Chapter 8

by Patrick

Becca sighed.  It was a sigh that began deep inside her and went many months back in time.  She looked straight into Pip’s eyes and spoke calmly.  “I can’t go to Paris.  It’s a ridiculous idea.  I barely leave the house these days.  I can’t go to another country.  You're confusing my life with the 'Make a Wish Foundation'".  She lowered her head and readied herself for the onslaught of disappointment.

Pip raised her eyebrows for the briefest second and made an exasperated expression.  “Typical.  My God, you’ve become a self-indulgent fucker since your mum died.  You were such fun, so full of life and so full of talent.  So full of style. Look at you.  You look like you covered yourself in glue and ran naked through ‘Millets’.  Don’t go to Paris if you don’t want to but just try engaging with the world again”.  

“Thanks for the feedback”.  Becca smoothed her hair at the back of her head and stared at the pavement.  She liked Pip but she was always so fucking chirpy and couldn’t understand why everyone else wasn’t grinning like John Barrowman on a Gay Pride March all the fucking time.  The thoughts that came from Pip's mouth were like a series of Facebook status updates about cute kids, the funny things cats do and wanting to high-five war heroes.  They made Becca want to scream. 

She wasn’t quite sure what this emotion was but it was overwhelming her.  The last thing she wanted was for someone to offer her the thing she’d dreamed of and realise that she didn’t want it anymore, didn’t respect it, now thought it petty.  What did that leave her with?  Although not conscious that she was crying two rivers of saltwater descended her cheeks.  She no longer had the energy to fully engage with crying.  She lifted her head.

“I’m selfish?  You want to leave your partner and kid and live out some adolescent fantasy hundreds of miles away from them.  Good for you that your life is still a constant party.  Mine isn’t.  Mine is a like a poolparty at Michael Barrymore’s house.  One day things are going fine.  Then my mum is dying.  Then she’s dead and I’m living with my Gran and I don’t know what the point of anything is anymore.  I’ve been frozen in time since the minute I was told mum was ill”. 

Becca had thought that she was imparting previously unknown facts and thoughts to Pippa but as she spoke realised that this wasn’t the case.  This was old news. 

Pip was crying.  An undignified snot snorting cry.  She looked at the handkerchief in Becca’s hand and thought of snatching it but rubbed at her eyes with her sleeve and flicked her sunglasses from her hair to her nose.  She tried to speak calmly.   

“I know she died.  I know it’s sad but for Christ’s sake move on.  On the rare occasions I’ve seen you since the funeral you’re like the antidote to euphoria.  You may not say much but it’s quite obvious you’ve no time for me anymore.  Christ, you’ve no time for anyone.  You seem to think that being constantly sardonic makes you better than everyone else.  It doesn’t.  I’m not sorry that I’m happy.  I’m sorry that you think you’re special.  I’m sorry that you don’t realise that happy people survive in spite of difficulties not in the absence of them.  Clearly you haven’t twigged that your Gran wanted you working in the hospice shop to snap you out of this not to make you more resentful of the world.  The people who love you are tired of waiting". 

Becca kept anxiously smoothing down her hair.  Every aspect of this meeting was making her want to vomit.  She stared at the ground and felt the sting of Pip’s words biting at her skin.  All of this was true.  Negativity had become her default setting.  She tried to think of something to say; an insult, a witticism, an apology but she had nothing. 

She’d clearly been  thinking for some time.  When she looked up Pippa was over a hundred metres away from her.  She’d abandoned her usual sashay for an angry stomp and was trying to get the attention of a taxi driver.

                                                                              ***

She could have sat opposite him but Becca chose to sit in the chair next to Mr Heath.  His rheumy eyes were filled with tears but he smiled as she sat down. 

Her own tears now flowed more freely than they had since she was a child, certainly more freely than since her mother’s illness, death, funeral and long, painful absence.

The handkerchief was in her hand.  She placed both on top of his hand. 

“Where’s your friend?”

“We had an argument”   

 “Loneliness is a dreadful thing.  It makes you do foolish things”.