Chapter Sixteen
The Lawyer
Punching a cushion doesn’t solve anything.
After Amy left, Helen took me upstairs to her bedsit.
“I’ve got some zinc,” she said and, as I followed, she talked about how everything was so “f*****g unfair.”
Mum was right, she wasn’t handling things well. She hadn’t unpacked anything, the floor was a sea of boxes and bin bags, some unopened with tight knots at the top, others spilling out with clothes like someone in a frenzy had been looking for a bra and found a hairbrush.
As she crashed about like a maniac, pointlessly searching, I wondered how she got dressed in the morning and marveled at her ability to arrive at work in clothes like she had pulled them out of a wardrobe.
Then, in the middle of it all, was a notebook. It didn’t say “diary,” but still, I
