Page 117 of The Next Chapter

I put the letter back.

Later. I’ll think about it later.

* * *

Replying to 213 WhatsApp messages is guaranteed to drive even a well-balanced person to an existential crisis.

After a very frenzied cleaning session, followed by an equally frenzied personal grooming session, I sit down to sort out my phone messages.

In six short weeks I missed two pregnancy announcements, three engagements, one divorce and one dead grandparent. People needed me and I wasn’t there.

I go through and add my reactions, crying sad emoji, heart emoji, confetti emoji, careful not to mix them up.

It should make me feel better.

I should be relishing the organization. The ticking of things off a to-do list has always made me happier than is probably normal. But even as I glance at my new ‘to-do list’, putting a neat tick next to ‘WhatsApp’, I don’t feel good.

I wonder what Lola’s doing now?

I wonder if Noah misses me?

I knew it. I knew I wasn’t cut out for a summer fling.

* * *

I make it into the office first thing the next morning, ready to take on the world of personal memoirs. Seb, however, takes one look at me and sends me home, claiming that I need some time and space to process (and also claiming that I look like someone dying of TB, which is, you know, rude).

I send an email to Mr Vandergilden rearranging our next session.

It’s stressful, the thought of time off with nothing to do. But then, I remind myself of how productive I can be, with all my time. I clean the oven with the new top spec oven cleaner some influencer raved about online.

Who needs family when you have before and after pictures of your oven?

I get the ladder out and clean the outside windowsills. I’ve had this on my house jobs sub-list for quite some time and the thrill I get ticking that one off. Wild.

It’s a shame that I obviously slept way too much on Skye because now I can’t sleep, even though I’m scaling ladders during the day to tire myself out and I have all of my sleep aids to hand. I’m taking herbal Nytols like they’re going out of fashion and wondering if the mountain air was the only reason I slept so well on Skye. Possibly it had something to do with the calm I felt up there. Of knowing I was close to Lola. Not wondering the whole time. Possibly that had something to do with it. Now I’m back to wondering. About her. About Noah. So much wondering.

Instead of sleeping, I lie awake, running through everything I said to Lola. My brain is tired but it’s showing no signs of letting up. I think of Jimmy Nickle, the man I know for sure is my biological dad and who sounds like a complete arse.

I start to feel mad then, on Lola’s behalf. Who even does that? Abandons someone when they need them?

I mean, I did that. But it’s completely different. Not the same at all.

These happy thoughts whirl around my brain every night until around 4am, when I finally give in and get up.

The next morning, I beg Seb to let me come back to work after a week.

Me: Please. I’m ready and I’m totally fine now. Spick and span.

Seb: God help me.

Seb: Fine, come back. But at least let me forward you my therapist’s number. I’ll get a refer a friend discount.

Come Monday, I’m the first person in the office.

I’m not even going to think about Lola’s memoirs. I’m just going to clear my emails. Nice and easy to get me back into the swing of things. Plus, imagine the joy I’ll feel, finally being on top of them. I’ll have achieved the impossible.

‘It’s like watching a slow-motion car crash.’ I hear Seb behind me. I don’t look round though because I am flying through these emails, and I don’t want to break my pace. ‘Oh my god, are you eating a Mars bar? I’m staging an intervention.’