Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

When I mentioned to my husband the other day that I just couldn't seem to shake thinking about bad stuff, he suggested that I try solving some math problems in my head.

Yeah, right, that's what I want to think about--math. I didn't even want to think about math when I was in a math class. Math was never a friendly subject for me. I struggled through Algebra, ended up getting an A, but only because my teacher was a never-ending cheerleader. To this day, when I see too many numbers in one place, instantly my head hurts.

Besides, math takes away from my creative side. 2 + 2 = 4 and 16 x 12 = 192, those are facts. There's no room for any adverbs or descriptive explanations, no room for creativity. 16 x 12 doesn't "frequently" equal 192, or only on rainy days, or whenever I'm wearing blue jeans. Nope, 16 x 12 = 192 each and every time. But my husband explained that's exactly why math is such a great deterrent; math keeps your mind from thinking about personal problems. At least that's what the article he read the other day suggested.

Apparently when I'm thinking about numerical calculations, no matter how elementary, a different part of my brain kicks in and instantly math problems supersede personal problems. So what the heck, I gave it a try. And you know what? It worked.

My husband says it doesn't even matter if he thinks about the same math problem over and over again, the concept still works for him. Then again my husband likes to keep things simple. For instance, he only likes chocolate ice cream--me--I'm a Neapolitan fan: chocolate, vanilla and strawberry. Ice cream? Now, there's a thought.

I wonder if multiplying scoops of ice cream in my mind would work just as good as simple numbers. 12 scoops x 18 scoops = 216 scoops of ice cream. But on second thought, if I think about ice cream too often, I'll probably start eating more ice cream, gain weight, get depressed, obsess about my weight problem and then the "thinking about bad stuff" cycle will start all over again.

Back to basics, 2 x 2 is 4 and 3 x 4 is 12...

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book The Sunshine Man: A Novel by Emma Stonex. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

1

The week I shot a man clean through the head began like any other. I woke at the normal time, quarter past six, and it was dark outside. I heard the sound of the heating coming on, a rattling chuckle in the pipes. Tom was still asleep, his bare shoulder pale in the moonlight; I put my nose in his neck to check he smelt the same, which he did, of gently scorched wood and the inside of the biscuit tin.

I dressed in the dark and went downstairs. It was unnaturally quiet. I opened the curtains and saw there'd been snow in the night, unexpectedly; it hadn't been forecast. The fall was piled inches deep on the garden bench and the birdbath was rounded off like a wedding cake. It never snowed in our Wiltshire village. Every other part of the country got it but we never did; the children's sledges hung unused in the shed like bats. I switched on the radio. It was a DJ I didn't like, sitting in for someone else, playing twangy songs from Broadway musicals. I made a cup of tea. The milk was past its best-before; I poured it down the sink then buttered two slices of toast and sat at the table in my slippers. The toast had the consistency of cardboard; I heard my jaw click as I chewed.

The show tunes stopped and the news began. The aftermath of air disasters, falling unemployment. The telephone rang. I reached for it.

'It's today,' she said. 'Sorry for the short notice, the arrangements have changed.' It would be midday, she anticipated, these things usually happened before lunch.

I thought there must be a response from my immediate surroundings. The stove catching fire, a chair tipping over. But nothing changed. The tea had an oily film across its surface, which quivered as a grit lorry rolled by. Here it was. He was getting out.

* * *

Tom came down in an ironed shirt and I remembered he had a big meeting today. He'd be away overnight, in Bath. 'Who was that?' he asked. I told him a wrong number.

'You were talking to them,' he said.

'Yes. I was telling them they had the wrong number.'

He looked inside the bread bin. 'How about the snow? That's a turn- up for the books.'

'I know.'

He kissed me. 'The kids'll be beside themselves.'

I turned away to the sink to rinse a glass that was already clean. I thought that in another, ordinary life, I would be wrapping our children in jumpers and mittens, unhooking the sledges, lighting a fire so it would be good and warm when we got home.

'Are the schools open?' said Tom, spading coffee into a Chippenham FC mug.

'They'd better be,' I said. 'I've got things to do today.'

'Like what?'

I twisted the tap off. 'An errand.'

'Ah. Say no more.' My husband's tone changed from concern to conspiracy; I realized he thought it was about his birthday, next month. The notion was so far removed from my intentions, it felt almost like the worst lie of all.

'I thought I'd ask your mother, if school's closed,' I said. 'Good idea.' He filled a pan with boiling water and lowered an egg into it, considerately, like someone releasing a fish. 'Do you want one?' He glanced up. 'Bridget?'

'I'm not hungry.'

He saw the half-eaten toast. 'Are you all right? You seem a million miles away.'

'I'm fine.' I opened the fridge. 'Here. I made you some sandwiches.'

'You're a wonder,' he said, taking them. 'I'd better check the trains are running.'

'They are. Travel's just been on.'

'Well, thank God for that. It'd have to pick today, wouldn't it? The weather.'

My hand shook as I closed the door. 'What do you mean?' 'Greg and this ruddy presentation,' said Tom, not noticing.

'There'll be hell to pay if it gets put back again, I'll never hear the end of it.' He scratched a stain on the nose of his tie. The top of his head was almost totally grey now. We were grown. I hadn't grown.

'I'll ring the school,' I said, as the egg timer went off.

The line in the hall was engaged. On my second attempt the office answered and told me they were open as usual. I felt relief. The next hour arranged itself into slots of twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to give the children their breakfast. Twenty minutes to stick them in front of the television while I packed a bag that had been waiting eighteen years to be packed, made arrangements with Wilma for collecting them, got their satchels and Philippa's lunch money. Twenty minutes to drive them there. When I had thought of this day in the past, I had imagined myself in a panic. Now it was here, I felt quite calm.

I went upstairs and found Philippa wrestling her tights on under the covers.

'I'm cold!' she complained, when I told her she should get up, it'd be easier.

'It's snowed,' I said, drawing back the curtains. 'Look.' Her face lit up. 'Do we get the day off?'

'Sorry.'

She climbed out of bed and went to the window, her tights puddled around her ankles, her hair at the back a nest of spun sugar. I loved her so much.

'It's like Narnia,' she said. 'Can we go outside?'

I thought of wet uniforms, hairdryers. 'Later. Nanny's picking you up.'

She turned on me. 'Why?'

'Dad's away tonight. And I have to visit a friend.'

'What friend?' Philippa was a child who was suspicious until reassured.

'Someone old from school,' I said. 'How old?'

'As old as me.'

(continued on Tuesday)

Love this book? Share your review with the Publisher