Crazy Over You Page 5

  “I mean it you know, I am sorry. Abby, I want you back.” He attempted to hold her gaze, but she looked away.

  “Simon, this isn’t fair, not now, please.”

  He let out a deep sigh and put his hand gently on her arm. Part of her wanted to melt into his warmth, just give in and let all the angst slip away, but she knew she shouldn’t.

  Forcing herself to gain control, she stepped away. It wasn’t right. Abby needed to know and feel that she still loved him; that she could still be with him without being tortured by her unforgiving mind. Being in need of a hug and longing for the physical connection they used to share wasn’t a good enough reason to take him back. She needed to have a clear head – something she wasn’t entirely sure she would ever possess again.

  Changing the subject, she decided to stick to her plan of getting him to agree to have the girls while she went on the residential, and getting out of the house as soon as possible. “I have to go and collect Mum, Kennedy’s expecting us.” She poured water into the vase of freesias and inhaled their scent before placing them on the side and turning back to face Simon. “But I need to know first if you’ll have the girls while I go on a school thing… a weekend residential. You know, as I haven’t been for years, the head expects it,” she lied. “Will you do that? I’ll email you the details.”

  Slightly taken aback, the conversation clearly having taken a turn he was not expecting, Simon responded hesitantly. “I’ll need to know what to do – you know, what they eat, when they eat, stuff like that.”

  “Simon, they’re not babies, they eat at meal times and they eat food – just like you.”

  “Of course, yeah, sorry.” Clearly torn between agreeing to please Abby and placing himself in a position way beyond his comfort zone, Simon pushed his hand through his hair.

  Sighing, Abby added, “Don’t worry, I’ll put it all in the email. You’ll be fine!” Having affirmed his decision for him before he was able to back out, Abby calmly kissed and hugged the girls. “I’ll be back to put you to bed, be good for Daddy.” Then she said goodbye and left the house.

  Once she reached her car she let out a big breath and gave in to the trembling that had been building inside her. Placing a shaky hand inside her pocket she took out the giraffe she had been unable to leave discarded on the kitchen side. She looked again at the word written on the tag: SORRY! She shook her head and sighed. Bloody hell, I’m going to have to keep my wits about me!

  Abby felt ill-equipped to pitch her frazzled mind against Simon on a quest. She knew he could be a formidable force when he wanted something and that he knew how to persuade people to comply with what he wanted. It came naturally to him. It was part of what made him so bloody charming and so very good at his job. And of course, he knew too much about her; he was extremely well-versed in the likes and dislikes of his target audience for this campaign. Summoning every ounce of determination she could muster from her confused mind, Abby tucked the giraffe away inside her bag. One thing was clear: she needed to know her own thoughts. She needed to understand her own mind and she needed to do that soon.

  Chapter 7

  Abby wondered why she had agreed to spend an afternoon in the company of her mum and sister, helping at her nephew’s cycling club, when she knew her mind would be in a state. Drinking coffee, a beverage she usually avoided knowing Simon didn’t like the smell, she was buzzing and trying extremely hard to remain calm. Kennedy on the other hand was in her element. She was busily arranging sticky squares of lemon drizzle cake, moist carrot cake, chunks of rich fruit cake and a variety of elaborately topped cupcakes – all baked at home in preparation for the event – on floral-printed cardboard cake stands. Abby watched, bemused, unaware until this point that such items even existed in disposable form.

  As Kennedy placed her carefully written price lists alongside her offerings Abby couldn’t help but tease her. “Oh no, they might get greasy; I could have laminated those for you, you know!”

  Kennedy’s sincere panic made her feel just a little bit guilty as she grinned.

  Her mum had been put on tea-and-coffee duty and was eagerly preparing polystyrene cups and two huge brown teapots that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a post-war street party. Abby liked to see her engaged so keenly; it kept her busy and stopped her from quizzing her about how she was – and from telling her to write to Denise Robertson for advice (as if sharing her problems with the viewers of This Morning was something Abby would find helpful).

  Abby wished she could share her mum’s enthusiasm for the job she’d been given, but quite frankly the monotonous task of putting safety pins on numbers and then putting them in piles of ten ready for the riders to collect before the race simply didn’t occupy her mind enough. She found it frustrating and pricked her finger too many times. All the while the positive and negative voices in her head battled, creating a din akin to white noise as a background to any other thought she tried to sustain.

  For Kennedy this weekly routine, along with washing Morgan’s cycling top until it was window-test-white, featured highly on her Mum-of-the-Year-ometer. Five years her senior, Abby’s sister was in every way her opposite. Her long, wavy blonde hair framed her peaches and cream complexion and contrasted with her bright blue eyes. Dressed in a wispy, floral Cath Kidston tea dress that showed off the slim physique she retained from her years of training as a dancer, and with her hair pulled into a casual topknot, Kennedy looked every part the domestic goddess. She clearly dominated the race headquarters’ kitchen. The other mums were obviously more than a little intimidated by her and seemed to steer clear of the area until everything was set up and they could no longer resist the call of the homemade cakes. Only then did they approach and make idle chat about the pending race and their boys’ previous performances.

  Abby watched as the club leader, a man who possessed a leathery tan she feared belied a white torso and thighs beneath his shorts and t-shirt, fiddled with his laptop. Clearly he was going to be in charge of recording and posting results. Abby remembered watching her dad race when she was a little girl. In those days she and Kennedy would wait eagerly for the results to be scribed onto a blackboard, but today they were going to be instantly displayed on an interactive whiteboard, similar to the one Abby used in the classroom – how times have changed. Morgan’s interest in cycling had filled Abby’s dad with pride. Abby knew she would always be grateful for the distraction supporting his grandson had offered him in the tough year before he died; she also knew she would always regret not making it to watch one of Morgan’s races with him. All those things that had occupied her time and made her too busy to go along seemed so very insignificant now.

  With the race about to start the riders all headed towards the door, walking clumsily in their cleat-soled cycling shoes. In these post-Chris Boardman days with British cyclists dominating the sport they readily emulated their heroes and looked like Lycra-clad aliens about to leave the mother ship as they approached the light of the door.

  “Good luck!” Abby and her mum called in unison as Morgan turned and waved. Keen to see Morgan off, Kennedy momentarily left her post and followed the throng.

  Seizing her moment, Abby darted behind the cake table but in her hurried attempt to feign purpose she knocked the entire stack of napkins across the floor, which instantly made her blood run hot in her veins and her body tense. Increasingly she found she had a much shorter fuse than usual. She didn’t like it. Having the ability to remain calm had always been an asset she was proud of, but these days she felt like a grenade whose pin had just been pulled. Certain that Kennedy freaking out at her would tip her into a rage nobody in the room deserved to witness, Abby quickly bent to pick them up.

  “A tea and one of your fine buns please.”

  Bottom stuck in the air and taken quite by surprise, Abby went to stand and hit her head on the table. “Bugger!” Rising with a red face, aware that the word had come out a little too loudly, and only just managing to steady a cake-laden stand bef
ore it toppled its contents into one sticky heap, she snapped, “What?” and looked up. As her eyes met the bemused gaze of Bradley Hunter she froze.

  Unable to hide his amusement, and with a distinctly cheeky sparkle in his eye, he replied, “I was just admiring your buns, Mrs Turner!”

  With cheeks still ablaze but her anger undoubtedly subsiding, Abby rubbed her sore head and smiled. “Blimey Brad, you made me jump! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m in the next race. You know me, can’t resist a bit of healthy competition!”

  Abby smiled and was about to speak when Kennedy caught her eye, her pace clearly quickening when she noticed her once pristine but now slightly dishevelled cake stand.

  “Uh-oh!” Abby rolled her eyes at Brad.

  Reaching the table in what seemed like only three strides, Kennedy gave her sister a thoroughly disapproving look. “Abby! What happened? I’ve only been gone a couple of minutes.”

  “I was, umm… helping…” Abby responded weakly, feeling like a naughty child and quite sure that her cheeks must be turning purple as she spoke.

  Kennedy’s wide eyes flicked from Abby to the napkins spread across the floor and then to the offending cake stand, before she placed her hands on her hips and took another breath.

  “It’s my fault. I knocked it.” Bradley leapt in before she could speak. “Sorry. Abby was just trying to put it right, weren’t you?” He glanced at Abby, grinning, eyes urging her to follow his lead.

  Smiling innocently, Abby added, “It’s true!”

  Kennedy stared at the pair of them, raising her eyebrows, looking like a teacher fully aware that her pupils were getting one over on her.

  Abby decided to quickly change the subject. “Kennedy, this is Bradley Hunter, he’s the PE co-ordinator at school. Brad, this is my big sister Kennedy and technically these are her buns!”

  Abby motioned at the cakes and moved aside, enabling Kennedy to say a quick hello to Brad and bluster past her to rectify the damage she’d caused.

  “There’s a while before my race, won’t you join me for a coffee?”

  “Oh… ummm.” Abby brushed the crumbs from her top and swept her fingers through her hair in an attempt to regain the poise she’d lost in her battle with the cake stand. She wished she didn’t always feel like the frumpy, slightly dumpy younger sister in Kennedy’s presence and regretted introducing her to Bradley.

  “Come on, you owe me after that performance.” Bradley smiled and motioned towards the chairs at the side of the hall.

  But before Abby could respond her mum appeared with two steaming cups of coffee. “Here you go, you deserve a break!”

  Abby looked at her mother, unsure why, when all she had done was put blessed safety pins on numbers, she suddenly deserved a break.

  “I’m Eleanor Scott. Abby’s mum.” She smiled at Brad. “Call me Eleanor.”

  Abby stared, eyes wide, at her mum.

  Brad grinned. “Lovely to meet you Eleanor, how much do I owe you?”

  “Oh no, these are on the house!” she added determinedly before passing the cups to Abby with a smile and heading back to the kitchen.

  With the polystyrene squeaking as it rubbed together Abby set the hot coffees down on a nearby table and sat down.

  Bradley smiled keenly as he took the seat next to her. “So I see you are down for the year six trip this year. It’s great you’re joining us.”

  “Oh yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking! I saw the activities list this week – can you imagine me climbing, abseiling…? It’ll be a disaster.” Abby rolled her eyes; she hadn’t thought about actually having to do the activities when she’d signed up. The thought of attempting any of them made her shudder, but the sudden thought of attempting them in front of Bradley made her positively cringe.

  “You’ll be great! And if you have trouble I’ll be there.”

  Trying to avoid revealing that this was exactly what she was afraid of, Abby laughed nervously.

  “Seriously though, it will be good, you’ll see!” Bradley looked directly at Abby, his fixed gaze reinforcing his words.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Abby added unconvincingly as her neck flushed and she looked away. An awkward silence fell between them and Abby sipped her coffee.

  Bradley took a breath. “So your sister takes this whole ‘twee and cake’ thing a bit seriously doesn’t she?” Stifling a giggle he added, “If she wasn’t so blonde I would have thought she was Kirstie Allsopp’s evil twin!”

  With that they both laughed.

  Abby hadn’t genuinely laughed out loud at anything for so long, and hearing her own release, she suddenly felt very self-conscious about sharing this moment with Bradley. She had spoken to him and joked with him hundreds of times at school and yet here, out of their usual staffroom context, it felt wrong. Feeling ready to laugh again felt wrong. Abby suddenly found herself ill at ease in his presence. Picking up her coffee she motioned towards the kitchen, pretending to have seen Eleanor beckoning her.

  “Oh look, my mum needs me and you better get ready. Good luck with the race.”

  As she began to walk away Bradley called after her, “Maybe I’ll see you after, then? Remember to save me one of those buns!”

  Try as Abby might to busy herself and to definitely not look in Bradley’s direction as he got ready for his race, she couldn’t help herself. Of course she had seen him in shorts and a t-shirt countless times before; she had even seen him in his swimming shorts at the school gala. She knew, as did everybody that laid eyes on him, that he had what could only be described as an incredibly fit body, but actually seeing him strip out of his clothes and wrap a towel around himself in preparation to remove his black Diesel hipsters was something else! Something, in fact, she decided she should not be watching. With a polite, “You OK here Mum?” she picked up her bag, slipped her hand in to feel for the giraffe tucked inside and walked through the kitchen. Once through the fire exit she welcomed the cool afternoon breeze on her hot cheeks.

  Chapter 8

  “Well done. You have made the first, and what will probably be the hardest, step towards resolving the issues you face. You have reached out for help and I am here for you; working together we will help you move on from your current state of disconnection and confusion towards a greater understanding of yourself and the pathway you wish to take in the future!”

  Abby found the contact details for Mallory Atkins while surreptitiously peeking at a little blue book in her GP’s waiting room. The unambiguously named Directory of Qualified Counsellors in your Local Area sat glaring at her, begging to be unearthed from its half-buried position amongst old copies of Woman’s Weekly and Reader’s Digest while she waited to be called for her quarterly B12 injection. The good thing about taking a 7:45am appointment was that the waiting room was empty; there was nobody to see her slowly pick up the little blue book, gingerly open the front cover and quickly take a photograph of the first page with her phone. Obtaining the information, provided you wanted a counsellor whose surname started with A, was as easy as that. Actually phoning a counsellor and admitting she needed help Abby found much harder.

  “It’s all so bloody American and I am purposely holding a grudge against all things American,” she had protested.

  But Melissa was having none of it. “You cannot possibly blame an entire country for the misdemeanours of your husband and one woman of limited morals, and being as you are clearly not taking ‘get over it’ plan A seriously,” she paused momentarily to eye Abby up and down, “then it’s time to bring plan B into action.”

  Abby dismissed both the need for plan B and the concept of seeing a counsellor. “The new wardrobe is coming soon; I have put sticky notes in my Next directory and everything.” A fact which was true: she had tucked them inside the front cover of her Next directory before she popped it away in the cupboard. “And I don’t need a counsellor, honestly Melissa… what would I say? My mind’s a mess!”

  “But that’s the point, you�
��re confused. A counsellor will help you with that. Now stop making excuses and give this Mallory woman a call!”

  As the already-dialled phone was thrust into Abby’s face she had no time to back out before she could hear the chirpy voice of Mallory Atkins in the earpiece.

  Mallory seemed to Abby to be an overly optimistic, flamboyant woman, probably in her mid-forties. She was little more than five foot and had an amply rounded figure. Her cheery voice, edged with a slightly condescending tone, was largely unthreatening. In truth Abby soon found that she quite liked Mallory’s habit of hyperbolising every little bit of praise she readily lavished upon her £40 an hour clients. Besides, she was the only counsellor in the A section of the directory who did home visits after the children were in bed. She was Abby’s only option!

  Dressed entirely in sky blue and wearing chunky gemstone jewellery Mallory carried a large carpetbag that reminded Abby somewhat of Mary Poppins. Thankfully she had no measuring tape with which to summarise Abby’s state of mind – “Abby Turner, practically crazy in every way!” Mallory’s kit bag contained the paraphernalia of counselling: a notebook and pen, a large box of man-sized tissues and a bottle of Evian. Thankfully there were no hidden crystals or incense sticks to burn – which Abby had sworn would have seen her counselling debut come to an abrupt end.

  By their second meeting they were no longer discussing the particulars of Abby’s situation; they were onto the nitty-gritty and it was time to discuss her feelings. This was not an easy thing for Abby to do, particularly as the confusion that frequently took over her mind and her subsequent emotional shutdown meant she didn’t have a clue how she truly felt about any of it.

  “Are you angry Abby? You don’t seem angry. Do you feel anger? Resentment perhaps?”

  “Yes, I suppose, all of those things.”

  “Can you show me that anger? Do you want to get cross? Show me how you feel.”