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Chapter Forty-Two

Somewhat disappointingly, the rest of the afternoon turned out to be uneventful. There was no dramatic reappearance of Noah like there would have been in the movies. There was no sound of two men fighting for my affections on the street below my house. And, luckily, no further sign of George.

After trying to distract myself with a couple of hours' coursework, my brain was too fuzzy to bother trying to continue, so I headed out into the living room to join Charlotte for a Netflix marathon.

After cracking open a bottle of wine and watching a couple of episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine, I had almost forgotten about earlier events. The vibration of my phone on the arm of the sofa brought me sharply back from the warm, comfortable world of American sitcoms into the reality of my life.

Stepping out into the kitchen to take the call, I took a deep breath before answering.

"Hi, mum," I began.

"Abi, George has just been round to tell me about today, what the hell is going on?" she barked, without even saying hello.

"Nice to speak to you too," I said, sarcastically.

"This is serious, Abi," she shot back, her voice firm and unfaltering, "He told me you were walking the street with no shoes on, then you were so exhausted you couldn't even keep your eyes open, then some tattooed man just let himself into your house and attacked George."

I couldn't help laughing at the series of exaggerated events he'd spoon-fed her.

"Yeah, sounds about right," I sighed, rolling my eyes to myself.

"Abi," she snapped. "I'm worried about you, darling. What's going on? You've barely called me since the accident and I have no idea what's going on in your life at the moment."

I heard her let out a deep sigh on the other end of the line. "I miss my baby girl," she said softly. "You used to tell me everything, before daddy... before, you know..."

After a few seconds silence, I finally responded. "I've just been busy mum. Uni and social stuff. Life's been hectic."

"So hectic that you can't even check in with your old mum?"

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, "I guess I have been a bit shit."

"Language, young lady!" she laughed.

As I laughed gently back at her half-hearted telling off, my mind raced with how much I had unknowingly been blocking her out of my life. Ever since things first got bad with George, who she - along with the rest of the world - had thought was perfect, not telling her the whole truth had become almost second nature.

Without thinking, I found myself blurting out, "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Umm, nothing, sweetie. Believe it or not, at the ripe old age of fifty-one my social life is not quite as full as yours."

"Okay," I laughed, "If it's alright with you, I'd like to come home for the weekend."

"That would be lovely," she replied. I could picture the smile on her face. "You know you don't need to ask, Abi, this is your home," she added.

"I know, mum," I replied. I could almost see her; twirling a lock of brown hair around her finger as she perched on the step outside the back door of our old terraced house - the place she made all her phone calls - with a long, menthol cigarette in her hand.

After we finalised plans for me to get the direct Paddington to Bath train on Friday straight after Uni, we said our goodbyes and I headed back into the living room.