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Back A Bumpy Year Save as PDF
Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by Olivia Spooner
  3. A BUMPY YEAR
  4. Copyright
  5. Contents
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. Acknowledgements
  48. About the Author
  49. An Invitation from the Publisher

I place my phone carefully on my bedside table and sit on the edge of my bed in my wet towel. The carpet under my feet is damp from my dripping hair. It’s too much. All of these people wanting to be in my life. I need to keep a distance between them and me. They’re getting too close and I can’t allow it to happen.

I snatch up my phone and send a quick message to Will:

Busy today sorry. Maybe another time.

Then Emma:

Can’t today. Catch up soon x T

And finally one to Pete:

I need some time. Can I call you next week?

I think about responding to Mags and Scott but decide to stay silent. Instead, I get dressed and head to the garden centre. I wish I lived somewhere completely cut off from the rest of the world: a tropical paradise with a small house, a big garden and a person who delivers supplies once a week. Apart from that brief weekly contact with the delivery person where we might exchange a few innocuous remarks about the weather, I’d see no one and have no contact with the outside world. I could live happily in my bubble. Lead a simple, uncomplicated, unthreatening, pain-free life.

17

I spend all afternoon pottering around the garden. My phone has stayed beside my bed since this morning and I haven’t checked it once. I’m torn between being blissfully unaware if anyone is trying to contact me and the nagging urge to check if anyone has tried to get in touch. What if I look at my phone later tonight and there are zero messages? I’d like to think I’d be relieved, but I suspect it’ll have the opposite effect.

After an early dinner of poached eggs on toast with avocado and tomato slices on the side, I scroll through Netflix trying to find a movie. There are a thousand movies on there and not one I have the remotest interest in watching.

I turn off the TV and wander out into the hallway. The wall clock tells me it’s not even 7 p.m. yet. For a while I stare at the front door as if I’m waiting for someone to knock. Which I’m not. Then I find myself in the spare room, looking at the immaculately made bed. One of my earliest memories is of Dad demonstrating the correct way to make a bed. The special three-tuck technique for the corners, the smoothing of the blanket from bottom to top. The exact placement of the plumped-up pillows. It was important to go around the bed twice to ensure everything was tucked in perfectly. Some lessons are hard to forget.