Single. Full stop.
Laura perched at a small desk in a nondescript office, absent-mindedly spinning her mug of tea in her hands. She let her gaze drift over the sea of identical workstations and the beige walls of the call centre, until finally her eyes rested on Abigail, the girl across from her.
Abigail really didnt fit in here. Where others seemed half-asleep and entirely surrendered to the drudgery of dialing up debtors and rattling off dry scripts about late payments, Abigail sat with a spark in her large grey eyes and a neat, thoughtful look about her. Even her hair seemed to be in on the scheme tidy, intelligent, almost scholarly. One look and you could tell this job was about as natural to her as heavy metal at a WI meeting.
Honestly, doesnt it drive you up the wall, being stuck in here? Laura finally asked, tearing her attention from the cooling mug. Girls as bright as you ought to be running the country, not ringing up people about their Council Tax arrears, you know.
Abigail turned her head ever so slightly, as if surprised to be spoken to. She gave a small, calm smile and shrugged, not a hint of irritation on her face.
Its only temporary. Just need to get my feet under the table, really. Ive got no one down here no flat, no friends, just two suitcases and the wild notion I might turn it around.
Her voice was steady, not an ounce of self-pity or complaint. It was the kind of rehearsed explanation you give often: crisp, contained, politely resigned.
Laura traced a fingernail along the rim of her cup, curiosity pricking at her. What did it take, she wondered, for a girl like Abigail to pack up and land in an unfamiliar city?
So, what made you up sticks and leave? Not exactly a snap decision, surely? she pressed, lowering her voice instinctively.
She instantly saw Abigail tense, her smile tilting just a little too tightly. Laura silently cursed herself for being too nosy, the British way of feigning casual unaffectedness having failed her.
No, not at alldon’t feel obliged to tell me. I know strangers in an office arent exactly agony aunts. But just saying if you ever need a chat or help, Im around. Best I can do.
Abigails reply was a grateful nod that actually warmed the room more than the dodgy radiators ever managed. Laura, abrupt and matter-of-fact as she was, masked beneath the sarcasm a rare knack for kindness, and Abigail had clocked it.
But even well-meaning offers have a way of kicking up ghosts. Abigails mind flickered with images a cosy terrace house, familiar streets, faces of people whose opinions shaped her every day. She inhaled deeply, shaking off the past, and returned her attention to the computer, another phone number blinking up, another debtor to gently harass.
*****
Eighteen thats just about how old Abigail was when everything started to unravel. She barely felt grown up at all. It seemed like only yesterday she was finishing A-levels, about to set off for uni, mapping out dreams: freshers’ week, new mates, finally making her own decisions.
Then, one evening, her mum was acting downright suspicious glancing at the clock, smoothing her hair in the mirror, fussing with the casserole for the umpteenth time. The doorbell rang and, honestly, you’d think Buckingham Palace had sent a personal envoy for tea.
In swept Oliver. Or, as Abigail secretly dubbed him the Human CV. A sharp suit, crisp shirt, shiny watch all present and correct. He looked a bit like a premium insurance salesman whod wandered in off the wrong LinkedIn page.
At first, Oliver seemed alright. Flawless small talk, peppered with Ted Talk stats and references to the boffins at the LSE. He quoted Kant between comments about inflation, like he was auditioning for a quiz show nobody asked for. Clearly, he wished to establish his superiority not just over the dinner party, but perhaps the entire town.
But the longer he spoke, the less Abigail liked what she heard. He managed to belittle every family acquaintance their jobs, choices, even holiday destinations with a practised air of disdain. Nobody, it seemed, had ever lived so perfectly as Oliver. Abigail bristled, finding his smug, judge-y tone the human equivalent of Marmite: absolutely not to her taste.
Her mother, meanwhile, beamed like someone on QVC flogging a miracle mop. “Isnt he clever? So promising,” her looks said, as though expecting Abigail to leap up and propose on the spot.
And suddenly the penny dropped. Oliver wasnt just here for roast chicken. He was The Prospect. Mum had lined him up as a husband-in-training. Panic set in full-on, cant-breathe, how-did-this-happen panic. She stared at her mother, hoping for a just kidding, but instead got a steely, This is it, so behave glower.
Inside, Abigail was boiling. She longed to stand, declare her sovereignty, and storm out. But years of well-drilled obedience left her quietly clenching her fists under the table.
Since childhood, Abigails life ran to her mother’s plan, not hers. Any spark of independence was swiftly snuffed out. At seven, she tentatively asked to join art club she loved nothing more than getting paint everywhere (except, obviously, her paper). Mum barely looked up.
“Art? Dont be silly! Ballet is for you good for your posture.
And so ballet it was. Abigail learned to smile and plié and point her toes, all while wishing she had a paintbrush instead of a tutu.
When she finally made a loud, laugh-until-you-snorted mate at secondary, her mother nipped it in the bud: “That girls not suitable for you. Best not see her again. Protests about kindness and fun fell flat. Mum only repeated: I know best.
Later on, as subject choices loomed, Abigails heart belonged to law. She loved the twists of justice, the idea she’d change the world in court one day. She read legal thrillers in bed, researched degrees, sat extra classes. All for naught.
Law? Dont even think about it. Nursery teacher, thats secure and handy when youve got kids.
On and on it went dreams traded for practicality, opinions for compliance, friendship for standards. Argument never worked. Abigail just learnt to say yes, Mum and hide her but whys where no one could see.
But there came a point, inevitable as English rain, when it all snapped. When Oliver finally left, Abigails nerves gave out.
Why do you decide everything? she shouted, barely stopping the tears. Why dont you even ask what I want?
Her mum, all arms folded and composure, replied: I want only whats good for you. Youre too young to know better.
She may as well have poured petrol on the bonfire. Abigail pleaded, raged, even flung a mug that shattered across the laminate not that it even scratched her mothers calm. Youre being irrational, her mum droned, monotone as a train announcement. When you calm down, youll understand Im right.
Abigail gazed at the mess on the floor, energy all burnt up. It was like shouting at a brick wall nothing, absolutely nothing got through.
The next morning, she woke to a bleak silence and, more practically, a suspicious absence of phone and laptop. She went to her mother in the hall, who looked precisely like Mrs Danvers from a crime drama.
Where are my things? Abigail demanded, anxiety fizzing in her chest.
“I’ve taken them. Until you calm down and see sense, you don’t need all that.”
With that, her mum frog-marched her back to her room, shut the door, and yes actually locked it.
At first Abigail laughed. It was so mad it bordered on pantomime. But as the hours ticked by, without as much as Radio 2 or a text to distract her, it became obvious this was no joke. Meals appeared outside the door, just enough to keep her upright but little else.
After a week, fatigue settled in. Not so much from hunger, but the crushing hopelessness of it all. She stopped shouting, stopped banging, sat by the foggy window and wondered: how did it come to this?
When the lock finally clicked, Abigail couldnt look up.
Are you ready to make the right decision? her mum asked, standing in the doorway.
Abigail nodded silently, longing only for the drama to end.
Years later, shed recall this moment with therapists, who would ask why she didnt break down the door, yell for help, or climb out the window. There was no good answer. Some invisible net habit, fear, a lifetime of dont make a fuss held her fast as cobwebs.
Life congealed around her mothers narrative. Wedding preparations got underway: dress fittings, menu tastings, guest lists galore. Abigail carried out her role robotically, faking excuses to delay (Its not the right season! Ive got a placement at the nursery! Cant we wait till after Christmas?). In time, her half-hearted stalling wore thin.
Youve put it off long enough, her mother decreed. Its time.
The next step was moving Abigail and Oliver into a shared flat just to get acquainted, her mum insisted, as if being cellmates would build love. Registration at the register office a mere formality, apparently was pencilled in for soon.
It was precisely then that Abigail found out she was pregnant. The test result hit her like a bucket of water at a school charity fête: cold, relentless, and unasked for. She sat on the edge of the bath, staring at the stick, unable to recall a single biology lesson explaining how life could be so unfair.
She felt no love for Oliver, just irritation and polite toleration. His habits, his voice, even his aftershave all grated on her nerves. The future loomed in horror: a house, child, and lifetime of cheerless compromise.
It took her days to tell him about the pregnancy. When she did, he barely batted an eyelid.
Alright, he said, as if shed mentioned they were low on milk.
Abigail stared glumly into her bowl of soup, realising she was living the grimmest possible fairy tale.
But Abigail wasnt ready to surrender. Carefully, she began making her case to her mother, never directly, always hinting. She spun stories over dinner about friends with more ambitious partners and subtly floated the idea of waiting for a better catch.
Mum, did you know Sarah married a solicitor last month house in Knightsbridge, posh bistro every Friday Maybe rushing the whole marriage business isnt smart, is it?
Her mum listened, eyeing her keenly. Abigail sensed a softening, the possibility of delay, just maybe until graduation.
She even invented a mysterious suitor a plausible entrepreneur who was keen, but in no hurry to settle down. Her mother finally seemed to consider that maybe Oliver wasn’t the top shelf after all.
But the pregnancy knocked it all sideways. Abigail finally saw the situation for what it was: her plans, all her gentle sabotage, dissolved with a single double pink line. Her mother would insist on a wedding now more inevitable than the January sales.
There was no time to lose. Abigail found a discreet private clinic across town, praying she wouldnt be spotted. The doctor listened coolly, no judgment or pep talk, just questions and forms.
Id like to terminate the pregnancy. Im absolutely certain, Abigail said, hands trembling.
The appointment was set. As Abigail exited, relief gave way to cold alarm. Suddenly, she realised she recognised the doctor one of her mothers acquaintances, the kind who shops at Waitrose and shares dodgy memes on Facebook. Was this woman really so tight-lipped that word wouldnt get back to mum? The NHS swears by confidentiality, but in rural England? Abigail wouldnt bet her last pound coin.
Now everything depended on speed. No time for caution. She raced home, grabbed her old suitcase (the one reserved for sleepovers never attended), threw in the essentials: jeans, a jumpy, some pants, and the cash she’d been stashing in an old Quality Street tin.
She checked and rechecked her packing, briefly eyeing a prom photo, but decided dearly-held memories could wait. On tiptoes, she crept down the stairs, unlocking the door like a spy in a low-budget heist film, heart pounding loud enough to wake the neighbours.
She hailed a cab, glancing over her shoulder as though Her Majestys Constabulary might appear. Heathrow, please, she quavered, just get me as far away as possible.
At the airport, everything was a blur. She scanned the departure board, spotted a flight to Manchester two hours to spare. She paid at the counter, hands shaking as she handed over a few crumpled notes.
Waiting at the gate, surrounded by holidaymakers and harried families, felt almost comically normal. Abigail sat, clutching her bag and a cold bottle of water, chanting to herself: You can do this. You really can.
As the plane climbed above Londons sprawl, Abigail pressed her forehead to the cabin window, watching the lights bleed together, feeling the past slip away mile by mile.
The minute she landed, Abigail turned on her phone. Dozens of missed calls from Mum, each message escalating from Call me! to What have you done?!, climaxing in the ultimate British threat: Ive started paperwork at the registry office. Weddings in two weeks. Dont you dare hide you are required to attend.
Abigail read and laughed for real tired, a touch wild, but laced with the first taste of freedom. She typed back: Not on your life. Im free. Full stop.
She sent it, powered off her phone, and let herself breathe. Manchester all rain and smells of chips stretched out before her, a new city and no idea what was next. It was terrifying, uncertain, but for the first time in years, it was her own choice.
After a pause, she took the SIM card out and dumped it in the nearest litter bin. No way back now.
She looked about: busy, indifferent crowd, taxi drivers bellowing, arrivals blaring across the tannoy. Bemused, she wandered to an information stand and asked a helpful soul where she might get a cheap room for a few days.
She settled in a poky inn near the station, paying for three nights up front. The room was tiny, but spotless, just big enough for her suitcase and a headful of plans.
The next day she set to work. She trudged around letting agencies, finally landing a shoebox flat on a grim estate. The landlady, a kindly sort who probably watched Escape to the Country, was happy with a months cash and not too fussed about references.
With a roof ticked off, it was time for a job. She faced a string of knock-backs needed local ties, one said, and another offered pitiful pay but at last she lucked out at a local call centre. Not glamorous, but it paid the bills.
Within a week or two, Abigail decided to make her case to the police, just in case Mum fancied becoming the next Sherlock. At her local station, she explained quietly to a young officer:
My mum might call you about me. Im not missing, I just needed to get away she, well she controlled everything. Even tried arranging a fiancé I cant stand. I just want to be left in peace.
The officer listened, asked her name and where she was living, checked her papers. Right, he said, if your mum files a missing person report, well just tell her youre safe and you left of your own accord. Maybe drop her a text, save the hassle?
Abigail smiled, though she knew she wouldnt bother.
And so began the new life. She woke at six each day, made toast and tea, trudged off to the call centre. In the evenings she cooked simple meals, sometimes watched junk telly, sometimes flicked through battered old books left by the last tenant. On weekends she walked, learned the layout of the city, visited parks and poky coffee shops where no one cared that she was just herself.
She got used to it. No need to justify her every move, no lectures about how to sit, what to eat, where to go. Freedom, it turned out, was simple not always easy, but quietly intoxicating.
Sometimes there were pangs for home: school friends, mums Yorkshire pud, even the relentless familiarity of it all. Shed nurse a mug of builders tea by the window, watching people hurry home in the rain, reminding herself this is my choice. Ordinary, yes, and sometimes lonely. But finally unstoppably hers.
