Walk of atonement

I’m making toast when I should be eating muesli. I’m in my dressing gown when I should be getting dressed. I’m watching TV when I should be walking the dog.

My phone rings.

I glance at the name on the screen, place my phone face down on the couch, and keep watching Game of Thrones: the final episode of the fifth season for the third time. “A sinner comes before you …”

My phone rings. I pause the TV.

“Yep.”

“I’ve been tossing and turning all night,” she says. “You can’t sell the house. You barely know this man.”

Out in the courtyard, Baz is sniffing around the vegie patch and delicately mouths a green tomato. And then another one.

“I’ve known Pete for a year,” I tell her.

“I lay there thinking, she barely knows this man. She can’t sell the house.”

“I have to sell the house because I can’t afford the mortgage, and it makes sense to stay with Pete until I figure out what I’m going to do next.”

I extend my arm until her voice becomes a faint squawk. I bend my elbow in time to hear: “…move back with us.”

“I’ve got to go, Mum; Baz is eating all the tomatoes.”

I wipe the crumbs off my chest and rewind Game of Thrones. Cersei is standing in a hessian dress flanked by two nuns at the top of the castle stairs. “A sinner comes before you,’ the religious leader High Sparrow says. “Cersei, of House Lannister ...” Cersei’s robe drops. The actor’s naked double is pushed towards the hostile crowd. “Shame … shame … shame. The crowd jeers and throws rubbish. Baz starts barking.

I press pause and let Baz inside. He retches. A green sac is neatly deposited atop a pool of bile.

My phone rings.

“Jenny thinks it’s a bad idea.”

“Nice to know the cleaner has been consulted.”

“You always leap before you look.”

“I thought it was the other way around.”

“I know you won’t listen to me, but I’m going to say it anyway, listen to your mother.”

“Baz has just vomited; I’ll ring you back.”

I wipe up the vomit with a paper towel and wonder if the paper is recycled or if I’m contributing to landfill. I put on the jug.

The phone rings.

“Is the dog okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. He has a delicate stomach.”

“That dog is the reason you can’t afford the mortgage – all those vet bills.”

“He ate a puffer fish, what was I supposed to do?”

I put her on speaker phone. Make a cup of peppermint tea.

“You were never good with money. Your father and I…”

“I’m not moving back home.”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“I’m not shouting.”

“All I’ve ever done is love you.”

“That’s not the point. I’m 42, and I’m not moving back home.”

I still back down on the couch. The tea slops over the coffee table. Baz licks it up.

“Your father is very hurt about the way you’ve been carrying on.”

“I’m sure he’ll get over it.”

I put my phone on silent and press resume. Cersei is covered in mud and abrasions. Tears glisten on her cheeks. She slips on her own blood. Baz nudges me. His timing is impeccable. He should have been a therapy dog. I wipe my tears on my sleeve. I think of my grandmother with her snotty cotton handkerchiefs stuffed up her cardigan sleeve. She never liked me. My phone vibrates in my pocket like a reprimand.

I take out my phone and swipe until I come to the cluster of social media apps. My index finger hovers. X marks the spot. I know who you are, slut. I flick the app away.

The phone vibrates again.

“Your father wants to know when we’re going to meet this, Pete.”

I’m pretty sure the only thing my father wants to know is: How can I get some peace?

“Pete’s a busy guy. He’s the COO, you know, the chief operating officer, he’s got a lot of responsibility.”

“Why aren’t you working there anymore?”

“Redundancies, Mum. Fact of life. Decline in profits, technological advance...”

“But why you? What did you do wrong?”

“They got rid of all the PAs; it wasn’t just me. They’re going to use ChatGPT to write their emails now.”

“Are you getting married?”

“What! No!”

“It’s not right this ‘living together’ business. You know, I heard on the radio the other day that forty per cent of marriages end if people live together before getting married.”

“Which means 60 per cent survive. I’m not getting married. I’m not living together. I’m just staying with him until I get another job.”

“When are you coming to see us?”

“Soon.”

“When.”

“I’ll ring you tomorrow. I’ve got to go.”

I press ‘play’. Cersei leaves behind bloody footprints. Her face creases and trembles. She sobs. She is broken. I pick up my phone, search Reddit and look at her feed. There are more comments each day. There’s a new one from Sage#2: If it makes you feel any better, I hate your ex and his mistress with you.

I wonder how much longer Pete will be able to keep reporting to her. Her username is #prayforthebetrayed, but I know who she is. Baz nudges me again. I stroke his beautiful, black, dependable head. He nuzzles into my side and slobbers on my dressing gown. Pete says Baz will need to live outside in a kennel. We had a trial run last week. Baz was confused and barked at the door for hours, until I gave up and brought him back home. It was 1am; that’s when she’s usually on Reddit – either kept awake by her never-ending fear that a global supply chain crisis will kill the company or her anger about her personal grievances. The outcome is the same: she vents, and her followers empathise.

I press rewind. “A sinner comes before you,’ the religious leader High Sparrow says. “Cersei, of House Lannister ...” Cersei’s robe drops.

The phone rings. It’s not my mother. It is Pete.

I don’t answer it.