Introduction

“The brilliant author of this brilliant book” will have you laughing and crying as Meredith, after spending three years inside her house, figures out how to rejoin the world one step at a time (Gillian McAllister, author of the Reese’s Book Club Wrong Place Wrong Time).

She has a full-time remote job and her rescue cat Fred. Her best friend Sadie visits with her two children. There's her online support group, her jigsaw puzzles and favorite recipes, her beloved Emily Dickinson poems. Also keeping her company are treacherous memories of an unstable childhood and a traumatic event that had sent her reeling.

But something's about to change. First, two new friends burst into her life. Then her long-estranged sister gets in touch. Suddenly her carefully curated home is no longer a space to hide. Whether Meredith likes it or not, the world is coming to her door...

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Excerpt

Prologue

I’ve got six minutes to walk to the train station, plenty of time

if I wear my flat boots. My trench coat is hanging on the hook

by the front door, my red hat stuffed in its pocket. My bag on

the kitchen table contains everything I need for a day at the

office. My hair is freshly washed and straightened; my lips are

glossed. They match my hat— by chance, but I like it.

Somewhere between the kitchen and the front door I become

aware of a seed of doubt in my throat. I can’t swallow it down

or cough it up. My chest is tight, my palms hot. Tingles race up

my arms, like tiny electric shocks. I keep my eyes on the floor,

watching my feet slide across the wooden boards I’d sanded, so

painstakingly, only a month earlier. It’s as if they belong to

someone else.

I slump onto the stairs, sit on the third step from the bottom,

and try to swallow. I’m still staring at my feet, encased in the

thick socks I always wear with my flat boots because I tend to

be between sizes and I’d opted to go up a half in them. The

boots stand tall and proud beneath my coat at the end of the

hall. I know they’re there, but I can’t reach them.

All I have to do is walk to the door. Slide my feet into my

boots and pull the zippers. Put on my coat and my red hat. Hook

my bag over my shoulder and lock the door behind me. A simple

sequence that takes less than a minute of my day. If I leave

now, I can still make my train. I can still get to work on time.

But the seed in my throat is swelling. I gulp for air. There’s

nobody here to help me and I can’t help myself because my

arms and legs are on fire.

When I can finally take my phone out of my bag, three hours

have passed, I’ve missed twelve calls, and I’m still sitting on the

third step from the bottom.

Day 1,214

Wednesday, November 14, 2018

My name is Meredith Maggs and I haven’t left my home for

1,214 days.

Day 1,215

Thursday, November 15, 2018

I’m tidying the living room when he arrives. First, he pulls up

outside my house in a gray car. Next, he walks up my path. He

has a slim folder tucked under one arm and long legs. It only

takes him three strides to reach the door.

At 10:57 a.m. the tall man rings my doorbell.

I like it when people are punctual. I don’t get many visitors—

my best friend, Sadie, and her kids, James and Matilda, and the

grocery deliveryman are my only regulars. Sadie is often late

and frazzled, but I let her off because she’s a single mum with a

busy job— a cardiac nurse at the biggest hospital in Glasgow.

The grocery deliveryman is always right on time.

I take deep breaths, watch my feet walk to the door in their

blue Converse. Look at my right hand as it reaches for the handle,

grips, pushes, pulls. I draw the door toward me, slowly, and

do a quick scan. Checked shirt, buttoned right up to the neck,

under a navy duffel coat. A few years younger than me, I think.

Or maybe just someone who benefits from fresh air and sunshine.

He has dark hair, short at the sides and longer on top. A

friendly face— open eyes and an easy smile, not forced.

I don’t get a lot of visitors. But this one seems OK, on first

impression.

He offers a hand. “Meredith? I’m Tom McDermott from

Holding Hands, the befriending charity. I’ve been looking forward

to meeting you.”

I wish I could say the same, but of all the things I have to

look forward to—and it’s a short list admittedly— this isn’t one

of them. Meeting new people has never been a joy. Especially

people who visit solely to make sure I’m not neglecting my personal

care, or wasting away, or drinking vodka for breakfast.

When the boxes have been ticked and the forms have been

filled out, I’m really rather boring.

I shake Tom McDermott’s hand, because it’s the polite thing to

do. He’s the first man to come to my house since Gavin—lovely,

sweet Gavin, who was no match for my nightmares—but I don’t

feel threatened. I don’t find Tom McDermott intimidating, in his

checked shirt and duffel coat, standing on my doorstep.

Still, I don’t let him in. Not yet. Even though I invited him

here, grudgingly, after Sadie left the leaflet on my kitchen table

under a box of Tunnock’s Teacakes and I went through the

motions. The same leaflet that Tom McDermott has just fished

out of his folder and is holding up in front of me. I interlink my

fingers behind my back in response to the large black capital

letters: “WE’RE HERE TO HOLD YOUR HAND.” An act

of defiance that only I’m aware of.

I look at the two people on the front of the leaflet. I know

their faces well— I’ve seen them several times a day because

they’re attached to the front of my fridge with a magnet in the

shape of a heart. One is a middle- aged woman, the other a man

who looks old enough to be her grandfather. He has cloudy

eyes and a tuft of white hair on either side of his head, and

looks tiny in his armchair, shoulders hunched up around his

ears. They’re smiling at each other and— right on brand— holding

hands.

“I always thought befriending was for old people,” I tell Tom

McDermott, ready to label the leaflet as Exhibit A.

“Actually, we try to reach out to anyone who might need a

friend. Elderly people, teenagers, anyone in between.”

“I have friends,” I tell him, stretching the truth.

“Maybe you have room for another one?”

I think about this, about the way my tiny circle might not

pass for a circle at all— unless cats count— and I’m not really

concentrating on what he’s saying about training and risk assessments

and codes of conduct. But I decide I’m curious enough

to let him into my house.

I couldn’t move my almost- completed jigsaw of Gustav Klimt’s

The Kiss from the coffee table in the living room, so I’d carefully

pushed it against the wall. If Tom McDermott needs a table, we

can move through to the kitchen.

I leave him there and go to make us tea. (“No sugar— I’m

sweet enough,” he tells me with a wink, and somehow it comes

across as quite endearing, not sleazy.) When I return, he’s kneeling

down, looking at The Kiss.

“How long did this take you?” he asks.

“A few days, just doing the odd half hour here and there,” I

say, setting the tea tray on the floor. I’ve added a plate of chocolate

cookies, despite Tom McDermott claiming he’s sweet

enough.

“Amazing,” he says, and I think he’s talking about the jigsaw,

not the biscuits, but he reaches for a cookie and takes a bite. He

stays on the floor, his long legs crossed, and washes his cookie

down with a gulp of tea. For a total stranger, he’s making himself

very comfortable in my living room. I perch on the end of

the couch, my mug sending heat into my palms.

“Meredith, it’s really good to meet you. Before we start

chatting, let me give you some information about the charity.

It was set up in 1988, right here in Glasgow, by a woman

called Ada Swinney, whose mother was housebound due to

dementia. Our mission today is exactly the same as Ada’s was

back then— to offer company, friendship, and support to anyone

who needs it.”

I don’t know what to say, so I sip my tea.

“The most important thing, at all times, is that you feel comfortable

and safe. At any time, if you don’t, you can tell me to

leave and I will— no questions asked!” He takes some forms out

of his folder. “Shall we get the boring stuff out of the way first?”

I answer all his questions and nod in all the right places until

the forms are back where they belong.

“You’re clearly a bit of a star at jigsaw puzzles,” he says. “What

else do you like to do with your time?”

After a few long seconds of Tom McDermott smiling— he

has, I concede, kind eyes— and me looking blankly back at him,

I say, “I read a lot.”

“Well, I can see that!” He gestures at the books lining an entire

wall of the room, then jumps to his feet in one surprisingly

smooth motion for someone with those legs. “Quite a variety

you have here, Meredith. Plenty of classics . . . history . . .

art . . . do you have an all- time favorite?”

“It’s actually a poetry collection. Emily Dickinson.” I join him at

the shelves and reach for a slim orange book, its spine soft and

creased from decades of use, from the touch of fingers much

older than mine. I bought it in my favorite secondhand bookshop;

it has For Violet, ever yours handwritten on the inside cover.

I’ve often wondered who Violet was, and why a book given to her

with so much commitment ended up being available to me for

two pounds. Whatever its story, I feel safe with it in my hand.

“Dickinson. She felt a funeral in her brain, didn’t she? Genius.”

“You can borrow it, if you like.” I surprise myself by offering

him the book.

“I would love to. Thank you, Meredith. I’ll take very good

care of it, and give it back to you the next time I see you.”

I’m a little taken aback. I expected him to say— politely,

kindly— that he couldn’t possibly take my favorite book. But

by the time I’ve taken my seat back on the couch, he’s tucked it

into his folder and has helped himself to another chocolate

cookie.

“Meredith, I know you haven’t left your house for a very long

time,” he says.

“One thousand two hundred and fifteen days,” I tell him.

“A very long time,” he says again.

“Well, it’s flown by.”

“You count the days?”

I shrug, feeling stupid. “I guess I have nothing to count down

to, so I count up.”

I fold my arms across my body, well aware of the message

that sends.

“We don’t have to talk about that, if you don’t want to.” He

keeps his voice soft, a contrast to my sharpness. “I’m here to get

to know you. I’m interested to learn about your life, what you

like and don’t like, how you pass your time. And . . . well, maybe

we can fi gure out a way to help you get back into the world?”

“I am in the world,” I say defi antly.

“Yes, of course you are. But—”

“And I have a cat. Fred.”

“Fred? Astaire, Savage?” He grins.

I don’t. “Just Fred.”

“I love cats,” he says. I’m beginning to think that Tom

McDermott will agree with me no matter what I say. He thinks

my jigsaw is amazing. He loves Emily Dickinson and cats. I’m

also beginning to regret giving him my most treasured poetry

collection. I might never see him— or that beloved, faded

orange cover— again. I wonder if I could ask for it back. Maybe

he’ll go to the bathroom and I could slip it out of his folder

and put it back on the second shelf from the top, where it

belongs.

But he shows no sign of going to the bathroom and wants to

keep talking about cats.

“What happens if Fred gets sick?” he asks.

Tom McDermott has underestimated me. I’ve been asked all

these questions before.

“Fred has never been sick,” I say proudly. “But I have a very

good friend, Sadie. Sadie would take Fred to the vet.”

“Ah. That’s good. What else does Sadie do for you?”

“She picks up my prescription once a month. That’s it. She’s

my friend, not my carer.” My shoulders feel tense. They’ve been

frozen in place—somewhere near my ears—since I gave him

my book. “I don’t need anything else.”

“And you work . . . full- time?”

“I’m a freelance writer, so it varies. But I’m kept busy.”

“A writer? That sounds exciting.”

“It’s not really. I don’t have bylines in the New York Times or

anything. It’s just web content for businesses.”

“Believe me, it’s exciting compared to what I used to do.” He

pulls a face. “I got made redundant from my job in finance last

year. So I’m taking a bit of time out, trying to figure out what to

do next.”

I nod. I’ve never been good at small talk.

“What about your family, Meredith? Do they visit often?”

My stomach clenches. I take a gulp of my tea.

“It’s complicated,” I tell him.

“I’m pretty good with complicated,” he says, and his voice is

gentle. “But we don’t have to go there, Meredith.”

“I have a mother. And a sister. Fiona. Fee. She’s eighteen

months older than me.” I rush the words out of my mouth.

“What’s your sister like?” It’s a natural question, out of his.

“Different from me. But I don’t know anything about her anymore.

We haven’t spoken for a long time. I don’t see her or my

mother at all, actually.”

“It is complicated,” Tom says softly. Then he waits, and the

fact that he’s giving me space makes me wonder if I can say

more. But I can’t find the right words, so I go back into the

kitchen for more cookies.

Half an hour later, I stand at my front door and wait patiently

for Tom McDermott to leave, to take three strides down my

garden path and get into his gray car and drive away. I’m

exhausted from all the talking, all the questions, all the worrying

about my book, all the pretending my life is a ten when the

truth is that most days barely scratch the underside of a six.

He’s taking his time to go. He’s already thanked me profusely

for my hospitality, looking straight into my eyes and telling me

he’ll be back to see me next week, if that’s OK with me. Fred

watches us from his favorite place, the comfy chair on the

upstairs landing. It’s the first man in the house for him too; I

wonder if cats pick up on things like that. Part of me is pleased

that he didn’t come down to welcome Tom.

“Remember, there’s no obligation on your part,” Tom says. “If

you hate my jokes, or can’t afford all the cookies I eat, you can

tell me to go away at any time. No hard feelings, I promise.”

“You’ve got my favorite book, so I suppose I’ll need to see

you again.”

“Very true.” He smiles. “And I’m looking forward to seeing

what jigsaw you’re working on next.”

“A mosaic tile design,” I tell him. “It’s intricate.”

“Well, I can’t wait to see it. Until then, Meredith.”

I raise my hand to bid him farewell, but he pauses on the

doorstep.

“One more thing, Meredith . . . if you don’t mind? I’m

curious— there must be something you used to do that you

miss? One thing you can’t do at home?”

It’s started to rain heavily. Tom McDermott buttons up his

duffel coat. Behind his head, the dense, gray clouds of the

late- afternoon sky move toward me. I’m aware of them, without

looking directly at them. I inch backward, away from the

open door.

“Swimming. I love swimming,” I say softly.

“I’m a terrible swimmer,” he says. “I can do doggy paddle, and

that’s about it. Anyway . . .” He pulls the collar of his coat tighter

round his neck and shakes a raindrop off the tip of his nose. “I’ll

be swimming home at this rate. Goodbye, Meredith. You take

care.”

“You too, Tom McDermott,” I whisper as I close the front

door.

That night, I dream I’m doing doggy paddle in a huge lake

with Emily Dickinson. Tom McDermott and the old man from

the leaflet are sitting on the side, watching and waving and eating

chocolate biscuits. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Meredith says she’s happy staying inside her home. Do you believe her? How long do you think she would have been able to keep up that kind of existence?

2. One of the topics explored in the book is mental health. With many famous people opening up about their struggles, the topic seems less stigmatized than before. Do you think this is true for non-famous people?

3. Sadie says that she and Meredith are “like salt and pepper.” They’re different but come together as great friends. Why do you think they fit so well? Is there truth that “opposites attract”?

4. Although Meredith has kept herself confined, she’s able to socialize digitally. Are we different when interacting with people on-screen versus in person?

5. The book depicts an unstable childhood environment for Meredith and her sister. What coping mechanisms did they develop? Did that past life prepare Meredith for her present-day life? How?

6. What circumstances would lead you toward a self-imposed solitary lifestyle? Meredith has her survival kit to keep her going—there’s Fred, jigsaw puzzles, Emily Dickinson poems, and cooking. What are your essentials (family is already included)?

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