Page 70

Julia

‘She’s back!’

My eyes fly open. Where am I? Bright lights.

The scent of garlic and tomato. A vibrating, loud noise.

Applause? It ripples around the table, punctuated by laughter.

More sounds: the tinkle of cutlery, the pop of a champagne cork, a woman’s voice rising at the end of a sentence.

Is she asking me a question? I straighten in my seat.

Too late. I’m slipping away. My head nods forward.

‘Julia!’

‘Oh no! We’ve lost her again.’

Sounds and lights shrink, becoming a distant pinprick in a never-ending tunnel.

I’m swamped by crashing waves of grey nothingness before plunging into ice-cold water.

Splashing. Something’s dragging me down.

I’m sinking beneath the ripples, deeper and deeper.

Now, I’m being pulled up and away from danger.

An invisible thread draws me towards a handsome man with bluish-green eyes and curly brown hair.

He’s in soft focus, as if I’m staring at him through a blurred camera lens.

Butterflies dance across my stomach as he smiles and reaches out his hand.

Instinctively, I sense I’ll be safe. I’m trying to reach him, but the background shimmers.

Faint voices pierce the film-like bubble.

‘Is she okay?’

The strangers’ voices become louder. More insistent.

‘Is she always like this? It must be difficult for you.’

Pain stabs my arm. Repeatedly. Red-hot pincers.

‘Julia, for God’s sake, wake up!’

I’m fighting my way to Ed’s voice. My eyelids flicker open briefly. Sharp colours fade fast. Sounds drift from my grasp. I blink and blink.

Stay awake.

I gasp for air. A familiar hot, shameful heat creeps across my cheeks for falling asleep and imagining that man who isn’t my boyfriend.

I have no idea who he is or why he’s been making fleeting appearances in my dreams recently, but I’m not complaining.

It’s far better than my usual nightmares.

My lids droop. I widen my eyes, saucer like, trying to resist the invisible invader that wants to drag me to foreign shores.

It’s hovering on the edges of my brain. Waiting to claim me again.

I can’t let it. Tonight is important. I can’t remember why.

Think.

I check the edges of my mouth for drool and attempt to concentrate. My eyes refocus on a sea of unfamiliar faces. A middle-aged man with black-rimmed glasses glances away. Two twenty-something women are talking behind their hands at the end of the table. They freeze.

Who are these people? What am I doing here?

My brain restarts. I’m in an Italian restaurant in Clapham with Ed’s work colleagues and boss, Tony, a classic car enthusiast. I’d been talking to his wife, Sabrina, who was far less passionate about his hobby.

Before we’d set off from White City, Ed admitted he’d researched famous old cars to impress Tony, ahead of next week’s pay appraisal.

He’d begged me to chat to members of the marketing company and their partners.

Unspoken words had lingered between us:

Please make a good impression.

Don’t embarrass me.

Oh God. That ship has long sailed.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I blurt out. ‘I can’t help it. I have no control over when it happens. The tiredness just hits me.’

No one speaks. Someone a few seats down clears their throat. An uncomfortable silence lengthens. I wait for Ed to leap to my defence, the way he used to when we first got together, but his mouth is a tight, straight line. His hands grip the sides of the chair, his shoulders rigid.

‘How long was I out for this time?’ I whisper, leaning closer.

‘About ten minutes and you were snoring,’ he hisses. ‘I couldn’t wake you.’

‘Sorry.’

That’s a word I’ve used a lot recently. I feel for his hand under the table, but it’s out of reach.

‘Don’t worry,’ Tony says. ‘My wife sends me to sleep with some of her stories. Don’t get her onto the subject of her sewing group. You’ll definitely nod off!’

Sabrina rolls her eyes dramatically. ‘ I do that when you talk about restoring Jaguar E-Types!’

She flashes me a sympathetic smile but I’m dying inside. I’d asked Ed to explain my narcolepsy to everyone before we came tonight in case I had an attack, but it must have slipped his mind. Now I feel like the evening’s circus act.

‘It’s not that, I promise. My brain can’t regulate sleeping and waking properly. I fall asleep at inappropriate times.’

‘ Very inappropriate times,’ Ed says, laughing loudly. ‘Like at your birthday party last week when you fell off the chair! It was incredibly dramatic – worthy of an Oscar.’

I take a swig of Diet Coke; my throat is horribly dry. ‘Thank you! Florence Pugh had better watch out. I’m after all her roles.’

I’m playing along, but my cheeks burn hotter. I shoot him a look – he could have picked a million better ways to lighten the mood.

Miranda, the firm’s latest recruit, giggles, making her dangly star earrings shimmer delicately. ‘Omigod. That’s terrible!’

Ed has previously described her as annoying and loud, but he obviously forgot to mention she’s also flirty and attractive. She tosses her long, blonde mane and nudges his arm. ‘What happened? Spill the beans!’

I stare harder at Ed, silently begging him to stop, but he’s on a roll and had too much to drink.

‘The waiter almost tripped over her, but never spilt a drop from the beer glasses on his tray. He was a total pro!’

Miranda snorts with laughter, her hair brushing against his suit sleeve. ‘God, I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like.’

No, you can’t.

‘It was a shock.’ Ed takes a large gulp of wine. ‘Luckily, Julia wasn’t hurt.’

I catch hold of his hand as it returns to the table and squeeze it gently. He knows I hate discussing my episodes with strangers, and my birthday party is an evening I want to erase from my memory forever.

‘Yeah, but—’

I apply more pressure. He finally gets the message and gives me a brief, apologetic smile as the waitress returns to our table. He loosens his old Harrovian tie and takes off his jacket, slinging it over the back of the seat.

‘How are we doing for drinks?’ the young woman asks. ‘Can I get anyone a coffee or a liqueur?’

Tony bangs the table with his fist, making his wife wince. ‘I fancy a port. What about anyone else?’

I grab my handbag, seizing the chance to escape. ‘I’ll be back in five.’

‘Sure thing,’ Ed mumbles.

Miranda swishes her hair as I pass her chair. ‘Will she be okay on her own?’

I don’t hear Ed’s reply. He reaches for another bottle of red and tops up their glasses.

They clink them together. I want to tell Ed to slow down before he blurts out something he’ll regret in front of Tony.

But I can hardly lecture him when I’ve created a spectacle.

I weave my way through the closely positioned tables to the bathroom and lock myself inside a cubicle. Tears slide down my cheeks.

Why is this happening to me?

I already know the answer. In some rare cases like mine, narcolepsy runs in families due to an inherited genetic fault.

I’ll thank Mum for the permanent leaving present if she ever bothers to get in touch with me or Gran again.

The bathroom door creaks open as I tear off a piece of tissue and dab beneath my eyes.

I hear footsteps, a tap turning on and water splashing into a basin.

I breathe out slowly. I need to go back to the GP; the stimulants she prescribed aren’t working.

If anything, I’m getting worse. The episodes have been happening up to a dozen times a day since my twenty-fifth birthday.

Ed is probably describing in graphic detail how I ruined my party last Friday.

When I came round on the restaurant floor, I couldn’t stop crying about Mum.

It felt like she’d abandoned me yesterday, not twenty years ago.

I unlock the cubicle, praying one of the cold-eyed girls from the end of the table, or worse still, Miranda, hasn’t followed me in.

Thankfully, the elderly woman rummaging in her handbag by the sinks isn’t from our party.

I peer in the mirror. Jesus. I resemble Dracula’s bride.

My short-sleeved black blouse emphasises the ghostly pallor of my face.

My eyes are bloodshot from crying and mascara is streaked beneath them for added gruesome effect.

The humidity in the restaurant has curled my hair into tight, red corkscrews; it never stays straightened for long.

I pull out my brush and make-up bag, searching for powder to fix my shiny nose before moving on to the rest of my ‘raised from the dead’ appearance.

‘You have beautiful hair,’ the lady remarks, dabbing at her face from a powder compact. ‘Such a lovely colour and texture.’

She looks older than Gran – mid to late eighties – and has deep wrinkles engrained on her forehead and cheeks, but her blue eyes sparkle brightly, and her white hair is cut into a fashionable bob.

‘That’s kind of you, but this is the bane of my life.’ I hold up an unruly tendril. ‘Sometimes I think I should cut it all off.’

‘No, you must make the most of everything while you can.’

Her voice is tinged with sadness. Her liver-spotted hands shake as she grips the side of the basin to steady herself. She’s frailer than I first thought.

‘Are you okay? You look fantastic by the way.’

‘When you get to my age...’ She coughs, clearing her throat. ‘It hurts to remember things you took for granted in your youth. Your looks, career, friends... You don’t realise how quickly everything can be taken away.’

She smiles but it doesn’t reach her eyes. They’ve moistened.

‘I’m sorry.’

She forces a brittle laugh and applies lip balm. ‘Ignore me. I’m being maudlin. Don’t let a tired, old woman ruin your night.’

‘It’s already ruined.’ I sigh as I dab at the dark streaks beneath my eyes with a tissue.

‘Boyfriend trouble?’ She snaps her compact shut.

‘Possibly.’

‘I’ve had some bad boyfriends in my time too. You should dump him.’

My mouth falls open as I stare at her in the mirror.

God, she’s blunt, like Gran was – still is when she has brief moments of lucidity.

They both come from an era when you could apparently say whatever the hell you wanted to people, including total strangers.

Or, maybe, when you get to a certain age you don’t care anymore and tell it straight .

I give my hair a quick brush and throw everything into my bag. ‘My boyfriend’s great. He’ll be wondering where I am. It was nice meeting you...’

She hesitates. ‘Patricia.’

I feel a tiny shiver down my spine as she stares at my arm. I glance down. Small crimson bruises have sprung up across my pale skin, the same as last week.

She sniffs. ‘That’s what your generation calls “a red flag”, I believe.’

I gasp, remembering the shooting pain while I was asleep. Was Ed pinching my arm to wake me?

‘Honestly, it’s not what you think . . .’

‘That someone gripped your arm tightly and left fingermarks?’

I open my mouth to argue.

‘It can be scary to make the break,’ she continues. ‘But believe me, you’re far better off on your own than stuck in a relationship with someone who doesn’t respect you. I hate to...’ She stops herself, shuddering. ‘I can’t bear to see a young woman treated badly.’

Omigod! This is embarrassing. She’s completely misunderstood the situation.

‘It’s fine, honestly. Ed hasn’t hurt me. Well, he didn’t mean to. You see...’ My voice trails off. I can’t face explaining my condition again tonight. No one ever truly understands. ‘Please don’t worry about me. Ed’s a good man. We’re happy.’ I pause. ‘ I’m happy.’

Her eyebrows raise. ‘You don’t look happy. Good men don’t make their girlfriends cry or give them bruises. Why don’t you leave him? What are you afraid of?’

I glare at her. How dare she? I shouldn’t have to defend our relationship to an interfering old woman. She’s grasped the wrong end of the stick. She doesn’t know anything about me or Ed, but she’s judging us both. And she’s crossed way over the line.

I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to tell her to mind her own business.

‘Goodbye, Patricia,’ I say, marching away. ‘Enjoy the rest of your night.’

‘Goodbye . . .’

The door swings shut.

Before it closes completely, I spin round. I swear I heard a single word drift out.

Julia.