Sweet Damage (14 page)

When I get back to the house I don't bother stopping to say hello to Anna. I go straight up to my room and try to calm down. I pace back and forth and take deep breaths, clenching and unclenching my fists. I sit on the floor and put my head between my legs until my heart rate slows and my panic dissipates.

There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm inside and safe, and whoever was out there was only playing some dumb joke. I'm tired and emotional and not thinking straight. I'm overreacting.

I stand up and turn on my laptop, log into Facebook. Lilla has updated her status with the comment,
Lazy, happy daze with loverboy!
and a whole bunch of new photos. I click through them one by one: Lilla and Patrick mucking around at the beach, Lilla and Patrick drinking in some kind of beer garden or pub, Lilla and Patrick cuddling on the sofa. For all her talk of moving out, she's still close enough to him to spend the day letting him put his hands all over her. In fact, she looks positively thrilled to have his hands all over her. One photo in particular makes my blood boil. Lilla is facing the camera, mouth open, eyes half-closed, looking blissed out. She's wearing something very skimpy, a bikini top or a bra. Patrick is behind her, his dog-like face buried in her neck. He has his arms around her and, though the bottom of the picture is out of the frame, it's obvious that the palm of his hand is beneath her bra. I have to fight an urge to pick the computer up and fling it out the window.

I go across the hall to shower. I put the water on hard and hot, turn my face up, and wash myself thoroughly. Loads of soap all over my skin, a good handful of shampoo in my hair. I scrub until I know every trace of the restaurant is washed off, and the bathroom is thick with fog. A few tears slip out, and I feel weak and pathetic for letting myself cry, stupid for letting myself get sucked in by Lilla all over again. I have to move on, get over my obsession with her, and it occurs to me as I'm standing there watching the water swirl down the drain that having a party, just as Lilla had suggested, might be a way to help me do just that. It could mark a new stage of my life – publicly, a birthday party, but privately, a kind of moving on.

By the time I've dried myself vigorously and pulled some clean clothes on, I feel a lot better.

It's past midnight but I have a sudden second wind. I go downstairs and get two beers from the fridge. I find Anna in the living room, in her pyjamas. She's lying down on the sofa, her eyes barely open, the light of the television flickering across her face. She sits up when she sees me.

She looks wary, as if afraid I'm there for some kind of difficult conversation. I grin, trying to look as cheerful as I can, and hand her a beer. I sit on the couch opposite and lean towards her.

‘What would you think about the idea of a party?' I say.

She blinks. ‘Here?'

‘Of course here. Why not? It's the ideal place,' I say. ‘I know it might be impossible or too hard or whatever. With your agoraphobia and everything. So just say so if that's the case. I don't want to make things worse. You probably don't like crowds?'

‘No,' she shakes her head. ‘That's not really . . . I mean, I do have a bit of social phobia, but my anxiety is mainly . . . I could manage a party, I think.'

‘It would just be a casual thing. It's my birthday this weekend. I know it's short notice, but you wouldn't have to do anything. I'd take care of it all. You could just sit back and enjoy yourself.'

‘A party.' She says it slowly, as if testing the idea out.

‘Yeah,' I grin. ‘You must know about them? You know, people come over? We put on music? Drink beer? Get drunk and dance? Hopefully have a bit of fun?'

She's quiet for a moment, looking down at her hands. Eventually, she looks up and a slow smile spreads over her face. ‘I do vaguely remember something like that.'

‘What do you reckon?'

She nods, takes a sip on her beer, places the bottle carefully on the table.

‘Okay,' she says. ‘Why not?'

27

W
HEN
T
IM FIRST SUGGESTS HAVING A PARTY, HER IMMEDIATE REACTION IS
dread. The very word conjures up so many conflicting emotions. Her memories of parties at the house are not pleasant: the days of tense, almost hysterical preparation beforehand, the awful, brittle people who would come, the horrible, lonely sense that she'd been born into the wrong family, the wrong world
.

Then she thinks of the parties she's enjoyed. Dancing with friends on New Year's Eve. Birthday parties at other people's houses. Bonfires at the beach in summer. All of these parties – the ones she thinks of as fun – were held elsewhere, away from the house, far from her mother.

But now that her mother isn't here to ruin it, why shouldn't she have a party?

Much as she'd like to, she can't hide forever. She has to make some attempt to recover, lead a normal life. And a party in the safety of the house, in her own territory, seems a relatively unthreatening way to be involved, to see people, to remind herself what real life is like. And it would officially be Tim's party, not hers, so if she had to retreat, disappear up to bed, nobody would really notice or care.

She thinks about it as she goes up to her room, brushes her teeth, slips into bed. By the time she's ready to turn off her lamp, the sense of disquiet has changed, and she is more excited than anxious. For the first time in as long as she can remember, she goes to sleep feeling like she might have something to look forward to.

28

N
EXT MORNING WHEN
I
GO TO THE KITCHEN
I
FIND
A
NNA SITTING
at the table, pen in hand, notebook in front of her.

‘I'm making a list,' she tells me, looking up shyly. ‘Of things we need to get for your party.'

I make coffee and sit beside her. She slides her notebook over and I read down the page.

‘We don't need all this stuff, Anna. I was just planning on getting some sausages and beer,' I say. ‘It doesn't have to be a big deal.'

And though I've only meant to be helpful, to stop her doing too much, she looks shattered.

‘But if you want to . . .' I point at her list. ‘If you really want to do all that stuff, that's fine. I don't mind. I just didn't want you to do a whole lot of unnecessary work or anything.'

‘Why?' She looks at me sideways. ‘Because I'm so busy?' She takes her notebook back, clears her throat. ‘Could I ask you something, Tim? Would you do me a favour?'

‘Sure.'

‘Would you let me organise this?'

‘Well, if you want to . . .'

‘And would you let me pay for it?'

‘No way.'

‘Why not?'

I shake my head. ‘It wouldn't be right. I just—'

‘Oh, stop it,' she interrupts, and once again I see that spark in her, the fire that she normally keeps hidden. ‘Of course you can. I want to. I'm not twelve years old. I have money galore, more than I can spend. What am I supposed to do with it, stuck inside here all the time?'

‘But things won't be like this forever,' I say. ‘You'll get better. And then you'll need your money.'

‘But I have plenty. Too much for one person. One little party won't even make a dent. Please, Tim.' She shakes her head in an agitated way. ‘Please don't try to be protective or moral or whatever it is you think you're doing. And don't be embarrassed. I want to do this. It'll be fun. More fun than I've had in a very long time. And I know I said you couldn't help me, but maybe you can. By letting me do this.' She's breathless now, her cheeks pink.

What can I say? I don't particularly want a big-deal party. I'd be just as happy with a casual barbecue as I would with some kind of posh catered thing. But how can I refuse? Anna looks so determined, almost desperate.

‘All right, then,' I say. ‘Why not?'

‘Good,' she says. ‘Thank you. It should be fun.'

For all her use of the word fun, she doesn't look as though she's having any. Her brow is furrowed, her body tense. She looks anxious and stressed, more like she's organising a funeral than a party.

29

S
HE ASKS
T
IM TO WRITE A LIST OF ALL THE PEOPLE HE WANTS TO INVITE
. She plans to design some kind of e-card, email the invitation to his friends
.

He sits there for ages, scrolling through the contacts on his phone, thinking, chewing the end of the pen and writing down names and email addresses. He shakes his head, crosses a few names off the list, muttering vague reasons, before sliding the paper across to her.

‘That's more than fifty people,' she says when she's counted them.

‘And what about you?' he asks. ‘Who are you going to invite?'

‘Oh. It's your party, not mine.'

‘So? Doesn't matter. Invite your friends too.' He gestures at the house. ‘No way it's going to be too crowded.'

It would be easy to lie, to list a whole raft of legitimate-sounding reasons why that wouldn't be a good idea, but she can feel the blush burning her cheeks before she has time to make up a story, compose herself.

‘Oh, I don't . . .' she says. ‘I'll just invite Marcus and Fiona.'

‘That's it? Just two people?' he says quietly, and she can tell he's feeling sorry for her, wondering how she can be so pathetic, why she doesn't have anyone else in her life.

*

The first panic attack happened the week after Benjamin died. Marcus and Fiona were at work and Anna was alone in the house. She had been getting dressed, thinking about how she'd fill her day, missing Benjamin so much she struggled not to cry, when suddenly she was overcome by an entirely new sensation: a crushing feeling in her chest, a terrible sense of dread.

She had no idea what was happening at first, no idea why she was so conscious of her heart all of a sudden, why her throat had become so tight, why she felt as if wet concrete had been poured into her lungs.

She wondered if she was dying, having a heart attack.

She texted Marcus for help.

Fiona was the one who came, rushing through the front door sooner than Anna would have thought possible, and Anna almost cried with relief at seeing her. Fiona did all the talking once they reached the hospital, explaining everything that had happened, the order of events. Anna listened silently as Fiona told the doctor about her parents' death, all about Benjamin, the whole tragic story.

Panic, the doctor concluded. A mental condition, not a physical one. He told Anna it was a very normal, almost expected response to everything that had happened to her. Grief can do some strange things, he told her. There was nothing wrong with her. It was all in her mind.

Unfortunately, discovering it was ‘only' panic didn't help. The attacks started coming frequently, overwhelming her in the most unexpected and impossible of places – shopping for food, browsing for books at the library. A smothering avalanche of dread would send her rushing to the bathroom. When she could breathe again, she'd go outside and hail the nearest cab, curling up in the back seat like a lunatic. As soon as she got home she'd go straight to bed and hide under the covers, cry herself to sleep.

With the panic attacks came shame. What kind of person was afraid of the supermarket? What kind of person found it difficult to talk to people, to meet their eyes, in case they saw the truth? What kind of person needed to rush home and hide indoors just so that she could breathe?

The panic and shame grew worse and more intertwined, eventually becoming so bad that all she could do was keep herself hidden, bury herself inside the house and withdraw from everything and everyone.

Ever since her parents died she'd been making excuses to her friends, preferring to spend her time with Marcus and Fiona. The panic only made things worse. She told so many lies and made so many excuses, said no to so many invitations, that people stopped trying. And she found it surprisingly easy to avoid her friends. Most people made a superficial effort, but were ultimately quite happy to be pushed away, happy to be lied to, glad to be relieved of the burden of socialising with her now that she had changed so much.

30

W
E SIT THERE FOR THE REST OF THE MORNING MAKING PLANS FOR
the party. It's the most relaxed we've ever been together, and apart from the brief uncomfortable moment when I ask if she wants to invite anyone, we pass the time companionably.

I bring my laptop downstairs and while I eat breakfast, Anna uses it to email out the invitations. When she's done that, she looks things up on the internet. Food, grog, party supplies.

‘Balloons,' she says. ‘What colour?'

I shrug, smile.

‘Silver,' she says. ‘Silver will look great against the white ceiling.'

And a bit later: ‘What do you like to drink? What's your favourite beer?'

‘I don't mind, Anna. Seriously. Anything will do.'

‘I'll order something nice. Something German. They usually do good beer, I think. And French champagne. And some nice food.'

Despite my initial reluctance, I start to warm up to the idea of this fancy, more organised kind of party. Good beer, nice food, everything taken care of. Why not? As the morning passes we listen to the ping of emails coming in from friends responding to the invitation. Most of them say they'll be there; one or two apologise and say they can't make it. At each new acceptance Anna writes down the number on her list: 23, 24, 25 . . . 47, 48, 49.

When we get to fifty she smiles. ‘You're very popular,' she says. ‘Nearly all your friends are coming.'

‘And look,' she says, as an email comes in from Marcus. ‘All my friends are coming, too.'