Read the book: «My Pear-Shaped Life»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise for Carmel Harrington

Dedication

Epigraph

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part Two

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Three

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Part Four

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

Dear Reader …

Acknowledgements

Reader Questions

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Carmel Harrington

About the Publisher

LIVE AND IN PERSON

New York Times Bestseller | TV Superstar | Life Coach

DR GRETA GALE

———————————-

Bellagio Hotel, Las Vegas

11 April | 3 p.m.

WHAT’S IN YOUR CUPBOARD?

No … not your kitchen cupboard. The cupboard in your head. The one that stores all your past hurts and emotions. Your memories. The cupboard of your life.

So many of us believe that we are not enough, just as we are. But with courage, with understanding, with knowing, we can change that. Together.

Are you brave enough to say hello to the real YOU?

Are you brave enough to free yourself of society’s expectations of how you should look and feel?

For one day only, Dr Greta Gale will share her insights on how we can all clear our emotional cupboards out, so that we can live our best lives. Free from the clutter of life.

Book your ticket today.

$195 + Tax

www.drgretagale.com

Drgretagale Hi y’all! Are you ready to join me? Make today count and book your ticket right now. Can I get a hell yeah? Link in bio …

#drgretagale #whatsinyourcupboard #positivethoughts #instaquotes #strong #selfhelp #inspire #mindfulness #love

It isn’t what we are, but what folks think we are, that counts in this world.

The Road to Oz, L. Frank Baum

Part One

Chapter 1

Greta walked into the kitchen rubbing her eyes. She smiled her thanks to her mam, Emily, who placed a mug of dark brown tea in front of her. The Gales all drank their tea the same way – brewed or, as some might say, stewed.

‘Sleep OK?’ Emily asked.

‘Like a baby,’ Greta replied.

‘You didn’t take any more of those sleeping pills, did you?’ Emily’s forehead wrinkled in a frown.

‘Give over, Mam. I only take the odd one when my insomnia gets out of hand. I keep telling you that,’ Greta said. Her mother worried way too much. Greta had taken one the previous evening, as it happened, but there was no point worrying her mam admitting that. When it came to her parents, some things were better on a ‘need to know’ basis.

Greta opened her phone and flicked through Instagram. ‘Oh Mam look—’ Greta began, but was silenced with a shush and a wave at the TV screen. Eamonn Holmes, one of the anchors of her mam’s favourite TV show This Morning was speaking. Emily always denied that she had a crush on him, but when he spoke her face softened, and she hung on his every word.

Only when Eamonn had finished talking did Emily answer, ‘What’s that love?’

Greta pointed to a photograph of Dr Greta Gale, her famous namesake.

In the photo, Dr Gale was sitting on a red-brick wall, with the backdrop of a green ocean behind her, smiling to the camera. ‘Doesn’t she look beautiful?’

‘How does she get her hair to look like that?’ Emily asked, smoothing down her own shoulder-length bob. ‘Maybe I should grow mine out a bit.’

‘She probably has a glam squad at her disposal twenty-four/seven,’ Greta replied. ‘What do you think she means by being the same personally as well as privately and publicly?’

Drgretagale Be the same person privately, publicly and – most importantly – personally. Can I get a hell yeah?

#inspirationalquotes #drgretagale #inspire #mindfulness #strong #whatsinyourcupboard

Emily put her glasses on to read the post beneath the photograph. ‘I don’t know. Half the stuff she posts is a load of mumbo jumbo if you ask me.’

‘Mam!’ Greta loved Dr Gale and wouldn’t have a word said against her. And that wasn’t just because they shared the same name – although that was part of it. It was more because Dr Gale epitomized everything that Greta wished she could be herself. Dr Gale was successful, beautiful and loved. She was living her best life. She represented hope for Greta. Maybe one day she too could have everything that Dr Gale had. There wasn’t a single Instagram post that Greta had not read. And with each new double tap of love, she felt her connection to her grow stronger.

Greta would lie in bed, late at night, knowing she should be at least making an attempt to sleep, but somehow unable to take her eyes off Dr Gale’s Instafeed. She would lose hours googling books, food, art and restaurants that Dr Gale tagged in a photo. She followed accounts that Dr Gale followed. Last year she bought a green kaftan similar to the one that Dr Gale wore to a beach party, but that had not ended well. On Dr Gale the kaftan looked very boho chic. On Greta it looked as if she’d eaten all the pies.

More than how Dr Gale looked, lately her Instagram posts felt as if they were speaking directly to Greta. Every word seemed like a secret message just for her, as if Dr Gale had looked into Greta’s mind and knew exactly what to say to help her, support her, advise her.

While her mam’s back was turned, Greta picked up the remote control and hit the Netflix button, pressing play on the one-hour Dr Greta Gale Special, ‘What’s In Your Cupboard?’

‘Not again,’ Emily groaned.

‘What?’ Greta feigned innocence. ‘You like her as much as me. And I love this bit. Look at that strut.’

They both watched Dr Gale sashaying onto a stage, the spotlight following her as she walked. ‘Hello y’all.’

‘Hello y’all,’ Greta and Emily called back to the screen in their best copycat US accent.

‘When I grew up in Kansas, on a little old bitty farm, I could never have dreamed that one day I’d be standing here in front of y’all. A New York Times bestseller, translated into thirty-three languages – so far – with my own TV special. I’m not sharing that to brag, but to illustrate how life is full of surprises. You never know what is around your corner for you. Am I right? Can I get a hell yeah!’

‘Hell yeah!’ Greta and Emily called back.

‘I’d love to know where she got that dress. I’ve got your second cousin Breda’s confirmation coming up in April. I’d take the sight out of their eyes if I walked into the church in that.’

‘It’s Diane von Fürstenberg. $1,800. Sorry, Mam. But guess what? Dr Greta has announced her first-ever live one-day seminar in Las Vegas. Wouldn’t it be something else to go and see her there?’ She felt a frisson of excitement at the very thought.

Emily muttered something about notions and outrageous airfares under her breath then went back to making a pot of porridge. A loud bang from upstairs ricocheted down the stairs into the kitchen. Emily and Greta raised their eyes upwards. The boys were up.

‘Wait till I get hold of those … those two bowsies!’ Emily said. Bowsie was Emily’s favourite slang for her two sons whenever they were being unruly.

Greta slipped into actress mode and raised a perfectly arched eyebrow in question, a move she had been practising for weeks. She had a big audition later today in London and she planned to end her prepared monologue with this facial expression. Emily sighed as only a mother who had the full weight of her irresponsible boys on her shoulders could. She pointed to the grill. ‘It was left on all night. We could have burned to a crisp, the whole house up like a light.’ She blessed herself quickly, muttering thanks to St Anthony, her saint of choice for keeping them safe.

Greta felt a shiver of something ripple through her. Staring at the grill, she imagined flames bursting from its dark cave, filling the kitchen, sneaking up the stairs to the sleeping family.

‘Did they wake you up with all their drunken shenanigans last night?’ Emily asked.

‘No. I slept like a log,’ Greta replied, focusing on her phone.

‘Ah, good girl,’ Emily said. ‘Did you …’

Her question hung unasked because Aidan and Ciaran bounced into the room, seconds apart. Greta marvelled that she was related to them at all. She never bounced anywhere. Unless you counted every evening when she took her bra off …

Greta had been nine years old when Aidan had been born, with Ciaran following on a mere ten months later. Irish twins, as the saying went. She loved them and the feeling was mutual. They would sit in their high chairs, captivated by their big sister who sang and danced for them both, making them squeal with delight.

‘I’m starving, Mam!’ Aidan said, throwing an arm around his mother’s shoulder. ‘Any chance of a bacon sandwich?’

‘Same. Make that two!’ Ciaran said, pouring two mugs of tea.

‘Sit down,’ Emily said to them, smiling. ‘I’ve already made your breakfast. The full Irish.’

‘You da best,’ Aidan said, a loud rumble escaping his stomach. ‘Big G in da house.’

He took a seat opposite Greta at the table and saluted her. Aidan had given her the nickname ‘G’ when he was a toddler and couldn’t get his tongue around Greta. And as is often the way with childhood nicknames, the name somehow stuck. Ciaran amended it to Big G a few years later. He said it made her sound like a rapper. That used to make Greta laugh. She would put a baseball cap on sideways, throw on a load of her mam’s costume jewellery and do a mean Jay-Z impression. It always ended with all three of them collapsed into a big pile of giggling.

Big G in da house.

With the emphasis on the word big.

They watched Emily as she opened the grill and loaded two plates with an imaginary fry. Ciaran whispered to Greta, ‘Is Mam all right?’

Greta looked away, unable to watch the drama about to unfold. Never mind the grill going on fire, her brothers were about to get roasted.

‘There you go,’ Emily said, as she placed an empty plate in front of Aidan, and then another in front of Ciaran. ‘Enjoy that now.’

‘But there’s nothing there,’ Ciaran said. ‘Is there no fry then? What about a bacon sandwich?’

Emily sat down beside Greta. ‘Sure how could I make you a sandwich when I’ve not got a single slice of bread left.’

‘Ah Mam,’ Aidan complained. ‘You had me looking forward to a fry.’

‘Don’t you be ah Mam-ing me! It’s a wonder we’re not all dead the way you left this place last night.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Aidan asked.

‘I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about the fact that I got up this morning to the smell of smoke. Black fecking smoke, coming from the kitchen. The grill was left on, all night. What have you to say for yourselves?’

‘Don’t be looking at me,’ Ciaran said. ‘I went straight to bed when I got in.’

‘So did I,’ Aidan replied. ‘I never even came into the kitchen! I got a spice bag in the chipper on the way home.’

‘A likely story. Do you think I came down in the last shower?’ Emily said. ‘The butter left open. And the bread gone. Do you think I’m made of money or something? That’s the drink for you. You’re drowning all your brain cells in Guinness, you can’t even remember when you are up to devilment.’

‘We don’t remember ’cos we didn’t do anything. Who says it was us, anyhow? What about Dad or Big G?’ Aidan’s face flushed red with indignation.

‘Don’t be pulling your sister into this; sure she was up in bed fast asleep while you two were out carousing. As for your father, you know he doesn’t eat white bread – he’d as soon cut off his arm.’

On cue, they heard the key in the front door, and their father, Stephen, walked in, red and sweating. He looked at his Apple Watch and clicked a few buttons, nodding in satisfaction at the result. ‘That’s thirty-eight point three kilometres done so far this month. And it’s only a few days into February!’

‘Well done love,’ Emily said.

‘Dad, did you leave the grill on before you went out for your run?’ Aidan asked.

‘Indeed I did not. I haven’t had any bread in months, as well you know. Except for my porridge loaf that I make myself.’ He patted his flat stomach as he spoke, a habit he’d formed at the same time his keep fit passion had ignited.

‘Well if it wasn’t Dad and it wasn’t Ciaran or me, who does that leave?’ Aidan said, glaring at Greta.

‘Well, bring out the Bible then, Mam,’ Greta remarked, hoping to lighten the mood, making Ciaran snigger. When they were kids, one of them drew all over the kitchen door in crayon. Aidan, Ciaran and Greta denied the crime, despite Emily’s best efforts to uncover the culprit. So her interrogation progressed to threatening them all with the wooden spoon – which failed – and escalated to the family Bible. Each of them was made to swear on their innocence, the threat of eternal damnation laid out before them. The Bible won and Ciaran sang like a canary. Now ‘Bring out the Bible’ was a tried-and-tested Gale catchphrase that was part of their family’s folklore.

‘Maybe I should,’ Emily said, but the corners of her mouth began to twitch too and soon she was smiling herself.

Greta sloped out of the room, happy that she’d managed to diffuse the tension as always. She hated seeing her family at odds with each other. Always had. Which was why it was Big G’s role to make everyone laugh. The family joker, her Uncle Ray often said. But sometimes she wondered if they were laughing with her … or at her?

It was time she got ready for her trip to London anyhow. Her audition later today was for a part in a new drama series. It could be life changing for her. Ever since she had starred in a Christmas ad when she was little, she knew the bright lights of stardom beckoned for her. She showered and dressed, then packed her overnight bag, making sure she had everything. Actors’ portfolio, make-up bag, deodorant, her tablets. Check! Satisfied that all was in order, she made her way to the kitchen to say goodbye to her folks. Aidan passed her on the stairs, but as he did, he gave her shoulder a hard shove.

‘Hey! Watch it. What did I do?’ she asked to his retreating back. That had been deliberate and it hurt.

His response was to glower at her and mutter something under his breath, before slamming the door to his bedroom.

‘Charming!’ she shouted after him.

Both her parents were eating porridge and drinking more tea when she went back into the kitchen. ‘Want some, G?’ Emily asked, pointing to the pot behind her.

Greta shook her head. ‘I’ll grab something to eat in the airport.’

‘I’ve had a bowl of porridge every morning since I was a toddler,’ Stephen said. He patted his nonexistent stomach again and continued, ‘No cholesterol and my digestion is in prime condition. If you want my advice, G, you could do a lot worse than following the lead of your mother and me on this matter.’

‘Sure, Dad. I’ll get some later,’ Greta replied. ‘I need to get going, though. I don’t want to be late for Uncle Ray, especially when he’s kind enough to give me a lift.’

‘I offered to take you to the airport,’ Stephen said, a slight edge to his voice.

‘I know you did. I appreciate it.’

‘Sometimes I think you prefer him to me,’ Stephen griped. And although Greta made the appropriate denial noises, there was an element of truth in his words.

Greta had a special bond with her Uncle Ray, her dad’s brother, which she supposed was inevitable considering how he’d had to become a makeshift midwife to deliver her. Emily went into labour early at home. Stephen was on nights, so Ray was called to bring her to the hospital. They never made it there in the end. Ray had delivered Greta on the sitting-room floor, while they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive and he was trying not to pass out from the sight of blood. The story went that Greta had looked into Ray’s eyes when she slipped into his hands and an unbreakable connection was made.

Emily looked up at the clock. ‘You’re way too early to go to the airport. Your flight isn’t for hours. Tell you what, why don’t you come with me to my slimming class? The ladies are such a nice bunch. They’d all love to meet you. And then I’ll drop you to Ray’s on the way back home.’

This suggestion was met with great enthusiasm from Stephen, who began to congratulate Emily on her ingenuity to think it up. Greta knew a set-up when she saw one.

‘Maybe next time,’ Greta said, knowing that hell would freeze over before she’d ever go to a slimming class with her mother. ‘I need the extra time to practise my lines for the audition.’

Stephen exhaled a loud, disgruntled sigh of annoyance. Greta was used to this particular sound. In fact, if she had to equate one sound with her father when he was in her presence, it would be this one. ‘When I was your age …’ he began, which meant that another of his fun ‘lose weight and keep fit’ pep talks was about to start. Before another word flew out of his mouth, Greta ran out through the front door, shouting goodbyes over her shoulder.

As Greta pounded the footpath towards her Uncle Ray’s house, pulling her cabin bag behind her, she fantasized about having enough money to move out. Her mam she could take, but her dad was relentless in his quest to make her thinner. She was exhausted from dodging his lectures. Greta slowed down at the end of their road, already out of breath, and took a seat on the edge of a garden wall. She pulled a bag of Maltesers from her handbag and threw a handful into her mouth. As the chocolate melted and the malty inside fizzed on her tongue, she sighed with contentment.

‘Hey!’ Greta squealed in shock when she felt something brush against her leg. She looked down, praying it wasn’t a cat – she hated cats – and saw a dirty black scrappy dog staring up at her. The dog barked, then sat in front of her, eyes begging for a chocolate.

‘No can do, little doggie. These are bad for you.’ Then Greta began to giggle as she realized what she was saying. ‘I know, “pot kettle black” and all the rest. But I need these.’ She threw another handful in her mouth. He nuzzled her ankle with his nose.

‘I can’t,’ Greta said. ‘Chocolate is bad for dogs, honestly.’ She opened her bag and searched for something she could share with him. Bingo! She pulled out a half-eaten rice cake. ‘It tastes like cardboard, just warning you.’ The mutt didn’t care and wolfed it down in one bite before he moved closer and gave her another nuzzle. Poor thing was hungry. Greta hadn’t seen him before. Maybe the family who had moved into number 9 the previous month owned him.

‘Go on home, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go now.’ He ignored her and followed her as she turned the corner into Ray’s road. Greta stopped once more and said firmly, ‘You can’t come with me, little man. You have to stay here. Go back to your owners.’ He cocked his head to one side and she could have sworn she saw tears in his black eyes. She recognized something in that look. He was lost. Alone. Shrugging it off, she turned and walked away.

As Greta got close to her uncle’s house, she spotted Ray wheeling in bins down neighbours’ drives.

‘What are you doing?’ Greta shouted out.

‘The bin man has been. And I’m not working today. So I thought I’d save some of the neighbours a job when they get home tonight. Nice to be nice. Speaking of which, you look lovely.’

She did a little curtsey, delighted with the compliment. She felt good in her new dress.

Greta told Ray about the dog she’d made friends with, worried that the little thing couldn’t find his way home again, wherever that was.

‘He could be a stray. Don’t fret, I’ll keep my eye open for him when I get back from the airport,’ Ray said, kind as always.

And Greta felt herself relax, as she always did in his company.

‘Why were you eating Maltesers for breakfast anyhow?’ Ray asked when they had moved inside and gone into the kitchen. He was putting two slices of thick white bread into the toaster. He flicked the switch on the kettle, to make a pot of tea.

‘Because dad wanted me to eat porridge.’

‘Pushing that red button again,’ Ray said, knowing his niece better than anyone. Greta had always been the same, ever since she had been a little girl. Tell her not to do something and you could be guaranteed she’d feel compelled to do that very thing.

‘Guilty. But they make me so stressed sometimes. Mam was going on about her slimming class. You know what she’s like when she starts talking about that.’

‘I know. But Emily is looking great, though. Didn’t she get her one-stone badge or something last week?’

‘Yes she is and yes she did. But it’s not in me to go to a slimming class with my mother. I couldn’t bear it, Uncle Ray.’

‘Kerrygold butter or the low-fat stuff?’ Ray asked, when the toaster popped.

Greta had spent the previous two weeks eating next to nothing, in an effort to slim down for her audition.

‘Hit me with the real stuff,’ Greta decided. She’d not managed to lose anything despite her best efforts. So, she figured, what was the actual point?

Ray made no comment. He was used to her on/off dieting whims, so tended to have all options covered when Greta called in to see him.

‘Your mam and dad only have your best interests at heart,’ Ray said, as he smeared toast with butter and jam.

‘I know. But there’s something in my genetic make-up that makes me not listen to authority. Teachers, work, Mam, Dad … I’m a lost cause.’ She looked at her slice of hot toast, which had melted the Kerrygold into a golden syrup that seeped into the crunchy bread. ‘I swore to myself that me and butter were breaking up. But as soon as I did that, I started to have dreams about it. On spuds. On baguettes. On brown soda bread. On crackers with cheese. On toast.’ She groaned as she took a bite.

‘It’s the “forbidden fruit tasting so much sweeter” scenario,’ Uncle Ray said. ‘So maybe, rather than denying yourself something altogether, you should eat the butter. But cut down the amount you have.’

‘Maybe,’ Greta replied, finishing her tea. ‘Only problem with that is, I don’t know when to stop! I have to be the only person who ever did the Atkins diet and put on weight when they cut out carbs. I was having butter on my cream, on my cheese, on my rib-eye steak.’

‘Now you’re making me hungry. We better make a move though. Can’t have you missing this flight. Are you sure you’ve got everything? Passport, toothbrush, money.’

‘Sir, yes, sir.’ Greta saluted him.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into a space in the drop-down area of Dublin Airport.

Greta glanced up at the entrance to Terminal Two, which was several hundred feet away. Uncle Ray always seemed to go out of his way to park as far away from his destination as possible. ‘I think there’s a space out in Swords village that might be closer,’ Greta teased.

‘This is grand. Sure it’s not raining,’ Ray replied, switching the engine off. Ray knew the value of a large parking spot when he saw one. He’d been listening to his family slag off his parking skills for decades. The joke was on them, though: he’d managed to get through over twenty years of driving without a single dint or dang.

‘Thanks for the lift, Uncle Ray, you’re the best.’

‘My pleasure. Good luck with the audition. I’ve everything crossed for you. And don’t waste the chance for a great adventure by staying cooped up in your hotel room. Go see the sights. Madame Tussauds or the London Eye – whatever it is that you young’uns are into these days.’

‘The greatest adventure is what lies next on my Netflix list.’ Greta spoke with great solemnity, making Ray laugh, as she intended.

‘Don’t waste the pretty, Greta.’

‘Eh?’ Greta asked.

‘You’re young and beautiful with the whole world at your feet. Don’t let it pass you by. Don’t waste the pretty.’

Greta mock-saluted him, but felt a lump in her throat all the same. Is that what she was doing? Ray kissed her on her forehead, the way he always did, waving her goodbye as she made her way inside the airport.

As she queued at security, Greta ran through her lines for the hundredth time. The role of Clara, the chubby best friend to the female lead in a new psychological thriller series, was one she wanted with every fibre of herself. If she got this role, she knew it would be the start of something new. Dr Gale often spoke about corners and how you never knew when it was your moment to turn a new one. This could be hers. She didn’t think she could bear another season of playing multiple mind-numbing roles with the Murder Mystery Crew. She’d worked part time for the Murder Mystery Crew for two years; they staged various whodunnit plays for hen and stag parties, and performed at the odd corporate event. While they also did the occasional private gig, most of their shows were in Grayson Castle, Wexford, at weekends. One good thing about the job, though, was that she got to spend a couple of days each week in a hotel room, away from the madness of her family. It also paid the bills while she waited for her big break, and she got to spend time with Dylan, her best friend.

Talk of the devil … She grabbed her phone when it beeped.

Dylan: Good luck at the audition, Silver Lady. You’ve got this.

She smiled, thinking not for the first time how lucky she was to have Dylan in her corner. He was the stage manager with the Murder Mystery Crew and popular with all the cast as he owned a seven-seater, which drove the cast to their venue in Wexford. He also took the bookings, chased around after the talent, sorted the props, organized the hotel and kept the guests happy. She’d be lost without him.

She contemplated ringing him, but knew that he preferred messaging to phone chats. He had a stutter, and sometimes the words just wouldn’t cooperate for him. Greta knew this bothered him, but she never really thought about it. It was just part of who Dylan was, how his brain was wired.

They had shared a moment a year or so ago, when their friendship could have taken a turn into something else. She’d just finished their show Inspector Clueless, where she played the main role of the hapless French detective. It was a fun part to play, getting laughs for every mispronunciation or mishap she made, whilst trying to solve the inevitable murder for the guests. After the final curtain, they went for a walk in the grounds, as was their habit. They were both movie buffs and loved to analyse scenes.

But this time, as they strolled, shoulder to shoulder, Greta felt something shift between them. It was one of those perfect nights, the air still and quiet, with a large white moon, full, throwing light and shadow into the garden. And Greta thought about every romantic comedy she’d watched, where the girl got the guy. Could she too? What would happen if she reached over to clasp Dylan’s hand in hers? Or perhaps he would throw his arm around her shoulder, then pull her into his arms, his breath warm on her cheek. Greta longed to be part of something, a couple, a world, where someone cared about her and only her.

When they reached the entrance to the hotel, their cast mate Donna was watching them, a wave of cigarette smoke wafting into the air around her. She shouted over, jokingly, ‘You two look very cosy. Something you want to tell us?’ Greta flushed from head to toe. Had Donna somehow guessed what Greta had been fantasizing about? Was it written all over her face? She was about to tell Donna to feck off when she saw a look cross Dylan’s face. He looked horrified at Donna’s insinuation. The dream melted into the air, leaving Greta feeling silly for ever contemplating that she and Dylan should or could be anything but friends. She was happy on her own.

As Greta inched closer to the conveyor belt at security, another moment flashed into her head. A moment where she’d almost messed up her friendship with Dylan for ever, because she stupidly … she shook her head and forced herself to shove the memory back into a place deep inside her. Now was not the time to dwell on the past. She had to focus for her audition.

She typed a message back to Dylan, smiling through her pain, and did what she did best – when all else fails, make ’em laugh.

Greta: I’d better not read the lines as Inspector Clueless by mistake! Can you imagine? Good moaning, this iz Clara. Do you ’ave a massage for me?

Dylan: Never mind Inspector Clueless, all you need to do is put on your Ruby Mae costume and the job would be yours!

Greta: Er, I told you what happened with that a few weeks back. Don’t mention the war!

She’d played the part of Ruby Mae, a curvy, sexy saloon girl, until she’d had a wardrobe malfunction. Greta had stepped into her red and black cancan dress, but it wouldn’t go up over her thighs. It had been getting tight for months, but she’d always been able to manoeuvre her way into it, once she was wearing her Spanx knickers and slip. She stepped out of the dress and decided to put it on over her shoulders, so that she could shimmy her way into it. Several shimmies later, she was standing in her room, with a dress wedged on her shoulders. Her face was scarlet and her hair, washed and curled only twenty minutes previously, was now half stuck to her head. With two arms above her head, she couldn’t pull the damn thing either up or down.

Greta knew she was not going to extricate herself from this situation on her own. Dylan might be her closest friend, but there was no way she was showing him her lumps and bumps. So she had no choice but to call her cast mate, Donna, for help. Skinny Donna, who had two pert boobs that defied gravity, and an even perter personality. It was the worst ten minutes of Greta’s life, as Donna squished Greta’s boobs down as flat as possible, so that she could yank the dress up and off.

Then, when the mission was accomplished, Donna asked, ‘Shall I play Ruby Mae, seeing as the costume doesn’t fit?’ She’d had her eye on the role for months and practically danced out of the room with it in her hands.

Dylan: I told you we can just buy another costume. It probably shrunk in the tumble dryer.

Greta: Maybe you should throw me into the dryer too the next time! This queue to security is horrendous. Distract me with another URG example.

This was one of their things. Dylan the hopeless romantic, Greta the cynic, discussing moments in cinematic history that were Ultimate Romantic Gestures, or URGs, as they nicknamed them.

Dylan: I need to bring out the big guns so. How’s about Bridget Jones’s Diary? The first one, though. When Mr Darcy buys Bridget a new diary so she can make a fresh start. URG central.

Greta: OK, that’s creepy not romantic. I mean, the guy read her diary. Shootable offence.

Dylan: Noted. No reading of girls’ diaries.

Greta: I’d have shoved his new diary where … well … somewhere painful!

Greta put her phone away and placed her luggage in the large square plastic box on the conveyor belt.

‘You’ll have to take those shoes off,’ the security guard said, pointing to her boots.

She held onto the side of the conveyor belt and felt a shot of pain to her ribcage as she leaned down. The first time she’d experienced it, she thought she must have a serious illness. So she’d approached Doctor Google for help. And found two words that made her flush in shame and recognition. Apparently the pain was a fat cramp, caused by her lungs being flattened by her organs. By the time she managed to pull her shoes off and had placed them beside her iPad and handbag, a line of sweat had formed above her lips. She swiped it away with the back of her hand as she walked towards the security gate.

The alarm went off. The alarm always went off. Greta moved to the left as indicated and looked upwards with embarrassment while the female security guard patted her down. She was mortified by the woman’s touch, especially when her hands felt her back fat. And as always when she was embarrassed, Greta started to sweat like Donald Trump in a spelling bee. She could feel trickles of water snaking its way down her back, under her boobs, between her legs. And the shower she’d had only a few hours earlier began to feel like a distant memory. She couldn’t turn up at her audition looking like a sweaty mess.

Greta took a steadying deep breath and willed the perspiration to disappear. She made her way to the ladies’ bathroom, so that she could freshen up before it was time to board. A full-length mirror ran along the wall at the entrance which meant it was impossible to miss seeing her reflection.

Who was that woman staring back at her? A round face, shiny and patchy with sweat, looked back in horror. Greta walked closer to the reflection to study herself, something she didn’t do very often. This morning when she’d dressed she had felt good about her appearance. Her midi print dress in navy and ochre, with three-quarter-length sleeves, felt like the perfect audition dress. It had skimmed over her wobbly bits; paired with her ankle boots, she felt hip and trendy. As the saying went, fake it till you make it.

Now all her eyes could see were the two dark stains that lay under her armpits. She pulled her shoulders forward and tried to hide them, mortified that she’d walked through the airport unaware that they were there. Then she noticed a pull in the buttons that strained over her breasts. Had her boobs grown since she’d left home an hour ago? Was that even possible? And the print that she thought hid her extra weight, now seemed to offer a neon-light invitation for all and sundry to look more closely at her imperfections.

Her body had let her down.

Which wasn’t strictly true. It was she who was letting her body down. She had done this to herself.

Greta thought of her two brothers at home, fit and toned. And thin. She thought of her parents, now in their fifties, both managing to keep any middle-aged spread at bay. She stood out like a sore, angry thumb. The runt of the Gale litter. Except she was as far from little as you could be. What had the lads at the bus stop called her the other day? Fat cow.

Greta tugged at her dress. She had to get it off. What on earth had she been thinking? She felt something new and insidious begin to nip at her. Shame, she knew well. Anger; self-doubt too. But this pain in her stomach, the trouble catching her breath, it felt like … fear, panic. And it wasn’t like her. She was the girl who just brushed herself off, dusted herself down when life threw a curve ball at her. But right now, Greta knew that if she didn’t change her clothes, her audition would bomb. An irrational thought, but now that it was planted in her head it started to grow and blossom, until it took over everything.

Greta made her way into one of the cubicles and placed her case on the toilet. She pulled off the dress then mopped the sweat from her body with swabs of toilet tissue. They turned to pulp in seconds. She sat down on the toilet and closed her eyes for a moment, to let the fresh air from the air conditioning waft over her. When her body temperature regulated back to the normal zone, she doused herself in deodorant once more, then changed into her black trousers and her oversized black tunic. They were her staples, her wardrobe of choice and her planned clothes for tomorrow. As she smoothed down the tunic over her hips, she felt better instantly. Less conspicuous. Less her.

Greta stuffed the dress, alongside her hidden pain, into her small case with a stifled sob. She zipped it closed, took a deep breath and exited the cubicle. She walked to the mirror and reapplied another layer of translucent powder, erasing the shine of sweat from her face. She couldn’t afford the luxury of feeling sorry for herself.

As she passed by WHSmith, a display of books stopped her in her tracks. A large cardboard poster hung from the ceiling at the front of the store, in bright red, saying DOCTOR GRETA GALE, THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER! Underneath it was a display of hardback books, dozens of them, piled high in stacks, side by side. Her book, What’s In Your Cupboard, had been in the Irish bestseller charts for over a year and showed no signs of leaving it any time soon. There was a giant photograph of her namesake on the poster – a triumph of shining platinum-blonde hair, Hollywood smile and translucent, porcelain skin. Her familiar brown eyes twinkled and seemed to say,

Greta, you’ve got this!

‘I know what I have to do. I’m gonna fake it till I make it,’ she whispered to the poster, then forced a smile onto her face. And with every step Greta took as she made her way to the departure gate, her smile grew wider.

Chapter 2

By the time Greta inched her way down the aisle of the aeroplane towards her seat, she had successfully managed to bury her feelings about how she had looked in that mirror. Until she sat down and realized that her seatbelt would not clasp shut. She felt her body tense in shock and took several deep breaths to try and calm herself down, not quite believing the situation that was unfolding.

She checked to make sure her belt was not tangled. It wasn’t.

She then pulled the lever to extend the belt to its full length, getting an extra millimetre by doing so. But no matter how hard she tugged and pulled, the two ends never met. A glob of acidic bile made its way into the back of her throat, as the enormity of this discovery hit her. The unimaginable had happened. She was too fat to fly.

In silent loathing, she went through her options. She could call the attendant and ask for a seatbelt extender. This she eliminated immediately, because she couldn’t bear the shame of saying the words out loud, feeling the judgemental side-eye of her fellow passengers as they took in the fat girl. There was only one other choice. Deception. Greta took her jacket off and placed it over her lap hiding her unclasped belt. With a bit of luck, the stewardess would only glance in her direction and not insist on double-checking that all was buckled under her jacket. Then her mind jumped to a movie she’d seen a few years ago. What was it? Not that it mattered. All that mattered was the fact that in the film an aeroplane took a sudden drop in altitude and a guy who’d undone his seatbelt had catapulted to the roof of the plane, where his head proceeded to split open. Touching her head, which she happened to like, Greta knew something for sure.

A scenario that included possible death was still preferable to admitting publicly that she was too fat to fly.

Greta glanced at the man who sat to her left. He had pushed himself closer to the window, as if touching her would contaminate him. She looked to her right at the woman who was reading a book, oblivious to her predicament. Maybe she was being polite, who knew? Greta closed her eyes for a moment and silently asked Dr Gale what would she do in this situation. She imagined her idol taking her hands between her own, saying, ‘Honey child, there are a lot of problems in this world, but this sure as hell isn’t one of them. Now you need to use your weight as your strength. Reclaim your power, be a grown-ass woman, and ask for that extender.’

Feck it. Taking a deep breath, Greta pushed the call button, and when the stewardess walked over to her, with a big pearly-white smile, Greta mustered every bit of the kind of dignity and defiance she believed Dr Gale would adopt in the situation.

‘My New Year’s resolution was to lose twenty pounds. Only twenty-five to go …’ Greta pointed to her tummy, smiling ruefully at the stewardess.

‘Oh I hear you!’ The stewardess smiled. ‘The struggle is real.’

‘For sure.’ Greta lowered her voice a fraction and asked, ‘Could I have a seatbelt extender, please?’

The stewardess smiled even more brightly and said, ‘With pleasure, I often use one myself, it’s far more comfortable.’ Then she trotted away to fetch it.

The man in the suit had contempt written over every chiselled part of his face as Greta added the extra section to the seatbelt and tightened it. She had only needed an inch, but that was all it had taken to shame her. The woman on her right had sympathy written all over her face. And there was something else there too. Relief. She knew what she was thinking. She’d seen it reflected in the eyes of many other women too. While that woman might be carrying a few extra pounds, she wasn’t as fat as Greta was.

Greta closed her mind to them all and concentrated on today’s audition. This month alone she’d read parts for two adverts, a play in The Gaeity and a new character in Fair City, Ireland’s longest-running soap opera. The odds should have been in her favour for at least one call-back. But each time she was told that while they’d enjoyed her audition, they’d decided to go in a different direction.

Greta wished someone would tell her what direction all these roles went in, so she could set it as a favourite in Google maps on her phone. The last time her agent Michelle had rung with bad news, Greta had joked, ‘If at first, you don’t succeed … it’s probably never going to happen.’ They’d both laughed for a moment, before awkwardly falling into silence.

But the audition today felt different. Even Michelle had said so when she’d emailed her the main characteristics of Clara: This role has your name on it! It could have been written for you. Clara, in her thirties, fat, unattractive, funny, wisecracker.

While Greta had long since given up on the dream of ever being cast as the good-looking lead, the fact that her agent had emphasized the words fat and unattractive still stung. Unfortunately she knew her agent was right: it did sound like a great part for her.

But Greta was a trouper and she shoved the hurt deep inside her and focused on the words funny and wisecracker. She’d been playing that role her whole life.

She arrived at the casting studio in London fifteen minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to freshen up before her audition. As she looked around the reception hall for the ladies, a woman marched over to her holding a clipboard.

‘I’m Maria. You are?’ Maria looked down at the page in front of her, while she waited for an answer.

‘Greta Gale.’

Maria tilted her head to one side as she contemplated the puzzle that was in front of her.

‘You mean like the real Dr Greta Gale?’

‘Real as opposed to me, the fake one standing in front of you?’ Greta said.

Maria smiled, ‘You know I have a friend called Tony Hadley. He does a pretty good version of “Gold”, as it happens. Right, follow me, we’ve had a cancellation, so you’re up next.’

‘If I could just have five minutes …’ But before Greta could ask where the bathroom was, Maria had marched through a set of double doors, leaving her with no choice but to follow.

‘Greta Gale auditioning for the part of Clara,’ Maria called out, leading her into a studio.

Three sets of eyes looked up from their smartphones and scanned Greta up and down. Greta wheeled her luggage over to the side of the room, wishing that she’d had the foresight to put tissues in her trouser pocket. Could she ask for a moment to go to the ladies? Or would that go against her?

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Maria said. It appeared that no introductions were to be made.

Greta grabbed her résumé and headshot folder from her handbag and walked to the centre of the room. She stood in front of the panel, who were seated behind a long rectangular desk. Louise Cavendish, a casting director, sat at one end. Greta had auditioned for her a few times and she’d also taken one of her workshops. And while it was never promised outright, rumour had it that by attending a course taught by Louise you had a better chance at being picked for a role cast by her. It cost Greta a full month’s wages to go to it, so she hoped the rumours were true.

Greta smiled in Louise’s direction. She got nothing in return. Not even a cursory nod of acknowledgement. So she turned her attention to the guy in the middle. He looked as though he was no more than sixteen years old and was more interested in his phone than in Greta. A little less brightly, Greta smiled at the last member of the panel, a woman who was wearing earrings the size of satellites. Earring lady just shook her head in response to her smile, then looked away.

Why didn’t they say something? I should say something. This must be a test to see if I can channel Clara!

‘Hey everyone.’ It might not have been fierce, but at least it sounded more confident than she felt. She wiped a bead of sweat that had pooled above her lip with the back of her hand and willed her body to cool down. Her body ignored every plea she whispered, until her face was covered in a layer of sweat that dribbled down her double chin, landing in big plops onto her black tunic top. The panel began to whisper to each other, glancing back and forth towards her.

Louise was the first to speak. ‘Would you like a napkin?’ She waved a white tissue in her direction.

Greta nodded and bit her lip. She needed to pull herself together, fast. She walked over to Louise and took the tissue, which disintegrated into mush within seconds when she dabbed her face.

‘We’re going to need a bigger boat,’ Greta joked in her best Sheriff Brody voice from Jaws.

Laughter. Thank God.

Louise handed her the full pack of tissues. Greta nodded her thanks, then walked at a snail’s pace back to her mark, mopping her face as she went.

‘Would you like a glass of water?’ the man-child asked. His face had landed on a sneer.

Greta felt that she was in danger of losing them before she’d even started. She had to take control of the situation. So she straightened her back and said, ‘No thank you. I’m excited to read for you. I have never felt more connected to a part before. I am Clara. Albeit a sweaty one right now. But that’s real life for you. If Clara had been through my commute of a flight, the Gatwick Express, and then two Tube rides that frankly felt like an endurance test, then she’d be …’ She motioned towards her soggy face.

‘The Tube was like a sauna this morning,’ Man-child agreed.

‘Why do you think you’re a good fit for Clara?’ Earring lady asked.

‘Well, to start with, I look like her. Or at least how you described her, and how I read her in the script. She’s sassy. She’s got style. I’m the same size as her – not Bridget Jones fat – which has to be a plus.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Louise asked.

‘Bridget Jones was meant to be overweight. But clearly in the movie she was just an average-sized woman. I mean if Bridget Jones is fat, what does that make me? Actually, don’t answer that.’

Earring lady smiled. ‘You know what bugs me every Christmas? The way everyone keeps referring to Natalie in Love Actually as chubby and plump! Martine McCutcheon has a lovely figure.’

‘Yes! I felt sorry for Aurélia’s sister in that movie. They described her as Miss Dunkin’ Donut 2013. And pretty much said that she was too fat and ugly to get a man,’ Greta said. ‘Mind you, she was a bit weird the way she kissed Colin Firth.’

Heartened by their laughter, Greta continued, ‘I want to assure you that most days I can pull this look off.’ Greta laid her headshot and CV onto the table in front of them. She was proud of that photograph. She looked like herself, just the very best version possible.

They picked it up and passed it from one to the other.

‘Actually, this is how I saw Clara in my mind’s eye,’ Earring lady said to Louise and the man-child.

Louise said to her panel, ‘By the way, Greta played the part of that cute kid in the biscuit Christmas advert.’

‘I love that advert!’ Earring lady said.

This was Greta’s only real claim to fame. Her one big TV moment. Twenty-five years earlier, she had been cast in a Christmas advert for biscuits. The advert in question was played for the first time just before The Late Late Toy Show began, one of Ireland’s favourite Christmas TV shows on RTÉ One.

‘You were so cute!’ Earring lady enthused, clearly a fan.

And she wasn’t the only one who thought so. The nation sighed a collective aww when the pigtailed little Greta, in her red plaid pyjamas, filled their TV screens. She walked into her living room, wiping her tired eyes with her little chubby hands, where she found a rosy-cheeked Santa eating biscuits she’d left for him earlier. ‘I want one too, Santa!’ she cried with a perfect pout, one hand held on her hip. Then she snatched a biscuit from Santa’s white-gloved hand. He laughed a big ho, ho, ho, and the advert ended with the little girl winking at the camera. It was an instant Christmas hit, one of those adverts that never failed to make people yearn for yesteryear and good old family values.

‘Say the line!’ Earring lady begged.

Greta put a hand on her hip, then said, ‘I want one too, Santa!’, then winked at them all. They all clapped and Greta took a bow. The biscuit advert that had haunted her for years was helping her out of a tight spot. ‘Twenty-five years later and some things never change!’

‘I like that! OK, let’s hear your prepared piece,’ Louise said, scribbling something into her notebook.

Greta straightened her back and began to recite her Clara monologue. As soon as the first word left her, she felt a familiar shift, as she morphed into Clara. She felt the energy in the room change too as the panel sat forward and listened to her words. This was it. The stars were finally aligning in her favour.

She finished her lines, ending with a perfectly arched raised eyebrow. Greta took a moment to compose herself, then looked over to the panel to check out their reaction. They loved it!

‘Excellent work, Greta,’ Louise said. ‘I really enjoyed that, a truly believable performance.’

‘Thank you!’ Greta said and resisted the urge to do a victory dance. ‘If you cast me, I promise I’ll eat, sleep and dream Clara! I’ll work so hard, I won’t let you down.’

‘I believe you!’ Man-child said, grinning now too. It was an unadulterated smile-fest in the audition room now. ‘Can we confirm that you are available in September for filming?’

She might not know his name, but right now Greta wanted to run across the room, take his baby face between her hands and kiss him. ‘I know I should be all cool here and tell you that I need to check my diary. But honest to goodness, I’d cancel my own wedding to do this show if you cast me.’

‘I told you she was funny,’ Louise said, then turned to Greta. ‘We’ll be in touch. Now go and get a cold drink – you look like you need one.’

Greta grabbed her bags, adrenalin pumping through her body, and she Beyoncé’d her way out of the room, messaging Dylan as soon as she got to the lobby.

Greta: I nailed it! They asked me if I was free for filming later this year.

Dylan: I knew you would. You better not forget me when you get this part and leave Inspector Clueless behind.

Greta: How very dare you. I liv and breeve for ze murder in ze Castle.

Dylan: Ha! Go out and celebrate. I think you’d love Soho – there’s loads of fringe theatres in the West End.

Greta: I’m gonna peel back this city’s juicy layers and take a big old bite out of it. Promise. Chat later!

By the time she’d taken the two Tube rides to get to her hotel, her adrenalin had leaked a bit. It didn’t help that the ten-minute walk to the hotel from the Tube turned into a twenty-minute hike because she turned right instead of left when she exited the station. Exhausted, she told herself that as everything was open so late in London, it made sense that she should take a short break to recharge. She’d been up since the crack of dawn and her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d not eaten since her breakfast. She popped into a Sainsbury’s Local on the way to the hotel to pick up some refreshments. With the audition going so well, surely she could treat herself to a celebration? Wine, cheese, crackers, chocolate and crisps. She threw in a bunch of grapes, an apple and a pear too, sorting her five a day. She’d snack, rest, then head to the West End early in the evening.

But when Greta got back to the hotel, the buzz of the audition had worn off replaced by all-too-familiar doubts creeping in. Greta sipped a glass of wine and munched on a bag of cheese and onion crisps, trying to switch off her brain to the constant buzz of the what-ifs. Would the sweating put them off? Or had she managed to turn the audition around with her reading? What were they whispering about when she delivered that final line? What if her five minutes of fame had happened when she was a child in that Christmas advert and that was it for her? This thought crippled her more than anything else. She simply could not imagine a world where she wasn’t an actress. The feeling of transformation when she played a role – sharing a character’s pain, happiness, fear or joy with an audience – was all consuming. Being someone else. Leaving Greta Gale behind. If she wasn’t an actress, then who or what was she? Over and over, the thoughts continued, until her eyes stung and her head pounded. She couldn’t ditch the feeling that time was running out for her. Her eyes stung with tiredness because she’d only managed a few hours’ sleep the night before. But yet her mind would not switch off. On and on it continued, telling her she wasn’t good enough. If she could just lose some weight, then maybe people would pay more attention to her? Maybe then she would be more than the fat girl with sweat patches under her arms. She disgusted herself, she couldn’t really blame anyone else for feeling the same way.

When had her life gone so pear-shaped? Then she noticed the green pear she’d bought earlier. Lying toppled on its side, wobbling on a round body. And she started to sob, because she didn’t want to be a pear any more.

Enough. Only one thing could ever silence her horrible, sad thoughts.

Greta opened her toiletry bag and pulled out her pack of sleeping tablets. She placed one onto her tongue, then washed it down with a glass of red. Then she broke a second one in half and popped that in too.

London could wait.

Chapter 3

Greta was disorientated at first. She couldn’t remember where she was, and even though the room was pitch black, something about it felt wrong. Different. This wasn’t home. Then her brain clicked into gear, and her memory came back. She was in a hotel. In London. The sound of housekeeping banging on her hotel room door startled her, alerting her to the fact that it was well after eleven a.m., her checkout time. She pulled herself up to a sitting position and looked around the room in alarm. Strewn across the floor were empty packets of crisps and chocolate. She’d eaten all of this? She closed her eyes and tried to piece together the events of the previous evening. The last thing she remembered was falling asleep at about four in the afternoon. Nearly twelve hours previously. And she’d only eaten one bag of crisps before that. She was sure of that fact.

Something was slipping inside her; her control on the situation, on herself, on life. She was losing … she just wasn’t sure what that was yet. It must be jet lag, from the early flight.

She pushed aside the fact that there was no time zone change between Ireland and the UK. Her hands itched to find her bottle of tablets again. Had she taken another tablet during the night? Her rule of an occasional tablet to help with her insomnia and anxiety had somehow drifted to one every night these past few months …

She took a quick shower, dressed, packed her case and made her way to the airport. She noticed she had dozens of missed calls and messages from her family. A flurry of messages had come in from various Gales throughout the morning. Including a new text message from Aidan.

Aidan: Why do you have to be such a bitch? Just let Mam and Dad know you are alive.

Talk about going over the top. She wasn’t a seven-year-old. She was a grown woman!

Greta: Soz Mam and Dad. Did I nearly give you a heart attack with the worry? I’m such an eejit. I left my charger on the train yesterday and phone went dead. Had to buy a new one today. Hope you weren’t too worried. London is so much fun! Love it here. G x

That should quieten them all down. And she would even be magnanimous with Aidan when he apologized for his unnecessary comment. After all, it was hardly her fault she had no charge for her phone.

That was the thing with lies, when you told enough of them, they became easier to believe.

After traipsing through security, and feeling ravenous because she’d missed breakfast, she headed to Burger King for a Chicken Sandwich meal. An hour later she boarded her flight. The meal she’d eaten made her feel sluggish. She wished she could click her heels and be at home in her warm bed. Once she was buckled into her seatbelt, with the help of the extender strap, she thought about the half tablet from the night before. She scooped it out and swallowed it dry.

Hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her, hard. It hurt and Greta shrugged them off. A voice shouted in her ear, ‘Are you OK? Hello? Are you OK, miss?’

Greta opened her eyes and realized that her head was slumped against the aeroplane seat in front of her. She could feel the imprint of the table-top on her forehead. She looked around and saw that the plane was empty. They’d landed in Dublin and she couldn’t even remember taking off in Gatwick. Greta wiped away a line of drool that was making its way down her chin. Her face flamed as she felt a flush rush over her body, top to toe. Please don’t let me have done anything stupid.

‘It looked like you weren’t breathing there for a minute. I got quite a fright,’ the stewardess said.

‘What must you think of me? I’m so sorry. Honestly, I’m an eejit,’ Greta replied. ‘I didn’t get much sleep last night; it must have caught up on me. Someone had a party in the room next door to me in my hotel. It kept me awake all night.’

‘I thought you were dead.’

Greta put her two hands up and did her best zombie impression. ‘I feel a bit like the walking dead, for sure.’ Greta unclipped her belt. The stewardess looked unsure. Greta wanted to get off the plane and away from her probing eyes and questions. She’d been stupid to take a pill when on public transport. Rookie error. She needed to be more careful. And as Greta made her way through the arrivals hall, that new feeling joined the regular residents of shame and embarrassment that lived inside her these days. She was scared. But she didn’t have time to analyse that because her mother was waiting for her, smiling, eyes bright with expectation. Emily opened her arms to welcome her daughter home.

‘All OK, love?’

Greta could still feel the imprint of the hard seat on her forehead, where she’d slumped for the one-hour flight. But she pushed that away and gushed, ‘Mam, London was amazeballs. Honestly, we have to go together soon! The view from the London Eye is incredible. It made me quite emotional, took my breath away.’

‘You wouldn’t get me up into one of those things! Look at you, all flushed with excitement from the trip!’

Greta thought about the too-small seatbelts, the sweating and the blackouts. ‘It’s been so much fun. And they loved me in the audition. Nailed it!’

‘Course they loved you. That dress was beautiful on you. The nicest thing I’ve seen on you in years.’

‘Thanks, Mam. I felt really good in it.’

‘Did you take lots of photos?’

‘I couldn’t, Mam. No charge on my phone, remember? And I really am sorry about scaring you.’

‘That’s all right love. Once you are safe and happy, I’m happy. When will you hear about the part do you think?’ Emily asked as she paid for the airport car park.

Greta shrugged. ‘It’s hard to know. Could be weeks. But they did ask me if I was free in September when they start shooting.’

‘I’ll start the novenas tonight then. No harm in asking for a bit of help from up there,’ Emily said as she fed money into the car-park machine, and Greta wondered if the nine days of prayer might indeed make the difference between success and failure.

All of a sudden Greta felt the ground swoop up towards her. Her head swam and her eyes blurred as she grabbed onto the wall to steady herself.

Emily missed the whole thing. She chattered on, happily unaware of her daughter’s light-headedness. As she was about to get into the driver’s seat, her phone rang. ‘Oh, it’s your aunty Amanda!’ She tossed the car keys to Greta and said, ‘You’d better drive home. I haven’t spoken to her since she got home from New York last week.’

Greta knew she should tell her mother that she didn’t feel well enough to drive. She was out of sorts, woozy from her sleep on the flight. But her mother was oblivious to everything but the animated conversation she was already having with her sister. They were close and spoke every few days. Sometimes they drove each other mad, and her mother often called her Amazing Amanda behind her back, because her life was … well, amazing. But it was said in affection.

‘What are you waiting for, G?’ Emily said. ‘We want to beat the M50 traffic before the evening rush.’

You should drive, Mam. I don’t feel well. But the words in Greta’s head refused to form. She couldn’t cope with the inevitable questions that her admission would evoke. The looks she would be given, the unsaid accusations about her weight and the effect it was having on her health. So Greta shook herself both mentally and physically, then switched the engine on. She could do this drive in her sleep. Greta stifled a yawn. For someone who found it hard to sleep most of the time, right now she’d give anything to close her eyes.

The traffic was kind, and Greta was on the M50 in under five minutes. She stayed in the slow lane and turned the air con down to fifteen, its lowest setting. She needed the cold blast to keep awake.

‘One-sec, Mand’ …’ Emily paused her conversation and fiddled with the air con. ‘Are you trying to turn me to ice?! Honestly sometimes, G …’

As the temperature rose from ice cold to warm, Greta felt the weight of lead pushing her eyelids closed. Her feet felt numb. She felt her head loll down but jumped back up when her mother’s voice exclaimed loudly, ‘Go away! As big as that? Well, I never …’

Greta was surprised when she found herself turning into her road. She had driven the twenty-five-minute journey to Lucan on autopilot.

‘Greta! In the name of God, what are you doing!’ Emily shrieked suddenly.

Greta’s eyes opened just in time to see their car moving towards the lawn outside Mrs Oaks’s house, their next-door neighbour. She pushed down hard on the brakes, but it was too late to stop or swerve back onto the road. She felt her mother’s hand on her arm, and heard her screams. But the car continued through Mrs Oaks’s rhododendron bushes, before hitting the side of her garage face on. The airbags exploded on impact and Greta blacked out for the third time in less than twenty-four hours.

When she came to, the first thing she noticed was the smell. Then she heard her mother whimpering beside her. Mam! She turned towards her and saw blood trickling down the side of Emily’s face. What had she done? What was that smell? Smoke. Was the car on fire? Mam. I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry, Mam.

Emily got out of the car, staggering as she stood up. She walked around to the driver’s side and pulled Greta out. ‘Are you OK?’

Greta nodded, unable to speak, shocked by the blood on her mother’s head. It made her feel ill, and she felt the contents of her stomach heave. She proceeded to vomit everything up onto the grass.

‘That’s the shock. It’s OK. We’re both OK. I’d better ring the guards. Do you need an ambulance? Are you hurt? What on earth will Mrs Oaks say when she sees the state of her garden?’

Greta felt herself sway again at her mother’s words. ‘If the guards come, they will want to know if I’m under the influence.’

Shock flashed across Emily’s face.

‘Have you been drinking?’ Emily whispered.

‘No.’

‘Oh, thank goodness.’

‘But I did take a sleeping pill on the flight.’

Now anger flashed across Emily’s face. ‘You stupid, stupid girl. How could you be so reckless?’

Greta couldn’t look her in the eye. She hung her head low, ‘I’m sorry, Mam. I’m so sorry.’

Emily ignored her, reaching into the car until she found her phone on the floor.

‘What happened? I heard screams,’ Amanda asked, when she rang her back.

‘We crashed the car. But we are both fine. I just wanted to tell you that. But I’ve got to go now. I need to get hold of Stephen.’

His phone went to voicemail, so she left a message, then rang Ray who thankfully was at home and could come over straight away.

‘Mam …’ Greta reached over to touch her mother’s arm. All she wanted was to feel her mam’s embrace, telling her that it would be OK, everything would be fine.

‘Don’t!’ Emily took a step back from her.

Greta blanched at the intensity of Emily’s reaction.

‘Just don’t. I’ll deal with you in a bit. For now, we need to clear your mess up.’

When Ray arrived, the first thing he noticed was that Emily and Greta were standing three feet apart. His sister-in-law had a trickle of red blood staining her white face. His niece was pale, shaking, with her two arms wrapped around her chest, as if she were giving herself a hug. Ray had a feeling that whatever pain was afflicting his niece, it was the kind that you couldn’t see with the naked eye.

‘What happened?’ He walked around the car, surveying the damage.

‘I was driving. I swerved to miss a cat and lost control of the car,’ Emily said.

Ray watched the look that passed between his sister-in-law and his niece. Something didn’t add up here. ‘What am I missing here?’

Emily held eye contact with her brother-in-law and a silent communication passed between the two. The kind that only family who had shared history for decades could understand. They were the keeper of each other’s secrets. He looked around to see if there were any twitching curtains. The road was deserted, with the neighbourhood all at work. A good guess was that if anyone had seen the accident they would be out here already, rubbernecking. That was the way with most folk.

‘Is Mrs Oaks in?’ Ray asked.

Emily shook her head. She wouldn’t get home from work until after six at the earliest.

Ray squeezed into the driver’s seat, pushing the deflated airbag away from him. The smell of smoke and powder tickled his nose, making his throat feel scratchy. He switched the engine on and was surprised to hear it turn over. He reversed it out slowly, then moved it into its rightful place, next door. He’d call a tow truck, later on, to take it away. He figured it was a write-off. Mrs Oaks’s garage wall was unmarked, with not even a scratch on it. But there was considerable damage to the lawn and the flowerbeds. Ray felt his stomach flip as he contemplated how much worse this could be. If anything had happened to Emily or Greta … He saw Emily wipe another trickle of blood away and he took hold of her arm and led her towards the house. ‘Let’s go inside and have a cup of tea. I want to take a look at that cut.’

‘I’d better ring Mrs Oaks to tell her what’s happened,’ Emily said.

Greta couldn’t take her eyes off the squashed flowers. Muddy brown tyre marks ripped through the green lawn, telling tales of the reckless, stupid, unforgivable thing she’d done. She’d put her mother’s life at risk. Her own, she didn’t care about.

The weather was in sync with how she felt, because all at once it began to lash rain, the clouds grey and thunderous above them. She felt movement at her feet; when she looked down, the scrappy black dog was sitting beside her again. His coat was drenched, showing how thin and bedraggled he was. Poor little mite. His eyes met hers, and Greta recognized something of herself in him again.

‘Inside,’ Emily shouted, her voice shrill. ‘Now!’

Greta followed her indoors, looking back one last time at the dog. And the fear that had been snaking its way around her body since she’d arrived at Dublin airport made its way to her neck and started to tighten, strangling her. She wasn’t sure she was ever going to be able to untangle herself from its grasp ever again.

Chapter 4

Greta was aware of whispered conversations being held in the kitchen. When she went downstairs, Uncle Ray had already left and her parents were sitting side by side.

‘Sit down.’ Emily’s voice made her jump. The tone was firm, and one that Greta knew well. It was the one Emily used throughout their childhood when she had reached her limit. It said enough was enough.

‘I want you to get all of your tablets and bring them down to us,’ Emily said.

Greta had not expected this and felt panic creeping its way through her body. Only a few weeks previously, Emily had voiced concerns about her over-reliance on taking tablets to help her sleep. Greta had been ‘sleep walking’, doing strange things, while under their influence. This was pure nonsense. She’d told her mam that, who was prone to drama at the best of times. But she’d also promised her she’d only take a tablet in an emergency. That, of course, was a lie.

‘It’s time to knock them on the head,’ Stephen added, firmly.

Thoughts began to race around Greta’s mind, excuses that she could make, that would get her off the hook she was dangling on so precariously. She took a deep breath, sat up straight and tried to give the performance of a lifetime. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about what happened yesterday. I will pay for the damage to the car and Mrs Oaks’s garden.’

‘That you will,’ Stephen answered.

‘And I’ll help Uncle Ray sow the new flowers,’ Greta threw in, feeling magnanimous. Everyone knew that she wasn’t the outdoorsy type, never showing any interest in their garden at home – or, in fact, any garden. Greta didn’t see the point of flowers, being more of a tree woman. She glanced at both their faces, expecting to see a softening, a sign that she was making ground with them.

But there was nothing but disappointment and anger there.

‘You know I’ve suffered from insomnia for years. The pills were prescribed by Dr Hanrahan! And I’ve been thinking about what happened. It wasn’t the pills. You see, I had the most terrible time in London. I didn’t want to tell you, to worry you, but the hotel was awful. I think there was a party going on in the room beside me. I complained several times to reception. So you see, I’d not slept a wink all night, and I thought, I’ll never manage the flight home unless I get a quick nap. I only took half a pill. Thinking about it now, I must have caught a virus on the flight. The air conditioning is notorious for doing that. The virus made me dizzy …’ She stopped talking when she saw her mother’s face.

‘Liar.’ Emily’s voice, cold and hard, sliced through the air. ‘No more excuses, I want those pills now.’ When Greta didn’t move, she continued, ‘If necessary I’ll go get them for you.’

‘You’ve not been yourself for months now. And your weight is a disgrace. Every time I look at you, you’ve got bigger. I should have said something sooner,’ Stephen chipped in. ‘But enough already.’

‘Jeez, Dad, you’d turn a girl’s head with all those compliments.’ Greta stood up and pulled her pyjamas down over her stomach and hips, feeling her father’s eyes on her. His shame and disappointment with her was a poor match for her own feelings. She grabbed a pack of tablets from her bedside locker, then walked the green mile back to the kitchen.

‘There.’ She placed them on the kitchen table. They were small and white, inoffensive. They were also circles of destruction.

‘Swear to us that you’ll not take any more of these,’ Emily said.

‘Do I have to swear on the Bible?’ Greta asked. For the first time in the history of that family joke, nobody laughed.

‘Say it out loud so we can hear you,’ Stephen said. ‘Swear that you will never take another sleeping tablet.’

Greta didn’t answer straight away. Because, to her horror, she realized that she didn’t want to make that promise. In fact, if she were honest, she wanted to take one of her pills so that she could go to sleep and escape from this moment.

‘I swear.’

‘Good. We’ll say no more about it,’ Emily said.

Stephen cleared his throat to say something, but Emily silenced him with a shake of her head.

‘We’ll say no more,’ Emily repeated. ‘Have something to eat. Then get dressed and go next door to help your Uncle Ray out.’

‘I’m not hungry. I’ll go straight over to Ray.’ She walked over and gave her mam a hug. ‘Don’t be worrying about me. I’m not an addict or anything. I’ll show you. I was reckless. Honestly, it won’t happen again.’

Back in her room, Greta turned to social media to help her forget the noise in her head. Though sometimes, if she were honest, seeing all the smiling, happy people she followed only increased the volume of that noise. Maybe it was because she wanted to be just like them.

There was a new post from Dr Gale, who had shared a black-and-white photo still from The Wizard of Oz. Dorothy was standing by a broken picket fence, with Toto the dog in her arms, as a tornado raced towards her.

Drgretagale There are days when I feel just like Dorothy here, about to be swept away in a tornado. We all have our ‘Dorothy’ moments, times when life rages around us, and all we can do is cling on and wait for the storm to pass. But remember this, my friends: maybe that nasty old storm will shake your cupboards and clear them out a little more …

#drgretagale #wizardofoz #dorothy #storm #inspire #inspirationalquotes #whatsinyourcupboard

Greta felt tears prick her eyes. How did Dr Gale do that? She always seemed to know what Greta was thinking. That was all she had to do. She had to cling on a little bit longer, then maybe the storm would pass.

Once Greta finished helping Uncle Ray, she retreated to her bedroom again, where she stayed for most of the day. But by four o’clock, the shock and the embarrassment of the past twenty-four hours caught up with her. Her head buzzed, while her stomach flipped. Greta put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes, but that didn’t stop the torment inside of her. Her mind refused to switch off and as her body began to shake, she felt the walls of her bedroom begin to close around her. The need to get out of the house overwhelmed her. She didn’t have a destination in mind, she just wanted to be anywhere else but here. So she ran out and made her way to the nearby Griffeen Valley Park, welcoming the soft rain that fell on her as she moved. It was only a short shower and by the time she arrived at the water’s edge at the back of the park, it had stopped. She paused to watch the ducks swim. And for a moment, she wondered what it would be like to jump in. Was it possible to swim away from her life, the mess she’d gotten herself into? Because she realized that no matter how far Greta walked away from her bedroom, the storm came with her.

She looked up to the sky which was dark and ominous, reflecting her mood. But then, the sunshine made its presence felt and a bright rainbow appeared. Could it melt her troubles away like lemon drops? Greta walked back home, watching the rainbow move further from her with every step.

‘That you, love?’ Emily called out when she heard the key in the door.

‘The one and only,’ Greta said. She took a deep breath, then plastered a smile on her face.

‘You’re looking fierce tired today, G. Peaky, in fact. Now, don’t get annoyed with me, but I read an article online earlier. And, to be honest with you, you fit the bill of an addict. To a T.’

‘Ah Mam! I’m hardly shooting up drugs on the side of the street!’

‘No, you’re not doing that,’ Emily agreed.

Please let this be the end of this discussion. The gods ignored Greta.

‘But you’ve had blackouts quite a few times. You’ve driven a car and nearly killed both of us.’ Emily blessed herself again. ‘And you look wrecked.’

‘I’ll go to bed early tonight. You won’t know me tomorrow.’

‘Well, they do say that the best eraser in the world is a good night’s sleep,’ Emily said. ‘Tell you what, I’ll run you a bath. Nothing like a nice long relaxing soak to set you up for bed. Your dad will be home soon to make his curry. By the time you come down, dinner will be ready.’

‘You know I hate baths. I don’t like to lie in my own filth.’

‘How dirty are you? Go away out of that!’ Emily said. ‘Follow me up in five minutes and I’ll have it ready for you.’

Greta watched her mam walk out of the kitchen, then sank into one of the dining-room chairs. She was so tired. Every bone in her body cried out in protest. But once her mam got a bee in her bonnet, there was no stopping her. She’d have the bath and go straight to bed, skipping her dad’s dinner. And, hopefully, her body would have no choice but to cooperate and sleep.

Her stomach flipped and fluttered as Greta’s mind spiralled. She walked over to the larder press and stood on her tippy toes to reach the good tin, which her mam had hidden behind a double pack of kitchen towels. Greta opened the lid and pulled out a treat-size bar of Crunchie. She unwrapped it and stuffed it whole in her mouth, feeling the chocolate melt on her tongue, followed by a hit of the sugary fizz of the honeycomb centre. But it wasn’t enough. So she grabbed a Cadbury’s Caramel too. But no matter how much she stuffed into her mouth, her heart continued to pound and her belly ached. The caramel bar hadn’t made life easy. The bunny was full of shit.

Chapter 5

‘I’ve put the good stuff in.’ Upstairs in the bathroom, Emily held up her Jo Malone birthday gift set to Greta. She had also put tea-light candles onto every available surface, which were few and far between in the small family bathroom. But they did look pretty as they flickered in the dusky evening, throwing shapes and shadows on the wall. There was a large glass of red wine for Greta, which sat on the ledge beside the bath. Emily was prepared to do anything to get her daughter to relax and fall asleep without the need for any tablets. How could she have let it go on for so long?

‘I think I’ll skip dinner, Mam. Once I get out of the bath I’ll just go straight to bed,’ Greta said.

‘Are you not hungry?’ Emily asked.

‘I’m trying to cut down,’ Greta said, trying not to think about the chocolate bars from the tin. There was a time when Greta and her mam had no secrets. Emily was always on her side. She used to say, ‘Us women have to stick together! Stand united against your dad and the boys!’ It had been a while since Greta had heard that or felt it either.

‘Oh love, that’s great. I think this is your time to shine, do you know that? Just try to forget about everything and relax in the bath. Have a total switch-off and let all your worries disappear. Tomorrow is another day.’

‘To mess it all up again?’ Greta joked, but it landed wrong and just made her mam frown.

‘Ah no, love.’

‘Ah yes, Mam.’

‘You don’t mean that?’ Emily asked.

‘Course I don’t. I’m joking. Now scoot. Let me get the full benefit of your Jo Malone!’

Greta slipped out of her dressing gown and hung it on the back of the door. The mirror above the sink had clouded over with steam. She ran her hand across it and revealed her naked body. Her breasts were OK, she supposed. And her waist had always been small. But her stomach protruded so much that people thought she was pregnant. In fact, one day a guy had stood up to give her his seat on the bus. She had been too embarrassed to say she wasn’t pregnant, so Greta had patted her tummy and smiled her thanks. She’d cried herself to sleep that night.

Now, she sank into the tub and felt the sting of the too-hot water as it covered her body. This was one of the main problems she had with baths. Greta was always bored by the time the water reached optimum temperature. She preferred showers; there was less pressure to relax. The other issue with baths was that no matter which way she manoeuvred her body in the tub, parts of her white, flabby flesh were exposed through the bubbles. It wasn’t like this in the movie, where the heroine always looked so petite as she frolicked in a large bathtub. Mind you, the way her career was going right now, Greta would never have to worry about a bath scene in anything.

She looked up to the ceiling and became distracted by a crack. How long had that been there? The more she tried to relax, the more her body tensed. She should never have let her mam talk her into this. It was different when they were kids. They used to call it Splash Time. Her mam would squeeze the suds out of a yellow sponge, letting them run down Greta’s back, while she sang nursery rhymes to her. Greta blinked away tears and gulped down a mouthful of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

A fly appeared out of nowhere. There weren’t any open windows in the bathroom, yet somehow it had done a Houdini on it and was buzzing around like it owned the joint. It paused to take a rest and joined in Greta’s fascination of the ceiling above her and its new crack.

Rest. If only. Her body and mind were stretched so taut that she could feel cracks splintering through her just like the one above her. She imagined the ceiling collapsing on top of her, splashing water onto the floor. Her mam would hate that. And she loved her mam, even if she bugged the life out of her sometimes. She closed her mind to the worried frown that had been etched across Emily’s forehead as she closed the bathroom door a few minutes ago. And instead, she watched the fly, which watched the crack in the ceiling.

I’m cracking up. She grabbed her phone and saw a new text message had come in from her agent Michelle. With a shaking hand she pressed open.

Michelle: I’ve just heard from Louise. It was down to you and one other actress but unfortunately they went in a different direction for Clara. Give me a call and we’ll arrange a time for you to call in. I think it’s time we had a chat.

The disappointment was crushing. Greta was so tired of playing this game, but never winning. How was she supposed to tell her family that once again she was close but no cigar. She flicked through her feed, until she found her balm.

Dr Gale was looking directly into the camera, with tears in her eyes.

Drgretagale We’re all damaged, some of us are better at hiding it than others, that’s all. Can I get a hell yeah?

#timetoletgo #wellness #drgretagale #whatsinyourcupboard #mindfulness #inspire #drgretagale #positivethoughts #findyourtribe

Once again it was as if Dr Gale was speaking directly to Greta’s pain. The pain of rejection, the pain of being ‘Big G’. She put the phone back in her toiletry bag, her fingers brushing against a pack of cotton-wool pads.

Greta had another swig of wine as the fly landed with a tickle on her right shoulder. He was fearless. Or stupid.

‘There was an old lady who swallowed a fly, I don’t know why she swallowed a fly, Perhaps she’ll die,’ Greta sang, remembering one of her childhood nursery rhymes. ‘Run for your little life, fly, before this old lady goes in for the kill.’

She swiped him off her with a gentle pat. Now that the rhyme was in her head, it refused to leave, and over and over again she repeated each line until she wished the ceiling would collapse, if only to put an end to the blasted song.

Like a guilty kid reaching for the good biscuit tin, Greta watched the door in case her mam was hovering outside ready to pounce. She counted to ten, and when the handle didn’t move, she reached inside her toiletry bag and took out the pack of cotton-wool pads. She removed a bundle of them until she saw what she was looking for. Her sleeping pills. She had kept an emergency stash hidden from her parents. And there was no doubt that this was a code red emergency.

‘I’m sorry.’ She apologized to her family. She’d made and broken promises to them and to herself. Then she swallowed a tablet with another gulp of red wine.

With great clarity, she realized that – because of the terrible week she had just been through – one more tablet couldn’t hurt. In fact, she reasoned, as she shook the tablets out into her hand without really counting them, her taking a second tablet was for her mam’s sake. Because when she got into bed and slept, Emily would think her bath had done the trick. She popped them into her mouth just to be safe …

Safe, that’s all I want to be, safe and sound, asleep, away from all of this …

Safe, not sorry.

Minutes moved on, or at least she guessed they did. Greta began to feel the familiar, heavy, melting sensation snake its way through her arms and legs. She loved and craved it. Greta sank further into the tub, and the water felt as if it was giving her a warm hug; no longer shaming her, it was her friend. Her eyes were heavy, and she couldn’t see the fly any more.

‘There was an old woman who swallowed a fly …’ Greta mumbled.

And as she finally felt that blessed relief of sleep, her last thought was: Perhaps I’ll die …

Hands, rough, tried to grip Greta’s body, but they kept slipping with the soapy water.

‘Is she dead … Stephen, is she dead, please god, no, is she dead … my poor baby, is she dead?’

Who was Mam talking about? And why was Mam screaming like that? Ow! That hurt. Greta tried to open her eyes, but they felt so heavy, so she closed them again. She awoke feeling something cold and hard underneath her. The tiled floor. Glimpses of the drama unfolding slipped through the slits in her eyes. Her dad and Ciaran. Her mam, hysterical, kneeling beside her, sobbing. Greta was cold.

Someone placed a towel over her naked body. She trembled not just with the chill but with shame. It must be a nightmare. She willed herself to wake up, to make it stop. I don’t like this. Please. No more.

‘Oh love, what did you do, oh my love.’ Emily was cradling Greta’s head in her arms, stroking her hair and sobbing.

She tried to speak, but no words would come out. Why was her dad so wet? His two arms were stained with water, right up to the collar of his shirt. Ciaran was the same. Only his joggers were wet too. Had he jumped in water?

The bath. She had been taking a bath.

And now she was on the floor with a towel covering her, with her mother crying and her father and brother wet. Greta opened her eyes and saw the fly one more time. It paused for a moment before it escaped through the open bathroom door, past Aidan and Ciaran.

I’m dead and this is hell, with me naked on a cold floor.

But Greta wasn’t dead. She was in the centre of a tornado, spinning so fast and fierce that she might never leave it.

No one has ever destroyed her before, so I naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest. But take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, L. Frank Baum

Part Two

Chapter 6

Hope Crossing Addiction Treatment Centre, Tipperary, Ireland

Greta went to the small ensuite bathroom and splashed water over her red puffy face. There was no mirror over the sink, or in fact anywhere in her new bedroom. Greta wondered if it was because people might be tempted to smash the glass and cut themselves. Not an hour in rehab and her mind had already gone to self-harm. By the time she’d finished her three-week stint here, she’d be a basket case.

Not that she cared about the mirror. She didn’t need reminding of how she looked. She knew that her eyes, once one of her best features, were now dull and small, like pebbles lost in her round face. Her skin was blotchy and red.

At only six p.m. the rest of the evening loomed ahead of her. She flicked through a bundle of leaflets that sat on the bedside locker. One was a schedule of group classes for the forthcoming week, counselling, meditation, yoga, meal times. Another outlined the treatment plan.

We holistically approach addiction, working with mind, body and spirit to come together in one healthy life.

Addiction. There was that bloody word again. Every time Greta heard it she wanted to jump in a shower and scrub herself clean. She felt like a fraud. Greta was not an addict and was most probably taking a bed from someone who genuinely needed it. Once again she asked herself how had this happened to her? And the sting in the tail was that she wasn’t even famous. She was forever reading about A-listers in Hollywood disappearing to the Betty Ford for a reboot when life got too difficult for them. She’d even daydreamed about being that famous and needing rehab herself one day too.

But not like this. There were no celebrities here. It was most likely full of junkies and alcoholics, who’d been found huddled under a railway bridge, shooting up or sculling cans. Not ordinary people like her. OK, things may have got out of control lately, but she was handling it.

The fallout from her bathtub incident had been apocalyptic. Her mam had started to cry and said, ‘You never sat still, not even for a moment, when you were a child. But now it’s as if a tornado is tossing you around and around. I can’t reach you to pull you out. And you can’t get out yourself either. Let us help you, please G.’

So here she was, at Hope Crossing, feeling like Dorothy dropped into the Land of Oz. She looked down at her red Converse and clicked her heels to escape. Unfortunately this was real life, not a childhood fantasy.

Greta was still smarting from her first encounter with Caroline, the rehab nurse, who had searched Greta’s bags the second she’d arrived.

‘You can’t do that surely!’ She was indignant at the invasion of her privacy.

‘You have nowhere to hide in this place. Learn that little lesson right up front, and it will be easier for you to settle in,’ she replied, not unkindly. The first things to be confiscated were Greta’s phone and iPad. ‘We find that it’s in the interest of patients to have time away from all outside distractions. Think of your time here as a digital detox. If you need to make a call, you come to find me, and we can discuss it.’

Caroline then rifled through Greta’s make-up bag and took out her tweezers and nail clippers.

‘Why are you taking those?’ Greta ran her hand over her chin, already feeling the start of regrowth of a hair. ‘What do you think I’ll do with them? Pluck myself to death?’

‘Never mind your tweezers, how will we call our daughter if she has no access to her phone? Or the family WhatsApp group!’ Emily was stricken at the thought.

‘Sorry, but there are no phone calls from family allowed until Greta’s counsellor says it’s OK for her to make or take them. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you informed of any issues that you need to know about,’ Caroline replied.

And it was in that moment that it hit Greta that if they had her devices, she couldn’t log on to Instagram. No Dr Gale. For three whole weeks. No lovely supportive messages from her Uncle Ray, who always seemed to know what to say to cheer her up.

She had to find a way to keep her iPhone and iPad. She looked at Caroline and decided she was probably more of a reader than a social media lover. She had that geeky look about her. It was time for a white lie. ‘When I can’t sleep, I like to read my Kindle app on that iPad.’

Caroline was unmoved.

So Greta ploughed on, ‘I won’t switch on the Wi-Fi, you have my word on that. I get that you don’t want me to talk to the outside world. And, quite frankly, I’m ready for some solitude. I just want to read my books.’ She tried to think of a title of a book to throw in, just to validate her argument. Her mind went blank. What was that book she did in school? She should have listened more. ‘Dickens and the like.’

She could feel her mam and dad’s eyes on stalks as they listened to her. OK, she may not have read much of the classics before, but she might do if she had her iPad.

Caroline shrugged and placed the devices with the rest of her contraband in a box, then she stuck a white label onto it with her name typed across it. ‘All of these will be waiting for you when you leave. We’ve a pretty decent library in the TV room, so you’ll have lots to choose from there. Not sure if we have any Dickens, but I’m sure we can find some if you let me know the exact title you prefer.’

Greta gave her the stink eye. Wagon.

‘And now, all that’s left to do is search you.’

‘For what?’ Greta took a step backwards. This was going from bad to horrific.

‘You’d be surprised what people try to sneak into rehab.’ Caroline said this in the same cheery voice that made Greta want to reach over, and punch her.

‘My daughter wouldn’t be that stupid.’ Stephen said, backing his daughter’s integrity in a statement that would come back to bite him in moments.

‘You could at least buy me dinner first,’ Greta laughed, trying to distract Caroline, who was relentless in her search as she patted her down. Her hands were everywhere.

And then, to Greta’s horror, Caroline paused as she came to Greta’s breasts. Without too much effort she had found her secret stash of pills, hidden in her bra. She could feel her parents’ disappointment fill the air between them. Once again she had messed up. You’d think she would get used to that feeling, but it always took her by surprise.

‘This …’ Caroline pointed to the tablets, ‘goes down the toilet. And, just so you know, if you are found with any contraband in the future, you will be asked to leave.’ She didn’t sound so cheery anymore.

Until her parents walked out the door, ignoring Greta’s pleas to take her with them, she didn’t quite believe that this was happening to her. She looked down at her hands which began to shake and tremble. The bedroom started to close in on her, the four walls pulsated as they moved nearer and nearer. If she didn’t get out of this room, straight away, she knew that she would suffocate.

Sticking her hands in her pockets to try and stop the shaking, she made her way to the TV room. About a dozen people were sitting in front of the TV, with a few reading books. They looked up briefly as she entered, then lost interest and went back to whatever they were doing. That was fine with Greta. Because her plan was simple. She was going to avoid talking to any of her fellow … what should she call them?

Patients?

Addicts?

Inmates?

Yes, inmates. They were all prisoners.

‘First day?’ A voice said from behind her. ‘First days are the worst.’

The voice belonged to a tall man, youngish, she guessed in his mid- to late twenties. He looked at Greta with interest. ‘Come over and sit with me if you want.’ He nodded towards a table at the back of the room. ‘Oh, by the way, I’m Sam.’

Greta wasn’t sure she wanted to sit with him or anyone else. She had no interest in adding a junkie friend at this stage in her life.

‘Or don’t. Suit yourself,’ Sam said, then walked away.

On the other hand, Greta didn’t fancy going back to her pulsating bedroom. Maybe Sam was her best bet for now. He had good taste in movies at least, wearing a Jurassic Park T-shirt, one of the originals, baggy and worn with age. She followed him over to a table in the corner of the room, where two men were playing a game of dominos and a woman was reading a battered copy of Unravelling Oliver. She knew the feeling; she was unravelling by the second here.

‘Say hello to another newbie,’ Sam said to the three people seated at the table. They gave Greta the once-over. ‘That’s Rory, Tim and Eileen.’

‘Hey.’

‘What are you in for?’ Rory asked.

Greta wasn’t prepared for that question. It made her sound like she’d committed a crime. And in truth, she didn’t know how to answer it.

‘Booze by the look of her, I’d say,’ Tim piped in.

‘Well I won’t lie, I could do with a glass of red right now,’ Greta said, which made them laugh.

‘I’d say painkillers. Most of the under thirties are in for drugs of some kind,’ Eileen said, then grinned triumphantly when she saw recognition flash in Greta’s face. ‘Knew it.’ They all began high-fiving her.

‘Excuse me, I don’t take painkillers,’ Greta said loudly just as the room went quiet. She felt eyes on her from all directions, looking to see what the hullabaloo was about.

‘If it’s not painkillers, it’s definitely pills of some description. We’re a nation under sedation,’ Eileen said.

‘Give the lady some space lads,’ Sam said. ‘She’s just arrived. Here, take a load off.’

Greta sat down beside him and to her horror realized that she had to squeeze her hips between the two arms of the chair. Bulges of fat spilt out from under the wings on either side. If they noticed, they didn’t say anything. But every part of her cringed in embarrassment.

‘It can get boring in here. So we play the “Guess the Addiction” game to pass the time. No offence meant,’ Sam said.

Greta couldn’t help herself; she was now wondering what he was in for. And as if he pulled the thought from her brain, he said, ‘Gambling.’

‘Alcohol,’ Rory said.

‘Booze for me too,’ Eileen added.

‘Heroin,’ Tim said.

‘So what’s the deal here? Do I have to make a big Hollywood dramatic reveal and say, I’m Greta Gale, I’m a drug addict?’ Greta asked.

‘It doesn’t have to be Hollywood but it does have to happen,’ Sam said.

‘I blame my mother’s addiction to soap operas. Irish, UK, American, Australian, she watches them all. And that’s all very well when it doesn’t affect my life. All they do is make her overactive imagination worse. And to make matters even more dire, she’s riled up my dad and my brothers too. There’s not a member of my family now who isn’t convinced that I’m a druggie. When the truth of the matter is that I have gotten a little too reliant on sleeping pills. No big deal. So, for the purpose of accuracy, I’m Greta Gale, and my parents think I’m a drug addict.’

Sam, Rory, Eileen and Tim smiled knowingly, like they were privy to some private joke.

‘Hey!’ Eileen said, pointing at Greta. ‘You’re not the doctor who wrote all those books, are you? That Doctor Greta Gale who is always on TV!’

‘Sorry to disappoint but I’m the messed-up Irish version who lives at home with her parents. And if I were that Greta, I’d demand a better room than the one I have.’

‘It ain’t the Shelbourne for sure,’ Eileen agreed.

‘Are there any celebs here, by the way?’ Greta asked.

‘No. But there is a guy who looks a lot like Donald Trump. He even 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.