipitously appeared on the platform.
“Excuse me,” I said, and in my mind I was poised to tell them a story about losing my purse, and could they point me in the direction of a hostel? My mouth, however, had other ideas. “I’m homeless and I’ve nowhere to go and two months ago I tried to kill myself so will you help me please I’m so lonely,” my mouth said, and I started to cry.
Within a minute I was being asked to get into the police car, and within ten minutes I was standing outside a women’s refuge.
The refuge had a big common area with sofas and a hand-painted mural of a forest across three walls, and a kitchen for us to eat together. The dorms were all full of women and children, but the lady in charge said I could spend the night on a sofa.
I ended up spending the week there. It felt nice, like a little community of bruised, terrified, and addicted women. Jill ran the place with a team of volunteers. Jill was large and had bright red hair piled on top of her head and she always wore a black vest top with a swishy black skirt with purple Dr. Martens. There was a massive garden out the back with deck chairs, and Jill told me every day to sit out there and “clear my mind.” A doctor visited and I told her I needed a refill prescription of the medicine I’d been on. She frowned and suggested I try a lower dose of something that was apparently “less taxing” on the brain. Another woman—a volunteer at a charity shop—came around with clothes, which was great as I literally had only the clothes on my back. I picked out a black trouser suit with a white shirt for my interview, and she found me some sensible shoes.
Wednesday came and I got on the train to London for the interview. I was super nervous, but Jill put some makeup on me and insisted that I look at myself in the mirror. I was surprised. My eyes always looked sallow, but she’d blotted out the dark circles with concealer and added mascara and a flick of kohl just above my eyelashes. A dab of bronzer made me look healthy, and on my lips she dabbed a demure coral lipstick that apparently made my eyes “pop.” I found this to be a rather distressing mental image, so Jill clarified: “It means your lovely brown eyes look like melted chocolate. OK?” Melted chocolate can only ever be a pleasant thing.