The Near & Far Series

by Serena Clarke

  “Don’t mind her,” Livi said, feeling sorry for him as Cass dabbed at her jeans with a fistful of tissues. “She has a spare foot she keeps in her mouth.”

  But he sat up straight and put down the mug. “It’s okay. I should be going anyway, it’s really late.”

  Cass looked stricken all of a sudden, and pressed her hands on his nearest thigh. “No, Steve, honestly, I’m completely sorry. I just say things, it’s a sort of disability, they’ll name a syndrome after me one day.”

  Then he grinned at her, blue eyes flashing. “Like Tourette’s,” he said, and cupped a large hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened in surprise, then sank closed as he leaned in and replaced his hand with his lips.

  Livi held the Cosmo in front of her face and waited. After a moment she said, from behind Jessie J, “Okay, now it’s me who should be going.”

  “Sorry, you’re all clear,” Cass said, and this time it was her who looked pink, snuggled against Steve, her leg crossed over his. She fit perfectly alongside him, sheltered under his arm as though she belonged there. “Now, I haven’t forgotten. What about this guy on the tube?”

  “Okay.” She went out and got the satchel from the entranceway, then came back and set it on the coffee table. “I need to know what to do about this.”

  Three

  Cass and Steve rolled with laughter as Livi told the story of her humiliation, red-faced all over again.

  “A bit of sympathy wouldn’t hurt, you guys. Seriously, it was excruciating.” She cringed just remembering. “And he was so gorgeous.”

  “Don’t feel too bad,” Cass consoled her. “If there was flirting he must have liked you, despite your oniony madness.” Steve nodded in agreement.

  She brightened a little. “I suppose so. Better for a likeable lunatic to have your bag.”

  The three of them turned their attention to the satchel on the table. Its presence in the room seemed larger than the physical space it actually took up. The deep brown leather was worn with age, but soft and pliable. Cass reached out and poked it thoughtfully, then went closer and breathed in.

  “It’s real leather, you know,” she told them. “Look how supple it is, even though it’s so old. Must have been expensive. Maybe Italian even. And look at the stitching.”

  Cass thought of herself as a bit of an expert, and was famous for her handbag collection. When they overflowed the wardrobe in her small room, she had just hung them on the wall, row by row, as a kind of art installation. Although she lusted after something from Hermès or Balenciaga, she made do with high street buys.

  Steve and Livi couldn’t help but smell the bag too.

  “Oh, that’s gorgeous,” Livi said. “Like inside a saddler’s.” Then she laughed. “But it feels totally pervy, sniffing someone else’s bag.”

  Cass shook her head. “You foreigners are weird. If you think it’s wrong to smell it, how are you going to cope with opening it?”

  “I’m not a foreigner, thanks very much,” she said, wagging a finger at Cass. “I might still have a bit of an accent, but I was born here, same as you.”

  She was still surprised by how fast her accent had faded—soon it would be gone entirely. She supposed her brain was just reverting to its original programming. As a pre-schooler in Auckland, she’d spoken in the same tones as her English parents, her accent the same as if they’d never left England. It was only when she started school that it began to slip, and after a while she sounded as native as the next kid. (Apart from that brief, inexplicable phase, at about twelve, when she decided to try out a fancy English accent. She had no idea what her preteen self could have been thinking.)

  In her mind, she’d thanked her parents a thousand times for thoughtfully being born in England, and for making sure she was too. It had made her exit much easier. Not to mention much more definitive—disappearing to Australia, the default setting for departing New Zealanders, just wouldn’t have taken her far enough away. Now she adjusted the bag on the table, and wondered how far away Idaho was.

  “It just seems so personal, opening a stranger’s bag. I mean, there might be private things in there.”

  “He’s not a stranger,” Cass said. “You know where he’s from, you know about his mother, you know each other’s names…”

  Livi shook her head. “Actually, we don’t. All he knows, probably, is what a ditz I am.”

  “Well, we already knew that,” Cass teased. “And in that case, if you don’t open it, how else will you find him? You have to find him. That’s why you knew Nicolette ought to open Peach late, so you could be on the tube at the right moment to meet your dream man. Fate.” She clapped her hands, loving the idea.

  “Of course, he might be a gum-chewing, gun-toting evangelist with several wives,” Steve pointed out.

  Livi laughed at his deadpan stereotyping. “No, he said he was from Idaho, not Utah. I don’t really know anything about Idaho. Do you?” She looked at Cass, who shrugged, but Steve put up his hand.

  “I do. Potatoes. And fishing. I caught a fantastic trout when I was there.”

  He held his hands out wide to show them just how fantastic. Neither of them were impressed by the fish aspect of the story, but they looked at him with renewed interest. A man who’d travelled was a man with a story, a past.

  “You’ve been to Idaho?” Cass asked.

  “And a few other places. I did a motorbike trip across the States a few years ago, with some mates.”

  “That’s extremely Ewan MacGregor of you,” said Cass, and Steve looked pleased. She tipped her head and considered him again. Livi could practically see her thoughts rolling in a banner across her forehead: were motorbike adventures sexy enough to outweigh greasy fingernails? Maybe the nail-biting could be cured? Something to paint on, perhaps…

  Steve leaned forward. “Well, Ewan MacGregor rode a BMW Adventure on his trips, fantastic bikes. But I’m happy with my Kawasaki KLR650 for long distance riding. It’s cheaper than a BMW of course, but it’s great off-road too, though it’s a bit heavier than a specialised off-road bike…” His voice faded out. “Not so interesting?”

  Livi rolled her eyes. “You sound like Cam.”

  “In New Zealand,” Cass explained for Steve. “He’s a motorbike nut too, which made him unacceptable as a boyfriend.”

  “Cass, no, it wasn’t the bikes.” A man on a motorbike could only be a good thing, in her opinion. (Well, apart from the unwashed gangster kind.) “We keep in touch, we always will, but he’s just been a friend for years. It’s not that kind of thing with us. Plus, he’s been a student forever, I don’t think he’ll ever turn into a grown-up with a real life. And you know I was with Rob, anyway!”

  Cass laughed and shook her head. “Honestly, Liv, it’s just too easy. Take a deep breath now. Forget those New Zealand men. Let’s get back to Mister Idaho, and his potatoes and fish.”

  “Potatoes and fish don’t sound very promising,” she said. She wasn’t really clear on what her dream man was made of, anyway. So far she’d mostly struck slugs and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails, so potatoes and fish would be an improvement. But the American didn’t seem like a potatoes-and-fish type. More olive oil and apple pie and tooth-whitener…if those things could be so heart-stopping.

  “Actually, it’s beautiful there,” Steve said. “Lots of wild country, mountains.”

  “Ooh, that probably means men in cowboy hats and tight jeans,” Cass suggested.

  “That’s more appealing.” Livi imagined the American in Wranglers and a black hat. Then she added boots, just as an experiment. The result was a walking cliché, walking in tooled leather boots, but oh boy, she liked it. “All right, let’s do it then,” she said. And, taking the bag on her lap, she undid the heavy buckle and opened it.

  Inside was a big brown envelope, a parcel wrapped in brown paper, a London A–Z map book, and a packet of chewing gum. She took each one out and put them on the table.

  Cass picked up the map book and flicked through the pages. “I haven
’t seen an actual A–Z for years. Everyone’s got the app now.”

  “Old school,” Livi commented. She kind of liked that.

  “But look,” Steve said. “Gum. And the A–Z is a sort of tourist Bible.” He was warming to his theme. “Do you think there’s a gun in the parcel?” He picked it up and tested its weight in one hand, lifting it up and down. Then he squeezed it gently. “Bubble wrap.”

  “I think you’re stretching it now,” Livi said, taking the parcel off him and putting it on the table.

  “No wallet or phone?” Cass asked. “Could they be in a different part of the bag?”

  “No,” she said, rechecking the inside. “And there aren’t any zips or compartments.”

  “Of course there aren’t,” Steve said. “Men don’t need fussy bags like you. He probably had his phone and wallet in his pocket.”

  “Men don’t need fussy bags,” Livi replied, raising her eyebrows at him, “because they can put their extra things in our bags, which we conveniently have with us at all times. You’re right though, that explains it. But it won’t help us figure out who he is.”

  She took up the brown envelope and tested a corner of the flap. It was loosely sealed, as though it had already been opened and closed more than once. She lifted the flap and pulled out the contents. There was a map of the Sussex countryside, with ‘Cotchford Farm’ circled in black marker pen, and the number ‘8/27’. Then a photocopy of one of the A–Z pages, with ‘Golders Green, 3P, 9/1’ in scratchy writing at the top. A Eurostar timetable, with a Post-It note stuck on the front reading ‘Rue Beautreillis, 9/9’. And finally, a folding map of Wiltshire. She set them all in a row on the table.

  “I suppose he’s doing some travelling,” she said, struggling to see any connections. “That’s not surprising.”

  “What are the numbers for?” said Cass. “Street numbers?”

  Livi frowned. “8/27 in the middle of the countryside doesn’t make any sense…” Then she sat upright. “Dates! You know, in America they write their dates backwards, like they always say nine-eleven for the eleventh of September.”

  “Oh, well done you!” Cass grinned. “So 8/27 means the twenty-seventh of August…”

  “Which is next weekend,” finished Steve.

  There was silence while Livi and Cass looked at each other.

  “Even I can see you’re both thinking the same thing,” he added.

  “It has to be done,” Cass said. “Fate.”

  * * *

  To: cam.holden@nzuni.ac.nz

  From: liviaway@gmail.com

  Subject: Saturday night’s developments

  * * *

  Here’s what happened. Squashed on the tube after a long day and night at Peach. It was jam-packed and I got talking to an American. When he got off, his bag got tangled in mine and I ended up with it. There was no way to go back and give it to him, we were on the last tube. Cass is thrilled now we have this great mystery (you can imagine). She says I have to try to find him and return it.

  How’s academia? Any closer to finishing your tome? I don’t know how you’ve concentrated for so long on it, especially something so impenetrable. Economics isn’t exactly sexy. (No offence.)

  By the way, please don’t mention to Mum I’ve been talking to strange men on the tube, she’ll have a fit. (Not that there’s anything to have a fit about!)

  Ugh, stopping now before I start to ramble on like a senior citizen, like I usually do. Must be getting old…

  Goodnight down there.

  xxx

  * * *

  To: liviaway@gmail.com

  From: cam.holden@nzuni.ac.nz

  Subject: Re: Saturday night’s developments

  * * *

  Yes, I can imagine. Apparently women love a man of mystery—I remember your Mr Darcy phase.

  Academia is fine, thanks. Now I’m lecturing too, the income makes it easier. I’ve almost finished the tome, but round here we call it the doorstop. Hopefully it’ll be more useful than that though. My supervisor is pretty positive. And I had another paper published in the European Economic Review, so I’m starting to get some international feedback.

  I know your eyes have glazed over by now. But it’s about the interdependence of the whole world and the way it operates, right down to an individual level. That means you, miss.

  I haven’t seen your parents for a while. Someone told my mother that yours had gone on holiday, but no details. Grapevine still functioning here, no escape from the gossip network. That’s where being a dull economics student comes in handy—no fodder whatsoever.

  By the way, if you’re getting old, I’m a complete fossil. Keep on rambling. It’s part of your charm.

  Have a nice day up there.

  xxx

  Four

  Gossip was something Livi knew plenty about. For most of her teenage years it was as essential as air and water, as her crowd gossiped their way through school. When they finished, and went off to work or university or travel, they saw less of each other. But when they did get together, often at their favourite old waterfront pub, the Frigate, the gossip was even more vital, as they filled each other in on developments, disasters, and dramas.

  Without any scandal in her own life, Livi could happily listen without worrying that she’d be the next one under the microscope, her actions analysed and her motivations speculated on. Oh, she knew getting together with Rob probably gave people a few hours of entertainment. From the start, even in the first days and weeks of their romance, she could see that they weren’t exactly an ideal match. No one could say, ‘Isn’t it perfect, they’re so right for each other.’ One of her friends—not known for tact—summed up by saying it wasn’t as if she and Rob weren’t on the same page, they weren’t even in the same book…if Rob had ever read one. Livi knew there was truth in it, but Rob definitely had his talents. He was funny, and lively, and carelessly good-looking. When he arrived with his grin and his straightforward confidence, any gathering suddenly felt like a party. He found something to talk about with everyone he met.

  And if he talked too much about himself sometimes, oh, he made up for it at the end of the night when the talking stopped and it wasn’t about Rob any more, it was all about her. Her in his big bed, holding her breath for his next touch, given over to fingers, lips, a lean, hard body against her curves, the sweep of her own hair against her skin, the brush of his rough jaw against her thigh. She measured her life from night to night, wading through the daytime hours, knowing that soon he’d be packing up his tools, leaving whatever building site he was working on, going home to have a shower before meeting her. She only had to think about it to feel all flushed. She’d never known anything like it. Of course she was ignoring their mismatch, but it was the most blissful denial imaginable. She still missed those nights, despite the disaster that followed.

  And that disaster was what really gave people something to gossip about. Not just her friends, or everyone at the local pub, or the whole of Auckland, but the whole country.

  By the time Dance ’til You Drop made it to New Zealand, from America via Australia, it was a smash hit. It was just another incarnation of the humiliate-yourself-for-fame television show formula, Dancing with the Stars mixed in with Survivor and, for the twist, They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? Rob’s mates secretly signed him up to audition, thinking it would be a hilarious joke. But his sunny confidence and simple enthusiasm, combined with his surfer-style good looks and work-hardened body, made him perfect for reality TV. The producers loved him.

  “It’ll be a laugh,” he told a sceptical Livi as they sat on the beach the night he signed the contract. “And Liv, you’ve gotta love the prizes. I can’t drive the old man’s Toyota forever, you know. And, come on babe, a hundred thousand dollars!” In the late, low sun he glowed with the possibilities.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees, and dug her toes into the sand beyond the edge of the old tartan rug.

  “I don’t know, there just might be more to
it than you think. I mean, the whole point of reality TV is to make people look bad in some way for entertainment.”

  “You know I’m tougher than that.” He screwed his beer bottle upright into the sand and pushed the pizza box from between them, to sit closer. “It’s not a big deal, if you don’t take it seriously.”

  “But on those shows they want drama and conflicts, they play up the negative side of things. And with the constant dancing everyone will be pushed to the limit.” She’d watched more reality TV than she’d admit, and she didn’t want them to make him look like a fool.

  “Hey, they can’t make me look any stupider than I already do,” he said, reading her mind. He leaned against her and gave her a nudge. “Besides, I’ll have my girl there cheering me on, right?”

  She concentrated on covering each toe with warm, whispery sand. “I just think you should be really sure it’s worth it.” She didn’t want to be dragged onto TV either, not for any prize.

  “It’s only dancing, hell, for the right money I can do that for a few days,” he said, lifting her hair back so that he could see her face. “And think what we could do with that money. Maybe something a little sparkly, you know.” He took up her left hand and traced a path along her ring finger, watching for her reaction.

  “Oh.” She felt the sun warm on her back, heard the waves fizzle on the edge of the sea, saw the twinkle in the grains of sand as they trickled off her feet. Each one a tiny diamond. “Oh…”

  Rob took her cheeks between his hands and turned her face to his. “Babe, let’s do it. I don’t want to be without you.”

  The last rays of the sun were dazzling behind him, so that she had to shelter in his shadow. Close up, she looked right at him, and saw the desire in his eyes.

  “You might not win the money,” she pointed out, knowing she was ruining the moment but not quite able to give in to it.