Rich Tapestry Read Online Free Page B

competition is for these places and how lucky I’ve been to have been offered this chance. She leaves unsaid the potentially dire consequences for my current position, but I have no illusions regarding my career advancement potential if I screw this up. Fucking hell!
    I leave work early to pack a suitcase. This is a meticulous affair. I carefully fold and arrange a fortnight’s worth of clothes on my bed before placing them in my case. I am meticulous about the order in which they are arranged. Dark colors to the bottom, lighter ones on top and underwear neatly to one end. I have a system for packing. I have a system for most things. I’ve noticed that the more stressed I am, the more systematic I become. Right now, I’m very, very stressed. My suitcase is ultra-tidy.
    By half past five in the afternoon, I’m sitting on the platform at Temple Meads station waiting for the next train to Glasgow. I can change at Lancaster, and as long as there’s no delay, I might just manage the last connection to Barrow.
    Shit!
    The train is delayed by approximately thirteen minutes. The disembodied voice booming over the station platform is apologetic, but the stark fact of this is that I’m not going to make the connection to Barrow tonight. Not to worry, I have a Plan B. Instead of changing at Lancaster, I’ll stay on until the next stop and get off at Oxenholme, on the outskirts of Kendall. I have a friend, Freya, who lives about half an hour’s walk from the station. I can go there. Then I can either borrow Freya’s car to get to Barrow tonight, or maybe stay over with her until the morning then go to find out what unholy mess my mother has found herself in now.
    I try countless times during the five hours trek up to Cumbria to get my mother back on the phone, but all my calls are diverted straight to voicemail. I have no idea at all what I’m headed home to.
    I growl to myself, somewhat to the consternation of the elderly couple sitting opposite me, as they spread their picnic tea out on the table between us. The woman offers me a ham sandwich, possibly fearing I might attempt to eat her if I’m feeling over peckish. I politely decline and stick my nose into the latest Sylvia Day, an acquisition from the station bookstore in Bristol. Despite the obvious appeal of Gideon Cross, my heart’s not in reading as I contemplate the next few days.
    I love my family. I do. I really do. Well, my sisters at least. My mother is a harder sell, in fairness. I totally loathe the family home, though—the mess, the chaos, the general unmitigated untidiness. I like the things around me to be neat, pristine, under control. And above all, I need to feel safe. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about my mother’s household could be even remotely described in those terms.
    I stay away as much as possible. Just contemplating the prospect of crossing that threshold again causes my heart to thump harder. I’m close to a panic attack, here on the train, every mile of track bringing me closer.
    I dread it every time I know I have to set foot in my old home. I left there as soon as I could, when I was eighteen, and I never willingly return. It’s the scene of my worst nightmares, my absolute humiliation, a place I always felt vulnerable and threatened, as far back as I can remember. I keep in touch—I’m in frequent contact, especially with my younger sisters. I occasionally phone my mum, and she’s always pleased to hear from me—or at least she says she is. But she only ever gets in touch with me when she needs something. Money occasionally, but more often it’s just me she needs—me to help her out, me to rescue her. Me to abandon a wonderful career opportunity in Bristol to come haring the length of the country to Barrow at a moment’s notice. I must be mad.
    I’m not, though. It’s simply that the habits of a lifetime are not easy to shake off. I do what I’ve always done, which is to come rushing back here.
    I’m not the eldest. I have a