Out on a Limb Read Free Page A

going to get, and what a very lovely young man he is and so on. But on balance, on my balance sheet, anyhow, bad- ish . A thing to have to come to terms with and adjust to.
    And then there’s leaving here. Unquestionably a bad thing, because I’ve liked working here very much. Yes, I know it’s a cruel-to-be-kind kind of bad thing, and I know that it’s a bad thing that will ultimately lead to at least the possibility of other good things, but like giving birth, it hurts just the same.
    But maybe because the Charlie bad thing and the leaving bad thing are really just manifestations of the same bad thing, I have made a major miscalculation. Perhaps my mother phoning and wailing at me is, in fact, not the fourth but only the third bad thing after all. Which means I really should have seen it coming, shouldn’t I?
    I try to call her back but the line is engaged. My mother’s line being engaged is fairly typical, of course. (Only marginally less typical than her being engaged herself, for she has a whole hand’s worth of rings.) If my mother gets it into her head to ring someone then she generally, if that someone is not available and all-ears, finds someone else to telephone instead. She is probably on the phone wailing at someone else now. My sister, perhaps. But there’s no one at her house. So I get on and ring Jake instead.
    ‘Where are you, Mum?’ he asks me.’ I’m starving.’
    ‘I told you,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve been at my leaving do.’
    He grunts. ‘Are you coming home now, then?’
    ‘I’m not sure. I might have to pop round to Nana’s. Make yourself some toast or something. I’ll try not to be too long.’
    ‘What’s wrong with Nana?’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll be something and nothing. You know Nana.’
    How could he not? ‘Can I go down the shop and get a microwave pizza, then?’
    ‘If you must. Oh, and Jake, take Spike with you, can you?’
    He groans. ‘Do I have to?’
    Poor Spike is missing Seb. Seb always used to walk him. Whereas Jake doesn’t like to because he’s such a small dog. We called him Spike largely for self-esteem reasons. But Jake’s self esteem is a fragile beast also. He’ll stress in case he’s spotted with a mop on a lead. ‘Please?’ I add. ‘Pleeeeze? I’ll be back as soon as I can, promise.’
    ‘Can Ben have a microwave pizza as well?’
    Ben is Jake’s friend. He plays bass and has these quite astounding blond dreadlocks. Not a million miles away from having spike on his head, come to think of it. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘He can as long as you promise you’ll take Spike to the shop with you. I’ll call you again once I’m there.’
    Once I’m there . At my mother’s. Which was absolutely not where I’d intended to be at this point, and the irritation rises with the aftertaste of Twiglets. My first thought, listening again to my mother’s message is, somewhat uncharitably, ‘rats’. All I wanted was a metaphorical five minutes to myself, and I have been stymied not ten seconds into the exercise by my mother, who everyone who knows my mother knows has needs so much greater than most.
    I try her again but the line’s still engaged, so I’ll just have to go round there, which galls me. My actual plan for this evening was to go straight home, eat something trashy with Jake, open a bottle of wine and feel sorry for myself. I had already figured that I was allowed to feel sorry for myself on this occasion. Indeed, I’d decided that feeling sorry for myself, as long as it was in carefully metered doses and didn’t encroach much beyond Sunday, would be good for me. They say that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, so I figure that having felt bad about myself for so long (which territory also means I have been denied the luxury of feeling sorry for myself thus far, having made and lain on my own bed etc.), I must now be due at least a little bit of self-indulgence. Not that I want to pig-out on self-pity or