‘I’m going to the Heath Academy,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to go down a year, because I’ve missed so much school time. I mean, I’m young for the year anyway, so it’ll all work out . . .’

‘You could go down a year at Stokeland,’ suggests Nat, but I wrinkle my nose.

‘That would be weird. To be in the year below you. Anyway . . .’ I pause. ‘They hate us at Stokeland. My parents got really angry with them. They called this whole big governors’ meeting and had a go at them and it all got . . . you know. Acrimonious.’ I know this from Frank, not from Mum and Dad. ‘They reckon the staff didn’t handle things well.’

‘Well, they didn’t!’ Nat opens her eyes wide. ‘Everyone says that the whole time. Like, my parents go on about it.’

‘Well. So. Exactly. It’d be weird to come back.’

I break the chocolate into more pieces and offer them to Nat. She takes a piece, then looks up, a tear trickling down her face again. ‘I miss you, Auds.’

‘I miss you too.’

‘It was really horrible when you’d gone. Really horrible.’

‘Yeah.’

There’s a moment’s pause – then somehow, with no warning, we’re hugging one other. Natalie smells of Herbal Essences, just like she always does, and she has this little thing of patting you in the small of your back which brings tears to my eyes, just because it’s so familiar.

I’ve missed hugging. God, I’ve missed hugging.

As we draw away from each other, we’re both laughing but a bit teary too. Natalie’s phone rings and she grabs it impatiently.

‘Yes, Mum,’ she says shortly. ‘Everything’s fine. That’s Mum,’ she explains as she throws her phone down again. ‘She’s waiting outside in the car. I was supposed to text her every five minutes to say everything’s OK.’

‘Why?’

‘Because . . . you know.’

‘What?’

‘You know.’ Natalie wriggles awkwardly, looking past me.

‘I don’t.’

‘Auds. You know. Because you’re . . .’

‘What?’

‘Mentally unstable,’ says Natalie, practically in a whisper.

‘What?’ I stare at her, genuinely gobsmacked. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re bipolar.’ Natalie’s cringing all over. ‘Bipolar people can become violent. Mum was just worried.’

‘I’m not bipolar!’ I say in astonishment. ‘Who told you I was bipolar?’

‘Aren’t you?’ Natalie’s jaw drops open. ‘Well, Mum said you must be bipolar.’

‘So I’m going to attack you? Because I should never have been let out of my institution and should in fact be in a straitjacket? Jesus!’ I try to stay calm. ‘I’ve met bipolar people, Nat, and they were perfectly safe, believe it or not.’

‘Look, I’m sorry!’ Natalie looks unhappy. ‘But we didn’t know, did we?’

‘Didn’t my mum tell you what was wrong? Didn’t she explain?’

‘Well . . .’ Natalie looks still more awkward. ‘My mum thought she was putting a gloss on it. I mean, there have been all these rumours—’

‘Like what? What rumours?’ Natalie is silent, and I put on my most menacing tone. ‘What rumours, Nat?’

‘OK!’ she says hurriedly. ‘Like you tried to commit suicide . . . like you’ve gone blind . . . like you can’t speak any more . . . Oh! Someone said you’d gouged out your own eyes and that’s why you wear dark glasses.’

‘What?’ I feel winded from shock. ‘And you believed them?’

‘No!’ Natalie looks foolish. ‘Of course I didn’t believe them. But—’

‘I gouged out my own eyes? Like Van Gogh?’

‘That was ears,’ Natalie points out. ‘Only one ear.’

‘I gouged out my own eyes?’ I feel a bit hysterical. A weird, painful laughter is bubbling through me. ‘You believed it, didn’t you, Nat? You believed it.’

‘I didn’t!’ Natalie is getting all pink. ‘Of course I didn’t. I’m just telling you!’

‘But you thought I was a bipolar homicidal maniac.’

‘I don’t even know what bipolar means,’ admits Natalie. ‘I mean, it’s just one of those words.’

‘A bipolar, homicidal maniac with gouged-out eyes.’ I feel a fresh wave of hysteria. ‘No wonder your mum’s outside in the car.’

‘Stop it!’ wails Natalie. ‘I didn’t mean any of it!’

Natalie is a total, utter dope and her mum is worse. But I can’t help feeling a wave of affection as I watch her, all miserable and flustered and not knowing what to say. I’ve known Nat since we were six, and even then she was totally wide-eyed and thought my dad really was Father Christmas.

‘I’m fine,’ I say at last, letting Natalie off the hook. ‘It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Really?’ Natalie looks at me anxiously. ‘Oh God, Auds, I’m sorry. You know I don’t know anything about anything.’ She bites her lip, thinking for a moment. ‘So . . . if you’re not bipolar, what are you?’

The question takes me by surprise. I have to think for a few seconds before I reply.

‘I’m getting better,’ I say at last. ‘That’s what I am.’ I reach for the last piece of the chocolate bar and split it into two. ‘C’mon. Let’s finish this before Frank sees it.’




Dr Sarah loves the bipolar homicidal maniac story.

Well, I say ‘loves’. She actually groans and clutches her hair with both hands and says, ‘Seriously?’ And I can see her writing, Outreach programme – schools? EDUCATE??? on her notepad.

But I just laugh. I mean, it is funny, even if it’s all wrong too. You have to see that.

I laugh a lot more when I see Dr Sarah these days. And I talk a lot more. For a long time it seemed like she had more to say than I did. It seemed like she did most of the talking and I did most of the listening. (To be fair, I wasn’t wild about communication of any type when we first met. To be even more fair, at our first session I wouldn’t even come in the room, let alone look at her, let alone speak.) But now things have flipped the other way. I have so much to tell her! About Linus, Natalie, all my trips out, that time I went on the bus and didn’t panic one bit . . .

‘So anyway, I reckon I’m done,’ I say as I finish my last story. ‘I’m cooked.’

‘Cooked?’

‘Cured.’

‘Right.’ Dr Sarah taps her pencil thoughtfully. ‘Which means . . .’

‘You know. I’m fine. Back to normal.’

‘You’re certainly making very good progress. I’m delighted, Audrey. Really delighted.’

‘No, not just “good progress”,’ I say impatiently. ‘I’m back to normal. I mean, you know. Practically.’

‘Mmhhm.’ Dr Sarah always leaves a polite pause before she contradicts me. ‘You haven’t been back to school yet,’ she points out. ‘You’re still wearing dark glasses. You’re still on medication.’

‘OK, I said “practically”.’ I feel a spike of anger. ‘You don’t have to be so negative.’

‘Audrey, I just need you to be realistic.’

‘I am!’

‘Remember the graph of your progress that I drew? The jagged line?’

‘Yes, well, that graph is old news,’ I say. ‘This is my graph.’

I stand up, march to the whiteboard and draw a straight line, zooming up to the stars. ‘This is me. No more down. Only up.’

Dr Sarah sighs. ‘Audrey, I’d love that to be true. But the overwhelming majority of patients recovering from an episode such as yours will encounter setbacks. And that’s fine. It’s normal.’

‘Well, I’ve had all my setbacks.’ I look at her stonily. ‘I’ve done setbacks, OK? I’m just not having any more. It’s not happening.’

‘I know you’re frustrated, Audrey—’

‘I’m thinking positive. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing. Just don’t overdo it. Don’t put pressure on yourself. The danger is that you give yourself a real setback.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say resolutely.

‘Yes, you are.’ She nods. ‘But you’re also fragile. Imagine a mended china plate which hasn’t quite set.’

‘I’m a plate?’ I say sardonically, but Dr Sarah doesn’t rise to it.

‘I had a patient a few years ago, very similar to you, Audrey, who was at the same stage of her recovery. She decided to go to Disneyland Paris, against my advice.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Disneyland! Of all places!’

Even the idea of Disneyland makes me wince – not that I’ll admit that to Dr Sarah.

‘What happened?’ I can’t resist asking.

‘It was far too much for her. She had to come home from the trip early. Then she felt she’d failed. Her mood sank to the lowest it had been, and it didn’t do her progress any good.’

‘Well, I won’t go to Disneyland.’ I fold my arms. ‘So.’

‘Good. I know you’re sensible.’ As Dr Sarah surveys me, her mouth twitches. ‘You’ve got your spirit back, at any rate. And life is good?’

‘Life is good.’

‘And Linus is still . . .’ She pauses delicately.

‘Linus.’ I nod. ‘He’s still Linus. He says hi, by the way.’

‘Oh!’ Dr Sarah seems taken aback. ‘Well, say hi back.’

‘And he says, “Good job.”’

There’s silence and a little smile creeps round Dr Sarah’s face. ‘Well,’ she says. ‘You can say that back to him too. I’d like to meet this Linus.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t get your hopes up,’ I say with a deadpan shrug. ‘He’s mine.’


MY SERENE AND LOVING FAMILY – FILM TRANSCRIPT

INT. 5 ROSEWOOD CLOSE. DAY

LONG SHOT: Linus and FELIX are sitting in the garden. They have a chessboard between them and appear to be playing chess.

The camera pans closer and their voices become audible. Felix moves a piece and looks triumphantly at Linus.

FELIX

Chess.

Linus moves a piece.

LINUS

Chess.

Felix moves a piece.

FELIX

Chess.

Linus moves a piece.

LINUS

Chess.

He looks at Felix seriously.

LINUS

This is a good game you invented, Felix.

Felix beams at him.

FELIX

I know.