My Pear-Shaped Life. Carmel Harrington
has the weird hair,’ Eileen answered.
‘I saw him on the way in,’ Greta shuddered. ‘Not a good look.’ She held her shaking hands out. ‘And to add insult to being here – no offence – I think I’ve caught some kind of weird virus. I can’t even Google it to see what it might be.’
Sam reached over and placed his hands over Greta’s to quieten them, ‘How long since you had any pills?’
Greta looked at him sharply, to see if he was taking the piss, but could only see concern on his face.
‘The shakes are from detoxing,’ Sam explained.
Greta chose to ignore his diagnosis. ‘I need a coffee. Is there a Nespresso anywhere?’
‘There’s a tea and coffee station in most common areas.’ Sam nodded in the direction of the kettle.
She stood up to investigate, taking the chair with her. She pulled her bum from its clutches and, with as much dignity as she could muster, walked over to make a drink. ‘Anyone want one? This is all herbal teas and decaf. Where’s the real deal?’ She picked up a raspberry and fennel tea, sniffed it, then put it back.
‘Caffeine is a stimulant. So it’s banned,’ Eileen shouted over. She looked almost gleeful at Greta’s obvious annoyance.
‘Sshh.’ A wild-looking woman with wiry grey hair shouted, ‘Some of us are trying to watch the TV.’
‘You get used to the herbal stuff. Try a peppermint. Will help with your stomach,’ Sam said.
‘There’s nothing wrong with my stomach.’
‘Just wait,’ Sam said.
Greta didn’t care for the doom-and-gloom forewarnings. She was scared, and she felt rubbish. If she ran out the front door, she wondered if she could hitch a lift home to Dublin? Knowing her luck, she’d be picked up by a serial killer. Could she get a message to Uncle Ray? He’d get in the car and come and get her. She could hide in his house. But when her family had staged their intervention and insisted she come here he’d ignored her pleas for help and agreed with her parents. She was on her own. The loneliness floored her. She’d never lived away from home before. She wanted her mam. But most of all she wanted to go home.
‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Nice talking to you all,’ Greta said, waving goodbye to them. She walked, half jogged back to her room, throwing herself onto the bed, panting. Then she sobbed until there was nothing left inside of her. She blew her nose and realized that she was alone, with only her thoughts for company. She wondered if Dylan had sent her any more messages. She hadn’t told him where she was going, just that she was sick and wouldn’t be in work for a while. He must be so annoyed with her. And she couldn’t get the scrappy little dog that had been hanging around their street out of her head. She’d asked Ray to find his owners before she left. She hoped he was OK.
When Caroline brought her to this room earlier today, she’d given Greta a green journal. She explained that keeping a diary was compulsory. What could they do to her if she didn’t comply? A vision of herself locked in a padded white room, in a straightjacket, sprang to mind. Could they do that? Bloody Caroline was certainly strong enough to put her in one.
Greta picked it up in desperation, hoping it might give her something to do to help pass the time. At the top of each blank page, there were prompts to fill in.
Hours slept.
How I felt.
My truth.
She hadn’t the first clue as to what to write. Despite receiving lots of pink, secret diaries with padlocks over the years from Santa as a kid, she’d never written a word in them. She wasn’t one of those reflective types who continuously needed to self-analyse. But things had changed a lot in the past twenty-four hours. She was in prison now – or as good as. Sighing, she realized that she could lie in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling with her eyes wide open. Or she could give this a go. With nothing else to do and the whole night to do it in, she picked up a pencil and wrote her first entry.
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