A Space of Her Own

Midnight, December 31^st. Florence watches the clock tick over to 00:01 and already feels crushed by a countdown of her own invention. She blames herself for not being more proactive, but in her defence, who knew it would be this hard to leave your childhood home behind? Three hundred and sixty four days ago she made the decision to try again. But now she’s lying in the same bed she’s had since she was old enough to sleep in one, staring at the same walls that have always kept her safe from the “big bad outside world”, as her mum calls it.

What is wrong with me? She thinks to herself. Two and a half decades spent in front of the same backdrop, every day the same. You can hardly call that living at all.

Florence has always had a flair for the dramatic. When she turned eighteen, she made the decision to always keep her passport on her bedside table, just to know that if she ever wanted to, she could pick it up and go somewhere far, far away. Of course, she never would. She knows that but wouldn’t admit it, not to herself, not to anyone. This year is the fourth year running that she’s made the same resolution: Leave home and don’t come back. She added the “don’t come back” part after moving out for a week in the Spring of 2017. Turns out it’s easy to talk about leaving home, a little less easy to actually do it. Sometimes things happen. Things that make being alone difficult. Dangerous. Florence knows that better than most.

Another agonising hour of staring at the clock later and Florence crashes into a fitful sleep. She dreams of the coming day. Packed suitcases, mum crying, that first lonely cup of tea in an unfurnished flat. Then flashes of the days that follow. A space of her own, board games with friends on the weekends, maybe even a cat to make it feel a little more like home. Then she wakes up and has the familiar epiphany that these things will not happen, cannot happen, if she doesn’t take action.

She jumps out of bed and gets dressed, then stuffs the rest of her clothes into her suitcase. She thinks about how sad it is to be separating her suitcase from the rest of her family’s matching luggage, and it almost stops her dead in her tracks. But she’s tired of letting other people’s feelings overshadow her own and decides that the luggage will just have to get over it. Her parents too, but that’s not as likely. With the suitcase packed she just has to find a place to go. She unplugs her phone from the charger by the bed and starts thinking about who might have a spare room.

Money isn’t a problem; her job pays well, and her parents have been good enough to not make her pay rent for the past seven years. She felt like she belonged to a minority who wished that money was the only thing that mattered, because at least then she could be content with what she has. A utopia in her eyes was a place where who you are deep down means nothing. All that you are is what you have, and what you have is who you are. She wouldn’t have to make resolutions that she couldn’t live up to or feel indebted over things that are out of her control. She would have hers and they would have theirs and that would be enough for everyone.

After a hard no from Catherine with a C, she calls up Katherine with a K. She was looking for a roommate at the start of the month. Florence had been meaning to call for weeks, and she desperately hoped she wasn’t too late. Katherine works the evening shift at the same restaurant that Florence (assistant) manages, so she’s guaranteed time to herself most nights.

‘Hey, Flo, what’s up?’

‘Hey Kath, I was just wondering, I know this is short notice, but you know that roommate thing you were looking for?’

‘Roommate thing? You mean a roommate?’

‘Haha, yeah. Um, are you still looking?’

‘Yeah, I am. Why, are you looking for a place?’ Florence is certain of her answer, but involuntarily pauses before replying.

‘I am.’

‘Awesome, tell you what, I’ll call you up in the new year and we’ll--’

‘Actually, I was kind of hoping I could move in, um, today. If that’s okay?’

‘Jesus, Flo.’

‘Is it a bad time?’

‘New Years Eve? Yeah, it’s kind of a bad time. Don’t you need, like, moving vans and stuff?’

‘Is there a bed in the room?’

‘Yeah. I’ve actually been using it as a guest room but the rent just got raised so… you know how it is.’

‘Then no. I have a suitcase with everything I need in it, the rest I can bring over some other time.’

‘Well, I guess we can figure something out for today. I’ll text you in a minute, alright?’

‘Okay. Thank you so much Kath.’

‘No problem. See you later.’ Florence puts the phone down. An unidentifiable feeling bubbles in her abdomen. A blend of excitement and unmitigated terror that makes her want to throw up. She grabs a pillow from her childhood bed, holds it up to her face, and screams.

She goes downstairs, the suitcase thumping against every other step, and when she walks into the kitchen a cold stare from her mum greets her. She’s a cold stare kind of person.

‘Where’s dad?’ Florence asks.

‘Work. Where are you going? Somewhere warm?’

‘I told you, mum. I’m moving out.’

‘Again? I thought we talked about this, you’re not ready.’

‘I am! I’ve been ready for years it’s just--’

‘Just what?’

‘The stars haven’t aligned yet.’ Her mum’s ambivalent expression fades and a sneer takes its place.

‘The stars? You’ll be waiting a while for those, love. What’s wrong with living here? Do we not do enough for you?’

‘No, it’s not that. I just need my own space.’

‘And you don’t have that here? That room you’ve been living in rent-free all your life, that’s not your space?’

‘No, it isn’t! It’s a room in a house. Your house, not mine.’

‘Well that’s just bloody lovely to hear, isn’t it? You know, your father and I love you so much, and this is all we get in return. Self-centred tantrums. You just can’t see that all we do is look after you because you’re incapable of doing it yourself. You’re still a child, Florence.’

‘I’m not--’ Florence’s eyes start to sting while she holds back tears. She’s used to being talked over but it hurts all the same.

‘Time and time again you’ve come crying to us. Things didn’t work out at school? That’s okay, Florence, mummy and daddy will take care of you. One of your little girlfriends or boyfriends broke up with you? Oh, never mind, Florence, mummy and daddy will pick up the pieces. What’s that? You can’t stand being on your own and you want to come home? Well then by all means--’

‘STOP IT!’ Florence screams. Her mum just sits there with a smug grin. She takes a sip of her coffee as Florence storms over to the front door, suitcase kicking at her heels.

‘Leave your key in the bowl.’ She hears from the kitchen. It’s almost enough to make her turn around and give a piece of her mind, but if she turns back now, she knows she’ll just end up changing it. So often people live like this when they never learned to recognise abuse. She drops the key in the bowl with a CLINK, loud enough for her mum to hear, then stealthily lifts it out of the bowl and slips into her pocket. Just in case. Discontentment is a constant in Florence’s life, no different from her pulse at this point.

Katherine sent a text offering to meet Florence around midday at her place--their place--to give her the key. Florence finally feels like she can breathe. She’ll get her key at noon and still have twelve hours to get settled before the year ends. She doesn’t have any plans to party, that’s never been her thing. New Years Eve has always felt like a rabid hunt for the best place to be, and Florence has always found it easier to just not try. It’s the best way to avoid disappointment. That being said, she never avoided making resolutions. She saw the new year as this great cleansing thing, wherein everything from the old, dead year is washed away, and something new takes its place. It’s how she justified making the same resolution four years in a row. On the way to Kath’s place she thinks about what her new resolution might be, now that she is finally going to end a year somewhere other than her parent’s house.

Florence arrives at Kath’s building half an hour early. She sits in the entrance hall and daydreams about all the memories she might make here. Awkward eye contact with the neighbours, arguments with the landlord when the boiler breaks, and nights spent sat right where she is, waiting for Kath to get home from work because she lost her keys. The future is full of uncertainty. Not like before. Kath soon arrives with a smile on her face and a key in her hand.

‘Hey roomie!’ Kath says happily.

‘Hey! Thanks again for this.’

‘No, thank you. I was about to ready to call it quits on this place and move back in with my parents, so believe me, you’re the one doing me a favour here.’

‘Great. And you’re sure you’re okay with me moving in tonight? If you have plans, I can maybe get a hotel room or something. At least until--’

‘No, don’t be silly! It was a bit short notice, sure, but I’m glad you’re here. We’ll call up the landlord and get the paperwork sorted next week but for now, let’s get you moved in!’ Kath squeals with glee and Florence fights to match her energy. Halfway up the stairs to the flat, Kath turns around suddenly and makes Florence jump. ‘Oh! I almost forgot. I’m having a couple of friends over tonight, ring in the new year and stuff. You’re more than welcome to join.’

‘That’s cool. Maybe.’ Florence knows there’s no way she was actually going to a party on new years eve, least of all with a bunch of strangers, but she also knows that this time there’s no way to avoid being there. She may not go to the party, but the party will happen to her.

Florence tries out her new key and steps into home. She had been here once when Kath left her purse at work and Florence offered to drop it off, but she never made it past the door. She expected it to be smaller than her parents house, obviously, but the beige walls smother her, like she’s lying in a bed with too many pillows. A sinister kind of comfort.

‘Welcome home! Your room is the door on the left down there, bathroom is the one on the end. Got it?’

‘Yep.’

‘Great, I’m just going to go do a bit of pre-party shopping, you get yourself settled.’

‘Okay. Bye.’ Kath is already gone, out the door and down the hall. For the first time since the spring of 2017, Florence is alone. The first thing she does is change the sheets on the ratty duvet Kath kept on the spare bed. The room is about half the size of her room at home (her parent’s home, she reminds herself)and decorated sparsely - a few framed photographs of Kath on holiday with women Florence had never seen on the windowsill, and a bookshelf empty except for two copies of Conor McGregor’s autobiography, which she assumes were duplicate Christmas presents from whichever year the book was published. It feels like a nuclear waste site. Avoided at all costs. Nothing in here but buried memories and a ratty duvet.

It’ll get better, she thinks, Tomorrow I’ll get my stuff from home, maybe a few pictures on the wall. This could be home.

Florence makes the bed and places her passport neatly on the bedside table, then sits for a while. She takes in the quiet. Is this what it’s like, to have a space of your own? No raised-voice discussions going on downstairs, no clattering of plates at six in the morning as your dad empties the dishwasher before work? It feels lonely. But so did being there. Florence wrestles with this contradiction until the door rattles open and the silence is banished. She breathes a sigh of relief when she hears Kath’s voice, followed by a panicked intake of breath when two unfamiliar voices follow. She hurries to the door and presses her weight against it. Kath knocks.

‘Flo? You unpacked?’

‘Uh, yeah, nearly.’ She looks at the suitcase stood upright by the bed.

‘Do you want to come and say hi? Nick and Padma are here! Nick from work?’

‘That’s okay I think I’m just going to hang out in here for now. Big day, you know?’

‘Oh, okay.’ Florence can hear Kath linger by the door for a moment before walking away and saying something to her friends. She speaks softly, but not so softly that Florence can’t make out her own name in the whispers. She’s too tired to care. She flops out on the bed, shuts her eyes, and starts to think about the rapidly approaching new year. 2020. It hardly seems real. Some small part of Florence never expected to make it this far, always imagining that she’d forget to look both ways one day while crossing the street and be taken out by a learner driver. She wonders if that made her suicidal, or just morbid.

Maybe “go to therapy” is a good resolution for 2020. I doubt mum and dad will pay for it now, though, and I’ll be waiting until 2021 for the NHS to give me an appointment.

Florence is woken up from a pleasant nap by the sound of a champagne bottle popping behind the door. She looks at the time. Five minutes until midnight. She considers going out and joining the happy sounding people sipping champagne on the other side of the door but decides against it. This space belongs to her now, even if it doesn’t feel like it yet. She pulls a diary out of the suitcase. “2020” is embossed in gold foil on the burgundy leather cover. She watches the blood leave her fingertips as they grip the diary tightly, then loosens her grip and watches the pressured white turn back to a healthy pink. Pen in hand, she opens the diary to the first page; the word “Resolutions” heads the page in cursive font. Every instinct is screaming at her to write the same thing as always, to resign herself to another year of dissatisfaction. But she’s here. She’s a minute away from a new year and she’s here. Her eyes dart over the photos, the empty bookshelf, the suitcase that couldn’t even fit half her clothes, and she convinces herself that this is enough. It has to be, at least for another minute.