THE FIFTH

I wake with a start, sweat dripping and tears rolling down my face. I struggle to catch my breath as I try to dispel the overwhelming urge to bury my head back into my pillow and sob my heart out. I didn't think I had this much water in me, but it would appear the faucets have been opened and nothing will stop the tears from leaking out. 

Sleep did not come easy. Whenever I closed my eyes, all I could see was Nonna lying there dead. I am unsure as to what time I eventually fell asleep, but my dreams meant that I spent a restless night tossing and turning. 

A glance at the clock tells me that, despite the darkness, morning is here and it is time to get up. I shower and dress, my choice of clothing reflecting my dark mood and matching the dark circles under my eyes. I try to choke down a slice of toast, but my appetite has deserted me. I fill my travel mug with coffee and head out to the bus stop, knowing that I am still too early for work but not wanting to stay in my tiny, claustrophobic flat a moment longer.

By some miracle, it would seem that London's public transport system is running like clockwork, so instead of my normal forty-five minutes of commuter hell, I am delivered to the office by eight o'clock. The office is still in semi-darkness as I make my way quietly to my desk, and I am grateful to have some time to lose myself in my emails and the reports waiting for my attention.

As the office fills, I am greeted with quiet condolences and a few hugs, which bring tears to my eyes; I wasn't aware that half these people even knew I existed. Eddy admonishes me, telling me to take more time. But the understanding in his eyes when I explain that I just don't want to be at home by myself makes me feel a little better. 

"You didn't return my call." Taylor's voice startles me from the figures I have been engrossed in. I look up at him without comprehension.

"Sorry?"

"I left you a voicemail yesterday. You didn't return my call." He drops his voice lower so that no one can hear him. "I wanted to make sure you were okay after…well, after Sunday night, and of course Eddy told me about your grandmother." Taylor looks at me expectantly, and I struggle to find my voice.

"I'm fine," I say, trying to inject some life into my expression. "Thanks for looking after me. I hope I didn't puke on you or anything."

"You are a very well-behaved drunk, Abby, nothing I couldn't handle."

A thought crosses my mind, and I suddenly feel my cheeks heating up. "Um, we didn't, um, do anything, did we?" I can hear the desperation in my voice and feel completely mortified. "Only it looked like you slept with me…"

"Rest assured I don't take advantage of my employees when they are passed out drunk in my bed, even if I don't seem to be able to control my behaviour around you when you are awake." Taylor's face remains unreadable, and I am not sure how to take this. His tone of voice gives nothing away. As if he is suddenly aware of my vulnerability, he softens his expression and continues, "I had you in the recovery position and wanted to make sure you weren't ill. Longest damn night of my life."

Embarrassed, it is all I can do to whisper a muted "Thank you."

"It's nothing. But are you sure you should be here? Don't you want to be with your family?"

"Nonna was pretty much my whole family. My mum and dad are in Spain, filming, and won't be back until Friday, when the funeral is. Um, is it okay to take the day as holiday?" I am suddenly unsure what the protocol for this is.

"Don't be daft. Just take the day." Taylor offers a reassuring smile. "Now, are you sure you want to be here?" he questions again.

"I just need to work, Taylor." I give him a shaky smile, and I know Taylor is not convinced, but he seems ready to let it go.

"But if it gets too much, make sure you take some time, okay?" Taylor leans across my desk and squeezes my hand. The gesture is not at all romantic, but the heat generated from the small touch sends tingles through me. I know he feels it too as he whips his hand back and stalks off without a word and with a very neutral face.

The morning passes in a blur, and it is only when Michelle is standing in front of me, holding out a sandwich, that I realise it is lunchtime.

"I got you this, sweetie. Didn't think you would be up for the lunchtime bun fight."

"Thanks, hon. You are a star."

Michelle pulls over a spare chair, sits down and hands me a drink. We sit in silence for a few minutes, chewing on our respective sandwiches. My throat feels tight and I struggle to swallow. Eventually, I give up and put the sandwich down with a sigh.

"You have to eat, Abs. You look dreadful!" Tactful as ever, Michelle knows how to get straight to the heart of the matter. "Your Nonna would be seriously pissed if she saw you like this!"

I raise a weak smile. "I know."

"Can I do anything?"

I shake my head. "Thanks for the offer, hon, but Mum and Dad have everything sorted for Friday. I just have to write my eulogy. Nonna pretty much planned it all before she died. I think that because she knew it was coming, she got it all sorted so it would be exactly how she wanted it."

We return to a comfortable silence, and I am grateful to have such an amazing friend. Michelle finishes off her lunch and tidies away. "Try and eat something later for me, okay?"

"I'll try," I reassure her, knowing that however tempting my favourite chicken-and-avocado sandwich looks, there is no way I am going to be able to force it past the giant lump in my throat. Michelle gives me a quick hug and then heads back to her desk upstairs, leaving me to my thoughts.

As much as I try to bury myself in my work, my mind keeps coming back to the eulogy I have promised to write. I want to do Nonna and my mum proud, but I am just not sure where to begin. I try several attempts but each one seems weak, and I realise I am hardly full of inspiration, so I hit Delete and go back to completing a report that I could do in my sleep. With a determined effort I lose myself, and the next time I glance at the clock, it is eight in the evening and it is dark outside. I seem to be making a habit of this, so the security guard says nothing about it when I wish him a good evening on my way out.

The silence of my flat is uncomfortable, so I turn on some music and do the one thing guaranteed to soothe my ravaged soul: I bake. The hours fly by as I whip up cakes, biscuits, tart after tart and chocolate éclairs, all in the confines of my tiny attic studio. When at last there is literally no room for anything to cool, I stop. I realise I haven't eaten properly as I nibble on a chocolate-chip hazelnut cookie, but I no longer have the energy to do anything but turn the light out and lie down fully clothed on my futon. I pull the quilt that Nonna made for me over my head and succumb to the tears that have been threatening all day. When at last I am spent, I fall into a fractured sleep full of dreams of rotting corpses.