I grabbed my jacket and raced out. I’d left my mother a Post-it that would give her the shock of her life. I’d written, soberly but in a flurry of excitement, Don’t cook for me tonight – I’m going out.

13

17 Days

A Filthy Old Dive

A little party, Charlotte had said. Ha ha. The apartment was tiny and crammed.

It felt like the Hégémonie Christmas bash, the kind of party where anyone would think the guests had all fasted for three months . . . All I ever managed to grab were three ham canapés, being too well brought up to push and shove. Well, at Charlotte’s, you had to battle your way through to get anywhere near the buffet or the drinks.

Charlotte welcomed me, all smiles, and invited me in, thanking me for the flowers and gratifying me with a ‘Wow – you look gorgeous!’ which thrilled me. I’d chosen a simple but striking outfit: slim jeans, white semi-sheer blouse, statement blue heels. I returned the compliment. Charlotte looked stunning. Of course, I recognized her, but her evening look was totally different from the white coat, Crocs and light make-up that I was used to seeing. Perched on platform sandals that flattered her tanned legs and made her a good four inches taller, she twirled in her black dress, bestowing her infectious zest for life on each guest. Given that there must have been fifty people, it didn’t take me long to work out that my quota of Charlotte during the party would be very limited.

I’d been there for nearly twenty minutes and I still hadn’t entered into conversation with anyone. I was the oldest guest there. Charlotte must have been ten years younger than me. I hadn’t articulated it so clearly to myself at the hospital, but now that I was seeing her in her home surroundings, it was obvious. What the hell was I doing there? As the minutes went by, I felt more and more out of place. I was different from this crowd of young singles, who were carefree, laughing, drinking, smoking. And I envied them. I wanted to be like them, pull the wool over their eyes and make them believe I fitted in. I usually found water-cooler conversations so easy, but I’d lost that ability to feign interest in things that bored me, to respond with nods or ‘Oh, wonderful . . . Oh, that was lucky . . . Wow, that’s amazing . . .’ to the wittering of a vague acquaintance telling me about their holiday in Nepal. These past weeks had numbed my socialization synapses. It hadn’t dawned on me because I hadn’t found myself in a situation like this since slamming the door of Hégémonie. I was about to leave, when I heard a man addressing me.