Finding Audrey

I know what it’s like to be an old person now.

OK, I don’t know what it’s like to have wrinkly skin and white hair. But I do know what it’s like to walk down the road at a slow, uncertain pace, wincing at the passing of people and flinching when horns beep and feeling like everything is just too fast.

Mum and Dad have taken Felix out for the day to some garden show and at the last minute they took Frank with them too, to ‘broaden his horizons’. So they have no idea I’m doing this. I couldn’t face the whole big deal of telling them and Mum fussing and all that palaver. So I waited till they left, got my key, got my money and the camera, and just left the house.

Which I haven’t done for . . .

I don’t know. So long.

We live about twenty minutes’ walk from Starbucks, if you’re striding. I’m not striding. But I’m not stopping, either. I’m going. Even though my lizard brain is poised to curl up in fright, I’m managing to put one foot in front of the other. Left, right. Left, right.

My dark glasses are on, my hands are jammed in the pockets of my hoodie and I’ve pulled the hood up for extra protection. I haven’t raised my gaze from the pavement, but that’s OK. Most people walk along in their own worlds anyway.

As I reach the town centre the crowds become denser and the shop fronts are bright and noisy, and with every step I have a stronger desire to run, but I don’t. I push on. It’s like climbing a mountain, I tell myself. Your body doesn’t want to do it, but you make it.

And then, at last, I’ve made it to Starbucks. As I approach the familiar facade I feel kind of exhausted, but I’m giddy too. I’m here. I’m here!

I push the door open and there’s Linus, sitting at a table near the entrance. He’s wearing jeans and a grey T-shirt and he looks hot, I notice before I can stop myself. Not that this is a date.

I mean, obviously it’s not a date. But even so—

Mid-Sentence Stop. Whatever. You know what I mean.

Linus’s face brightens as he sees me, and he leaps up from the table. ‘You made it!’

‘Yes!’

‘I didn’t think you would.’

‘I didn’t think so either,’ I admit.

‘But you did! You’re cured!’

His enthusiasm is so infectious I grin madly back and we do a sort of mini-dance, arms waving up and down.

‘Shall we get some coffee?’

‘Yes!’ I say, in my new confident, everything’s-fine way. ‘Great!’

As we join the queue I feel kind of wired. The music on the sound system is too loud and the conversations around me are hitting my ear-drums with a force that makes me wince, but I’m going with it instead of resisting. Like you do at a rock concert, when your nerves get taken over by the force of the noise and you just have to surrender. (And yes, I appreciate most people would not equate low-level Starbucks chatter to a rock concert. All I will say is: Try living inside my brain for a bit.)

I can feel my heart pumping, but whether it’s because of the noise or the people or because I’m with a hot-looking boy, I don’t know. I give my order (caramel Frappuccino) and the surly girl behind the counter says, ‘Name?’

If there’s one thing I don’t want it’s my name being shouted across a busy coffee shop.

‘I hate the name thing,’ I mutter to Linus.

‘Me too.’ He nods. ‘Give a fake one. I always do.’

‘Name?’ repeats the girl impatiently.

‘Oh. Um, Rhubarb,’ I say.

‘Rhubarb?’

It’s easy to keep a poker face when you’re wearing dark glasses and a hoodie and you’re looking off to one side.

‘Yes, that’s my name. Rhubarb.’

‘You’re called Rhubarb?’

‘Of course she’s called Rhubarb,’ chimes in Linus. ‘Hey, Rhu, do you want anything to eat? You want a muffin, Rhu?’

‘No, thanks.’ I can’t help smiling.

‘OK, Rhu. No problem.’

‘Fine. Rhu-barb.’ The girl writes it down with her Sharpie. ‘And you?’

‘I would like a cappuccino,’ says Linus politely. ‘Thank you.’

‘Your name?’

‘I’ll spell it for you,’ he says. ‘Z-W-P-A-E-N—’

‘What?’ She stares at him, Sharpie in hand.

‘Wait. I haven’t finished. Double-F-hyphen-T-J-U-S. It’s an unusual name,’ Linus adds gravely. ‘It’s Dutch.’

I’m shaking, trying not to laugh.

The Starbucks girl gives us both evil stares. ‘You’re John,’ she says, and scrawls it on his cup.

I tell Linus I’ll pay because this is my documentary and I’m the producer, and he says OK, he’ll get the next one. Then we take our cups – Rhubarb and John – and head back to our table. My heart is pounding even harder, but I’m on a high. Look at me! In Starbucks! Back to normal!

I mean, OK, I’m still in dark glasses. And I can’t look at anyone. And my hands are doing weird twisty things in my lap. But I’m here. That’s the point.

‘So you dumped Frank off your team,’ I say as we sit down, and immediately regret it in case it sounds aggressive.

But Linus doesn’t look offended. He looks worried. ‘Frank doesn’t blame me,’ he says quickly, and I realize they must have had a conversation about this. ‘I mean, he wouldn’t expect us all to give up playing LOC just because he’s had to. He said he’d do the same if it was him.’

‘So who’s the fourth?’

‘This guy Matt,’ says Linus without enthusiasm. ‘He’s OK.’

‘Dad made Frank play bass with him in the garage,’ I tell him. ‘He thinks that’s a better interest.’

‘Does Frank play bass?’

‘Barely.’ I snuffle with laughter. ‘He plays, like, three chords and Dad does ten-minute solos.’

‘You think that’s bad? My dad plays the recorder.’

‘He what?’ My laughter dies away. ‘Seriously?’

‘You can’t tell anyone.’ Linus looks suddenly vulnerable, and I feel a wave of . . . something. Something strong and warm. Like when you put your arm round someone and squeeze.

‘I won’t tell. I promise.’ I take a sip of Frappuccino. ‘Like, the kind of recorder kids play?’

‘A grown-up kind. Wooden. Big.’ He demonstrates.

‘Wow. I didn’t know that existed.’

We sip our drinks and smile at each other. Thoughts are racing through my head; crazy thoughts like I’ve made it! I’m in Starbucks! Go me! But there are other weird, random thoughts popping up, like Everyone’s looking at me and I hate myself. And then, suddenly, I wish I was at home right now, which is just weird. I do not wish I was at home. I’m out with Linus! In Starbucks!

‘So what do you want to ask me on your documentary?’ he says.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Stuff.’

‘Is this part of your therapy?’

‘Yes. Kind of.’

‘But do you still need therapy? I mean, you look fine.’

‘Well, I am fine. It’s just this project . . .’

‘If you just took off your dark glasses you’d be, like, totally back to normal. You should do that,’ Linus says with enthusiasm. ‘You know, just do it.’

‘I will.’

‘But you shouldn’t wait. You should do it, right here, right now.’

‘Yes. Maybe.’

‘Shall I do it?’ He reaches over and I recoil.

My bravado is melting away. His voice feels hectoring, like he’s giving me an interrogation.

I don’t know what’s happened in my head. Things have turned. I take a sip of Frappuccino, trying to relax, but all I really want to do is grab a napkin and shred it into little bits. The voices around me are getting louder and louder; more and more threatening.

At the counter, someone’s complaining about a cold coffee, and I find myself tuning in to the only side of the argument that I can hear.

‘Complained three times . . . don’t want a free coffee . . . not good enough! Just not good enough!’

The angry voice is like a chisel in my brain. It’s making me flinch and close my eyes and want to flee. I’m starting to panic. My chest is rising and falling. I can’t stay. I can’t do this. Dr Sarah’s wrong. I’m never going to get better. Look, I can’t even sit in Starbucks. I’m a total failure.

And now darker thoughts are circling my head, dragging me down. I should just hide away. I shouldn’t even exist. What’s the point of me, anyway?

‘Audrey?’ Linus waves a hand in front of my face, which makes me flinch even more. ‘Audrey?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I gulp, and push my chair back. I have to escape.

‘What?’ Linus stares at me, bewildered.

‘I can’t stay.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s just . . . too loud. Too much.’ I put my hands over my ears. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry . . .’

I’m already at the door. I push it open and feel some small relief as I make it outside. But I’m not safe. I’m not home.

‘But you were fine.’ Linus has followed me out. He sounds almost angry. ‘You were fine just now! We were chatting and we were laughing . . .’

‘I know.’

‘So what happened?’

‘Nothing,’ I say desperately. ‘I don’t know. It makes no sense.’

‘So, just tell yourself to snap out of it. You know, mind over matter.’

‘I’ve tried!’ Angry tears rise in my eyes. ‘Don’t you think I’ve tried snapping out of it?’

My head is a whirling mass of distress signals. I have to go. Now. I never hail taxis, ever, but right now I don’t even think twice. I stick my hand out and a black cab comes trundling by. Tears are filling my eyes as I get in – not that anyone can see them.

‘Sorry,’ I say to Linus, my voice a little thick. ‘I really am. So. We should forget the film and everything. So. I won’t see you, I guess. Bye. Sorry. Sorry.’

At home I lie in my bed, totally still, totally silent, with the curtains drawn and earplugs in. For about three hours. I don’t move a muscle. Sometimes I feel as if I’m a phone, and this is the only way I can recharge. Dr Sarah says my body is on an adrenalin roller coaster, and that’s why I lurch from totally wired to totally fatigued, with nothing in between.

At last, feeling wobbly, I head downstairs for something to eat. I write a text to Dr Sarah – I went to Starbucks but I had a meltdown – and send it off. The dark, ill thoughts have gone, but they’ve left me feeling weak and jittery.

I drift into the kitchen, and wince as I pass my reflection in the mirror. I look pale and kind of . . . I don’t know. Shrunken. It’s like the flu. It attacks you and your whole body takes the hit. I’m just considering whether to make a Nutella sandwich or a cheese one when I hear a rattling sound from the hall, and something dropping onto the mat, and I jump a mile.

For a moment there’s silence. I’ve tensed up all over like an animal in a trap, but I tell myself firmly, I am safe, I am safe, I am safe, and my heart rate slowly drops, and at last I wander out to see what it is.

It’s a note, on the doormat – a piece of lined paper torn out of a notebook with Audrey written in Linus’s handwriting. I open it to see:

Are you OK? I texted but you didn’t reply. Frank didn’t reply either. I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and shock you. Are you OK??

I haven’t even looked at my phone since I texted Dr Sarah. And Frank’s at the garden show, in the countryside. He probably hasn’t got any signal. I imagine Frank, grimly tramping around some field, and raise a faint smile. He’ll be in such a bad mood.

Through the ripply glass of the front door I suddenly notice a kind of shadowy movement, and my heart catches. Oh God. Is that Linus, there? Is he waiting? For what?

I reach for a pen, and think for a moment.

I’m fine, thank you. Sorry I freaked out.

I push it back through the letter box. It’s a bit difficult because there’s a spring, but I manage it. A moment later, it reappears.

You looked really bad. I was worried.

I stare at his words, my heart falling like a stone. Really bad. I looked really bad. I ruin everything.

Sorry.

Somehow I can’t find anything to put except that one word, so I write it again.

Sorry. Sorry.

And I post the letter back through the letter box. Almost at once the page is pushed back with his reply:

No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault. In Starbucks, what were you thinking?

I wasn’t expecting that. For a few moments I don’t move. I’m hunched on the doormat, thoughts running through my head like ticker tape. Do I answer? What do I answer?

Do I want to tell him what I was thinking?

The voice of that therapist from St John’s keeps running through my head; the one who used to take the ‘Self Assertion’ workshop. We do not have to reveal ourselves. She used to say it every week. We are all entitled to privacy. You do not have to share anything with others, however much they may ask you. Photos, fantasies, plans for the weekend . . . they’re yours. She used to look around the room almost sternly. You do NOT have to share them.

I don’t have to share with Linus what I was thinking. I could walk away. I could write, Oh, nothing! Or You don’t want to know!!!;) Like it’s all a big joke.

But somehow . . . I want to share. I don’t know why, but I do. I trust him. And he’s on the other side of the door. It’s all safe. Like in a confessional.

Before I can change my mind, I scrawl,

I was thinking, ‘I’m a total failure, I shouldn’t exist, what’s the point of me?’

I shove it through the letter box, sit back on my heels and blow out, feeling a strange satisfaction. There. Enough pretending. Now he knows just how weird the inside of my mind is. I hold my breath, trying to glean his reaction on the other side of the door, but there’s silence. The ripply glass is still. I can’t detect any response at all. I think he must have gone. Of course he’s gone. Who would stay?

Oh God, am I nuts? Why would I write down my most warped thoughts and post them through a letter box to the one guy I actually like? Why would I do this?

Totally deflated, I get to my feet, and I’ve reached the kitchen door when I hear a rattling. I whip round – and there’s a reply on the doormat. My hands are trembling as I grab it and at first I can’t focus properly. It’s a new page, covered in writing, and it begins,

What’s the point of you? Try this for starters.

And underneath there’s a long list. He’s written a long, long list that fills the page. I’m so flustered, I can’t even read it properly, but as I scan down I catch beautiful smile and great taste in music (I sneaked a look at your iPod) and awesome Starbucks name.

I give a sudden snort of laughter that almost turns to a sob and then turns to a smile, and then suddenly I’m wiping my eyes. I’m all over the place.

With a rattle, another note plops through the letter box and I jerk in shock. What more can he have to say? Not another great big list, surely? But it says:

Will you open the door?

A flurry of alarm races through me. I can’t let him see my shrunken, pale, ratty self. I just can’t. I know Dr Sarah would tell me I’m not shrunken or ratty, I’m imagining it, but she’s not here, is she?

Not quite up to it. Another time. Sorry, sorry . . .

I hold my breath after I’ve posted the page. He’ll be offended. He’ll leave. That’s it, all over, before it even began . . .

But then the letter box rattles yet again and a reply comes through:

Understood. I’ll be off then.

My spirits plunge. He is leaving. He is offended. He hates me, I should have opened the door, I should have been stronger, I’m so stupid . . . I’m just trying desperately to think what I can write when another page drops onto the mat. It’s folded over, and on the outside is written:

Had to give you this before I go.

For a few moments I don’t dare read it. But at last I open it up and stare at the words inside. My head is prickling all over with disbelief. My breath is jumpy as I read it. He wrote that. He wrote that. To me.

It’s a kiss.