If This Is Paradise, I Want My Money Back by Claudia Carroll Page B

and space have absolutely no meaning on whatever plane I’m on right now. Totally mental, I know, and if I was a nuclear physicist working at CERN in Switzerland, I might have some outside chance of giving an explanation, but I’m not and I don’t. All I know is that one minute I’m focusing intently on someone, the next minute I’m with them. What can I say? I’m starting to feel like Alice in Weirdland . And I wouldn’t mind, but this beaming in and out of situations lark would have come in particularly handy when I was alive. Like when Anna at the agency where I worked had a minging hangover and was in a fouler, for instance. Or whenever Mum was nagging me yet again about finding a less rubbish boyfriend. Or when I was alone at night for hours on end miserably wondering where the hell said rubbish boyfriend was.
    I could go on for hours.
    Anyway, the bad news is Kate’s not on her own. Shit. I was dying to test out whether or not she can hear me, but now I’m afraid of mortifying her/making her jump six feet out of her skin in front of someone else. Like I said, hilarious with James but, believe me, Kate’s just not the type you mess around with.
    ‘Such a pretty girl,’ says Chidi, the gorgeous Zimbabwean therapist who works with Kate at the health club. ‘Always so funny . . . always joking.’
    As ever, I get a lump in my throat when I hear people talking about me in the present tense. And saying nice things somehow makes it worse. Not that I ever expected them to say, ‘Oh isn’t it great Charlotte’s dead and buried? God, I hated that stupid cow, and I’m so glad she finally got her comeuppance in life, there’s the law of karma for you.’ It just would have made me far less teary and emotional, that’s all I’m saying.
    ‘I know,’ Kate answers, curtly. Briskly. Like she’s trying to get rid of a telemarketer off the phone.
    ‘It’s heartbreaking when these things happen.’
    ‘Mmmm.’
    ‘This must be a very hard time for you.’
    ‘Yes. It is.’
    Monosyllabic answers, Kate? That the best you can do? Come on, she’s only trying to be nice.
    An awkward silence as Kate fumbles herself into a big towelling dressing gown while trying to hide all her girly bits from Chidi. Hang on, except Kate’s normally at the front desk and Chidi’s a therapist. Then, looking around, I slowly realize we’re in the changing area of The Sanctuary, the spa that’s a part of the health club where the pair of them work, and now it’s all starting to make sense. Jammy cow must be getting some kind of treatment done. Kate, I should tell you, has a lot of time on her hands. I mean, she’s the type of person who could tell you to the nearest euro the price differences in organic potatoes between Tesco, Lidl and Aldi. That’s the kind of free time we’re talking about. Whereas for me there are just never enough hours in the day, and I always seem to be chasing my tail around the place like some kind of demented puppy.
    Sorry, I should put that in the past tense. I keep forgetting.
    ‘But you know we’re all here for you. And if there’s ever anything I can do . . .’
    ‘Right then. Fine. Thank you.’
    Not even the merest trace of a wobble on Kate’s lower lip, nothing. But then, I mentally remind myself, she has a tendency to react with anger and not anguish to things. Example: when Dad died, she was just furious with everyone and everything for about two years afterwards, which is about how long they say grief takes to heal to a bearable level. I went for bereavement counselling, which incidentally was a total waste of money. The only pearls of wisdom I got were that there are apparently five stages you go through: numbness, disbelief, anger, all of which are a sort of dress rehearsal for the depression which follows, then finally one happy day you arrive at acceptance, or at least that’s the theory.
    It took six grossly overpriced therapy sessions even to be told that much, and the dull, gnawing