Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Today’s banal workday included waiting to hear back from Finance, which eventually happened at six o’clock. The company accountant requested a call tomorrow. I punch out a reply on my way to the elevator, slightly concerned by his request but too gripped by anticipation too see Dec to really pay much attention to it. “Camryn!”
I look back, seeing Debbie hurrying my way, today’s tights a rare shade of emerald-green. She reaches up and pulls the reindeer antlers off her head, smiling awkwardly. She’s obviously forgotten about the tinsel wrapped around her wrists and ankles. “You’re late this evening,” I say.
“I’ve been wrapping gifts for . . . never mind.” She comes to a stop, a little out of breath, and realises she’s forgot about her bracelets and anklets, quickly ripping them off. Her scraps of tinsel are the least of my problems. “The draw for Secret Santa was today.” The caution in her voice is borderline pitiful. I know what’s happened here. They’ve drawn straws over who’s going to tell me who I need to buy for.
“And you excluded me from the draw, right?”
“Not right. You see, the new girl, Lacy, she wasn’t told that you don’t . . . well, take part, so you were included and emails have gone out to everyone. You’ve got me.” She smiles, toothy and wide. Nervous. “But it’s fine because I’ll pretend I don’t know who my gift is from.”
“What’s the budget?” The doors open, and I step inside.
“Twenty quid.”
“I’ll give you twenty quid. You can buy yourself something.”
“Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
“Dead.”
“Right.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “Thomas asked me to make sure you’ve not forgotten the event tomorrow evening.”
“I haven’t forgotten since the last time he asked you to remind me.”
Her lips press into a straight line. “Dress code is glam.”
My hand shoots up, stopping the doors from meeting in the middle. “Glam as in glamorous?”
She nods.
“Of course it is.” I let the doors close and drop my head back, mentally searching through the endless unopened boxes for something I can wear. I see in my mind’s eye many things I can’t face, so actually searching them? No. I’ll have to buy something.
My phone rings as I’m heading across the road to The Royal Constantine, and I stop just shy of the kerbside, my stomach dropping. “Hello.”
“Mrs. Moore, it’s D—”
“It’s Ms.”
“Ms. Moore, it’s Deirdre from Long Acres.”
“How can I help you?”
“It’s your mother.”
A horrible sick feeling rises. “What about her?”
“She’s asking for you.”
My spine lengthens, my eyes staring forward at nothing. “What?” She’s not asked for me for months. Rarely recognises me at all anymore.
“She’s getting rather distressed. Crying for you. I think you should come.”
The lump in my throat is instant. I feel like I could choke when I try to swallow it down. “I’m on my way.” I hang up and reroute to the Tube. No walking today, I haven’t got time. I text Dec as I’m hurrying down the steps to let him know I can’t make drinks, and he answers immediately, telling me to call him when I can.
She’s asking for me?
I push my way through the door and dash past the receptionist. “Can you open the doors?”
“You need to sign in,” she yells after me.
My teeth grit as I do an about-turn and rush back to the desk, scribbling my name, time, and who I’m visiting, throwing the pen back down. “Done.” I hear the door click as I grab the handle, and I haul it open with too much force, making it smack the wall behind it. Mum’s room in the last on the left, and I hurry in, out of breath but still managing to hold it. Three nurses are surrounding the bed, all bent over her. “Are you kidding?” I yell outraged, muscling my way through them. “She scarcely weighs ninety pounds, it does not need three of you to hold her down.” No one should be holding her anywhere; it’s not as if she can escape, she can’t even fucking walk now, her strength gone. “Mum,” I say, throwing my bag to the floor. “Mum, I’m here, it’s okay.”
Her flailing limbs still, her clenched eyes pop open, and she looks me directly in the eyes. My heart squeezes, searching for any recognition. Please know who I am today. Please.
“It’s me, Mum. Camryn.”
“They’re trying to kill me!” she yells “Making me take pills so they can get my money. They’ve taken all of my money! The cash in the wardrobe. In a Tesco bag. They’ve taken it, the robbing bastards. They’re stealing my money!”
“Your money is safe, Mum. I have your money.” I’ve done this a million times and will do it a million more. “They were bringing your money to me so I can keep it safe for you.”
Her frail body rolls with her laboured breathing. “Who are you?” My heart falls. “You’re stealing my money too! I don’t know this woman. Who is she? Get her out. Out!”