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by Penny Parkes

  ‘Diluting yourself. Like Kate-Lite?’ Anna said quietly.

  ‘Exactly,’ Kate replied, nodding. ‘Like, I’d rather be me – full-sized and a bit quirky – than a poor approximation with a packed social calendar. You know?’

  ‘I do,’ Anna replied. ‘I really do.’ Wondering how it had taken them three years to have this conversation. This moment of complete empathy. But that in itself came with issues. ‘But now you’ve left me with a quandary – or possibly a life crisis. Because now, I’m wondering how many other hurdles I’ve ascribed to my start in life, when they were in fact just a part of life.’ She looked up at Kate with wide, confused eyes and slowly shook her head.

  ‘Look, would it be incredibly insensitive of me to suggest that, maybe, it’s time to stop looking back and start looking forward?’ Kate said, pulling an awkward face as if to suggest that she knew exactly how thin the proverbial ice might be beneath her feet with that proposal. ‘I mean, you’re about to graduate from Oxford and probably, let’s face it, with some ridiculous over-achieving first. There are myriad jobs you could apply for, and despite what my well-meaning mother says, there’s a master’s on the table to buy you some life-planning time. You don’t have to go all Greta Garbo with your notebook for a year.’

  ‘Greta what now?’ Anna said.

  ‘You know, the actress. “I vant to be alone” – that one.’

  Anna wrinkled her nose. ‘Do you think there was lead in the paint at the Paint a Pot?’

  Kate shook her head. ‘You really are the queen of evasion, aren’t you? Is that what this new house-sitting idea is about then? Because really, if you want to see the world, there are other, more sociable ways to do it. I’m just worried that you’re essentially going to become a travelling hermit.’

  Anna was rather wishing she hadn’t even mentioned the idea now, but there was something of the confessional about sitting side by side painting mugs while ten-year-olds at the neighbouring table told ridiculous jokes and mainlined Party Rings. It was just an idea. A concept. An article she’d read online the night before when she couldn’t sleep.

  And to her, the notion of cost-free accommodation and a carousel of dream locations while she worked out not just how to write, but exactly what she wanted to write, had seemed like a dream come true. No shabby hostels, or roommates, or backpacks. Just a little bit of time to breathe after the insane treadmill that had carried her this far.

  But Kate’s interpretation had clearly been a little different. ‘I guess I just don’t understand the logic.’

  ‘I want to write,’ Anna replied simply. ‘I want to see if I actually can, as opposed to just talking about it conceptually, you know. I just want to write, to try and make sense of what’s going on in my head.’

  ‘So, what’s stopping you doing that here? I mean, go travelling, take a holiday, but why the need to take yourself away from everyone who can support you? You know, my dad would say that a goal without a plan is just a wish,’ Kate said, her tone suddenly serious, as though convincing Anna to see her point of view was of vital importance.

  ‘Then what’s a plan without a goal?’ Anna replied, taking her hand and willing her friend to understand that she was operating blind on this one.

  Kate shook her head resignedly. ‘Research?’ she offered with a gentle smile.

  * * *

  Back at the house, Anna sat on her bed, flaking the last remnants of paint from her hands and trying to find the energy to revise. Her first was by no means a done deal and she couldn’t afford to drop the ball now. Tugging her notebooks of useful quotes and references from her backpack, her father’s letter fell onto the duvet beside her.

  At least this time, she couldn’t blame the appalling timing of another rejection on him. After the whole GCSE debacle, she’d sworn that she would keep her distance. But, as her housemates began talking about graduation, about their families, she’d been powerless to resist that insistent tug of hope.

  But, of course, he hadn’t changed. Always taking short cuts through life, the line of least resistance, or at least a line that enabled him to blame any failure on somebody else – why would his parole this time be any different? That visit to Darwent Prison had redrawn all Anna’s memories of the funny, caring bear of a man who had read her bedtime stories, even using special voices for the various characters. The shutters had dropped from her memory the moment he’d assigned blame to her mother for Anna’s situation, and a convenient lack of culpability on his part for her childhood in care.

  And with each year that passed, it seemed that Anna remembered more, not less, of the shouting, the anger, and the lying that had characterised his final years at home with her. Gambling her mother’s wages – the same hard-won money that was supposed to pay for food and heating. Until, in her mind now, she was unable to separate the gnawing chill and hunger of that last winter from his confident, blasé bragging about how life was going to be when his plans came together.

  She gave a shudder as that last thought formed in her mind.

  She had never known what exactly those ‘plans’ were, but the echoes of that sentiment still had the power to make her feel cold and abandoned all over again. It wouldn’t take a psychologist to work out their subliminal part in Anna’s absolute aversion to making a solid life plan moving forward, would it?

  And, while Kate made a valid point about looking forwards, not back, there was still the open wound of neglect that coloured Anna’s every relationship, that still cried out to be cauterised. Perhaps she could break the cycle of self-critical beliefs, the conviction of never being good enough? And, if not healed, then perhaps at least she could hope to find a little closure on her year of discovery.

  She picked up the Moleskine notebook and reread The List.

  She could feed her soul and explore the planet at the same time as pursuing her dreams, couldn’t she?

  And then, when she knew who she was – Anna Wilson in her own right – well, then, then, she could settle down and enjoy a future of her own making. Where she could be her best self – no dilution required.

  Chapter 45

  Oxford, 2010 – Graduation

  Anna clutched the printed-out page in her sweating palm like a talisman, hugging the knowledge to herself. Her secret, her success. The anticipation and nerves of the day were making everyone around her a little skittish, desperate to impress their guests, bidding farewells to friendships and, indeed, their privileged undergraduate lifestyles.

  Life would never be the same again.

  For any of them.

  Proud conversations eddied around her: a veritable alphabet soup of graduate positions with KPMG, PWC, GSK, GCHQ or the BBC. And so, in the pocket under her graduation robes, that single printed page gave Anna the boost she needed. The boost from knowing what came next, courtesy of a company called Home Network and a sweet Yorkshire girl called Emily.

  Her very first placement as a house-sitter, references approved.

  A mews house just off Kensington High Street. Small, but perfectly formed, and eye-wateringly expensive, if the internet was any guide. Immaculate living spaces and three bedroom suites – not bedrooms, she noted, bedroom suites. She supposed that she’d discover what that actually meant when she arrived tomorrow to take possession of the keys, her instructions and the care and feeding of two wire-haired dachshunds for three full weeks. There was the use of a Smart car at her disposal but the very thought of driving in central London brought Anna out in a cold sweat.

  She would take the bus.

  The warmth of this quiet win was not to be underestimated today, a surety to her madcap plan to step away from the certainty of the milk round of recruiters and forge her own path. And, yes, there had been a buzz from explaining her plan to the sweet, enthusiastic Emily – her request to be a full-time house-sitter for a whole year so that she could write.

  ‘So you’re like one of those lady novelists?’ Emily had sounded a little in awe, which was nice in a way because it took t
he edge off the fraudulent feeling of being a slightly pretentious imposter.

  Time to write. But what to write?

  She could only hope that a little time, space and inspiration would solve that particular riddle. It seemed the height of self-indulgence to let on that her writing, until now anyway, had always been a cheaper and more accessible version of therapy. Her ambition simply to hold a book in her hand, bearing her own name, as testament to her talent and hard work. Despite everything life had thrown at her.

  Around her the crowds of people in identical black robes, bedecked with coloured hoods and pointed mortarboards, surged forward. Deep breaths required, as she silently offered up a prayer to anyone that was listening. A prayer of thanks for this experience, but also one of hope, moving forward.

  * * *

  Taking her allocated seat, Anna fought the wildly inappropriate urge to laugh. Whenever they’d studied certain writers, often of the male and self-aggrandising variety, Anna had a tendency to roll her eyes; caricature and cliché left her cold and irked, as a rule. She’d written numerous essays and book reports on the subject, unable to jump blindly on board with the notion of ‘classic literature’, simply because an imprint or editor had labelled it so. But here, today, amongst the excited hubbub of the Sheldonian, costumed in this – let’s be honest – slightly ridiculous mortarboard and robe, she began to wonder whether that bastard Hemingway actually knew what he was talking about: it was sometimes lonelier to be surrounded by people than to be on your own. Although, to be fair, she considered, most of the time he’d been off his head on booze and pills, or the electro-shock therapy they seemed to dole out back then with such abandon.

  Looking around, she wasn’t the only one craning her neck to take in the spectacle of the Sheldonian before the degree ceremony commenced; the only difference being that her friends and classmates were seeking out their families and guests, to wave, to smile, some nervously looking for approbation.

  Anna, on the other hand, was simply trying to drink it all in, notice every little moment and foible. Imprint this achievement on her memory. She had nobody in the invited audience to cheer when she received her degree, or to snap a photograph as she tossed her mortarboard into the air with her classmates.

  Three years of study, of laughter and belonging, over with one flick of the wrist.

  She thought of the beautifully inspiring, yet ultimately disappointing letter from Mrs Holt that had arrived, complete with a ten-pound book token that brought tears to Anna’s eyes. It had felt a little strange to invite her, but after her father’s ignominious disappearance, it had actually made more sense. After all, who better to share this day with than her sixth form English teacher? It had been those crucial years of support and encouragement that had made this very day possible, but Mrs Holt had new commitments at school, and most likely a new protégé to urge towards greatness. And rightly so. Yet still, it was hard not to feel a little slighted, a little more abandoned, on this momentous occasion.

  But really, who else could she have invited to fill the void?

  Those who populated Anna’s childhood had been, in the main, paid to care.

  Whether you called yourself a ‘foster child’, or simply a ‘looked-after child’ – as the forms always insisted on delineating her – it was still sobering to realise that money had changed hands, a bargain had been struck. Maybe recognising that was just another part of growing up, of gaining a little more perspective, of leaving the system that had carried her this far?

  And she had been lucky in so many ways. Sometimes there had been affection, respect, maybe even love – but she was under no illusion that those relationships held any of the permanence or dedication she saw in these families around her today.

  There really was nothing like a big event to highlight such a glaring absence. Her grip on the page in her pocket tightened.

  Kate twisted around from the row in front of her, the alphabet keeping them apart on a day when it would have meant so much to sit together. ‘You are coming for lunch afterwards aren’t you?’ she whispered. ‘I think my dad’s more excited about your first than he’ll admit. And it honestly wouldn’t be the same without you.’

  Anna hesitated. All of her housemates had issued similar invitations and she’d quietly declined every single one. This was their big day too; the last thing they needed amid such a familial rite of passage was an interloper.

  ‘And before you say no – or say yes and then duck out at the last minute – can I just say that we wouldn’t invite you if we didn’t actually want you there, Anna Wilson. Like it not, you’re stuck with me on your team now. And one last lunch with my folks is really the very least you could do. If you’re committed to flaking off to write – making my mad mother inordinately proud of you, by the way – then don’t abandon me now.’ She grinned, before turning back to face the front, as the music swelled and the Vice Chancellor took to the stage to begin his address to the Class of 2010.

  * * *

  Kate was taking no chances, and wended her way through the crowd towards Anna the moment the ceremony was over, tucking her arm through Anna’s tightly and tugging her forwards. A table at Quod was booked, awaiting them.

  Alex stood with his parents, gangly and gruff, yet clearly very proud of his big sister. He held out his camera to Anna and she instinctively removed the lens cap, assuming he was asking her to take a family photograph. ‘Come on then, Porters – smile for the camera,’ Anna said, even as they bundled together, with Kate at the centre of the photograph, embarrassed to be so banal as to want this quintessential image, yet equally delighted to have the moment they were all together captured on film.

  ‘Thanks for doing that,’ Alex said. ‘I’d actually forgotten and it’ll mean the world to Mum.’

  ‘You gave me the camera, take the credit.’ Anna smiled, loving the slightly dorky, but incredibly kind young man he was becoming. Three years was almost a lifetime in teenager years after all.

  ‘Actually,’ he blushed, ‘I was showing you these. If you want to pick your favourites, I can get them printed with the others and send them on. Wherever it is you’re off to.’ He held out the weighty SLR towards her again, the screen folded back for viewing.

  He’d taken photographs of Anna and Kate, flushed with nerves and excitement before the ceremony, looking incredibly young and yet so worldly at the same time. You could almost see the bonds of their friendship holding them together in the artful way their images were crisp and sharp and the crowds behind them softened out of the frame.

  ‘Alex! These are beautiful. I had no idea you were such a photographer.’ She flicked through the images like an old-fashioned movie reel, love and laughter filling the screen. Then on, past images of Kate up on stage, receiving her degree and capturing to perfection the pride on her face as she turned to the crowd, her gaze seeking out her family, and by extension this very lens.

  And then… Then there were the photos that Anna never dreamed she would have. A series of beautifully framed images mirroring those of Kate, but only focused on Anna on stage, shyly overwhelmed, reaching out her hand, her face a picture of awe.

  ‘This is the best one, I think,’ Alex said, reaching across and zooming in.

  Anna simply nodded, the lump in her throat preventing her from speaking. Instead, she simply reached up and impulsively kissed his cheek. ‘Thank you,’ she said, clasping his hand and trying to communicate how very much this thoughtful gesture meant to her.

  He grinned goofily, flushed bright, bright red. ‘Well, you know, it’s a big day, right?’

  Anna nodded, unable to take her eyes off the tiny camera screen.

  Bizarrely, it was hard to say which meant more to her, the degree certificate in her hand or the photograph of her receiving it.

  In her life there were so few photos, so few tangible mementos – and there was no way that Alex could have realised the significance of his kindness. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, his bemused smile confirming that susp
icion.

  * * *

  ‘Did Alex tell you?’ Louise said, walking over and tucking her arm through Anna’s as they walked as a pack through the cobbled lanes by the Radcliffe Camera towards the High Street. ‘He’s signed me up to Facebook so I can track your travels.’

  She seemed inordinately proud of this foray into social media. So much so that Anna didn’t have the heart to confess that she had yet to do the same. Or that it simply hadn’t occurred to her to document her travels online. A journal perhaps…

  ‘It’s so exciting, isn’t it, Kate? The thought of not knowing where one will be a month from now, six months from now. All those new horizons. All that glorious inspiration.’

  Kate raised an eyebrow and looked at Anna. ‘I told you she was overly invested in your plan,’ she said drily.

  ‘Oh, you, with your library fixation. I never dared dream you’d be so frivolous as to take a gap year, but this – well, Anna darling – this is something else. A year on the road. A year of discovery,’ Louise insisted.

  ‘Have you been at the gin, Mother?’ Alex laughed, teasing his mum as he made the most of his new height and leaned on her shoulder gently.

  ‘Ah come on,’ Louise protested. ‘Let me applaud the adventure. The very idea of being technically homeless for your art wouldn’t occur to either of my cossetted offspring, Anna. And I think it’s fabulous. Hello Brave New World and all that.’

  Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Mu-um, Anna isn’t the next Aldous Huxley. She’s not on a quest for danger, poetry and sin. She’s an original.’

  Alex looked from one to the other in confusion. ‘Homeless? I thought she was just looking after people’s dogs?’

  ‘It’s all part of the adventure, darling boy… While Anna writes her book.’ Louise’s face was pink with delight as she explained to Alex what was afoot.

  Anna was just grateful for the distraction; Louise’s easy and cavalier use of the word homeless had, quite literally, brought her out in a cold sweat. Is that what she was now? Homeless? And voluntarily at that!