The Uninvited Guestbook

There’s a knock at the door. Not the familiar ratta-tat-tat of Richard, our Evri guy, who knocks like he’s apologising for existing. Not the almost-take-the-hinges-off thump of Shelly, our deaf post lady, who doesn’t realise her own strength. This knock is different. Measured. Intentional. A knock without personality. Or worse — one with purpose. The kind that doesn’t belong to anyone I know. I move towards the door slowly, heart ticking louder with every step, and peer through the peephole. A bloody canvasser. Of course. I feel smug immediately. I’ll tell him to piss off, I think. Politely. With manners. Perhaps even a smile that says go away forever, but have a nice day. I open the door. He slams his weight against it, shoulder first, trying to force his way inside. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I shout, bracing myself against the door like a woman in a horror film who refuses to die quietly — or at least not before Act three. “I’m trying to break in,” he says calmly, almost cheerfully. “What does it look like?” An intruder in a canvasser’s jacket. Bold strategy. High-Vis deception. I shove harder, adrenaline lending me muscles I don’t normally possess, and manage to slam the door shut. I lock it. Then I flip him off through the wood. He can’t see it, obviously, but I know it’s there, vibrating with righteous fury. It makes me feel better. Briefly. Pathetically. Effectively. I turn, victorious, and walk back into the living room. And there he is. Climbing through the window I’ve left wide open, one leg hooked over the sill like he’s wandered out of the wrong dream. I grab the nearest thing to hand. A fire poker. Naturally. I jab him squarely in the arse. “Get out!” I yell, poking him like firewood. “You have no right coming in here!” He yelps. I jab again. And again. Eventually — after one poke too many — he scrambles back out the window and disappears. “And don’t come back!” I shout after him, leaning out triumphantly. That’s when Mum walks in. “What’s all the commotion?” she asks, glancing around as if expecting to find confetti or at least a balloon arch. “I’ve got something to tell you,” I say gravely. Her eyes light up. Grandchild-bright. Hopeful. Expectant. “No,” I add quickly. “Not good news. Some fucker just broke into the house. We’re not burglar-proof.” She nods absently and begins cleaning around me, dusting, wiping, moving objects that don’t need moving, treating me like an inconvenient ornament she hasn’t quite decided whether to keep or charity-shop. “Did you hear me?” I ask, irritation rising. “I just want to be alone,” she says. “I’ve had enough of company.” But I’m in my own home, I think. I don’t say it. Before she can pick me up and dust beneath me, the scene is swept away. My husband and I are at our local Wetherspoons. How I’ve convinced him to come here — this dingy cathedral of sticky tables and microwaved dreams — I’ll never know. He’s usually a tad snobby about where he wines and dines, but tonight he seems cheerful, relaxed, even adventurous. A man who has accepted his fate. We’ve ordered a bottle of wine. I already know he’ll complain about it. Possibly before it even arrives. The door swings open. In pours Kate. School mum Kate. Writer Kate. Followed by her husband and their small travelling circus of children. My heart drops. “I knew we should have sat in a dark corner,” I mutter. “It’s fine,” Mat says, squeezing my hand. “It doesn’t have to be awkward.” But it already is. Kate once begged to read my short stories. Please send me something, she said. I’d love to read them. I did. Months ago. Still no response. No praise. No critique. Not even a gentle this wasn’t for me. Just silence. The loudest review of all. Her kids pass us. Then Kate. Then her husband. Nothing. No nod. No smile. No flicker of recognition. Not even the courtesy side-eye. Suddenly, I’m not hungry. “Who needs friends when we have each other?” Mat says, smiling. I smile back, but it feels cracked, like porcelain pretending to be whole. The table clears itself away. So does the feeling. Now I’m walking Phoebe to school. She’s younger again. Fifteen. All angles and attitude. At the gate, she tugs my arm. “I can’t believe you made me wear these,” she hisses, cheeks blazing. I look down. Oh no. Sling-back skyscraper heels. Platformed. Architectural. She can barely stand. A structure nightmare. Social suicide. How did I not notice? “You’ll be fine,” I say weakly, like a liar with places to be. She gives me the fuck off, Mum eyes and totters away, heels squeaking across the laminate floor. Then — The Mum of the Year Award goes to… Me. Wrong class. The teacher stares at me like I’m the one wearing the ridiculous heels and points silently to the door. “Sorry, Phoebe,” I start, but she’s already gone. All I can hear is the squeak. Squeak. Squeak. On the way home, I’m riding downhill in a white plastic box. Of course I am. The other parents stare, double-take, squint, as I whizz past them, wind in my hair, dignity left somewhere uphill. It’s glorious. Liberating. Freedom in its purest form. I almost shout fuck the haters, but I don’t. One must maintain standards. At the bottom, my phone buzzes. A text from Ash. Not just any text. A doom text. Call me when you’re free. No kisses. No explanation. Just doom. My brain spirals instantly. What have I done? What does she know? Did I forget her birthday? Have I been secretly awful? (Again.) I must fix this. Immediately. I make her a scrapbook. A full one. Photos. Memories. Inside jokes. Years of friendship compressed into something absurdly impressive for the few minutes it’s taken me. I also fill a bag with things I find on the way — bark, stones, a plastic bottle, miscellaneous destiny. A shrine to guilt. I’m in the shop, panic-scanning aisles, when Fate herself blows Ash through the doors. “Mand,” she says. Not warmly. Not softly. More… oh. It’s you. I start handing her gifts. Bags. Scrapbook. Memories. Rubbish. She looks overwhelmed. Unimpressed. “Can I just leave this with you?” she says. “I’ve nowhere to put it.” Silence thickens. It could be sliced. Sold. Displayed. “So,” I say, forcing brightness, “what did you want to tell me?” Another pause. “Oh,” she says quietly. “Don’t open your door to randoms. There’ve been break-ins around here.” Relief crashes through me. “I know,” I say. “Some fucker tried to break into mine this morning.” “Mine too,” she replies. “They stole every picture off the walls. Who does that?” My chest tightens. Pictures. The scrapbook. The knock. The door. And suddenly it’s deafening. I think of the poker. The shove. The certainty. And it hits me — sharp as a metal prong to the arse — that maybe I am the intruder. Or at least the host. The one who lets the doubts in. The one who opens the door to thoughts that steal my pictures — my memories, my confidence, my sense of belonging — and leaves behind blank walls. The thoughts that tell me people don’t like me. That I’ve said the wrong thing. That I’m too much, or not enough, or wrong in some unfixable way. I long to slide down that hill again, in my ridiculous white plastic box, wind in my hair, no shits given — past the judging eyes, past the self-critic, past the knocking — And into something like freedom. But I know the truth. Those intruders always come back. They knock softly. They sound familiar. And more often than not — I don’t just open the door. I step aside and let them in.