by Grace Lowrie
Published by Accent Press Ltd 2018
Octavo House
West Bute Street
Cardiff
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www.accentpress.co.uk
Copyright © Grace Lowrie 2018
The right of Grace Lowrie to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of Accent Press Ltd.
ISBN 9781786155344
eISBN 9781786155337
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, Elcograf S.p.A
For Mum,
I miss you every day.
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.
– Percy Bysshe Shelley
Chapter One
I didn’t cry when the doctor gave me the news. I didn’t gasp or swear – I certainly didn’t faint dramatically as I got up to leave – I’m not one to make a fuss. As I left the hospital I smiled at a man who held the door for me on my way out. I suppose I was in shock. It was April the first – April Fools’ Day – and the joke was on me.
It was Wednesday evening. I caught the bus back to town so that I could attend my weekly ballet class – whether it was tap, salsa, belly or even pole dancing (I had tried them all), dancing was the one thing that always made me feel better and I could definitely do with the distraction today. Sitting in my favourite window seat in the back corner, I watched the familiar streets of Wildham appear. The trees were bursting with fresh green leaves despite the chill in the air, and a recent shower made the hedges, grass verges and benches sparkle as the sun peeked out near the horizon. The town I’d grown up in looked as safe and homely as ever. The birds sang in the trees and the residents quietly went about their business as the bus rolled by the garden centre and the White Bear pub on our way towards the cobbled town centre. Everything looked the same, but inside I was different – changed forever.
‘One of my sitters has really dropped me in it,’ Marguerite said as we sat side by side pulling on our ballet slippers in the changing room. ‘Bloody Craig was supposed to be covering a six-month placement, but his boyfriend surprised him with a holiday and he’s dropped out last minute! There’s no way I can get anyone else for a long-term placement at such short notice, and until I do I’ll have to go there myself every day, just to pick up the post, water the plants and feed the bloody fish!’ Marguerite and I had been best friends since nursery school. She was bright, bossy and opinionated; the sort of person who instinctively knew what to do, what to say, and what to wear in any given situation. Without her friendship I’d be lost. And yet, for the first time I had real news to share, and I hadn’t told her. Telling Marguerite would make it real. She would leap into action, seize control and take charge; she would be on the side of the doctors – the experts – of course she would. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I saw what chemotherapy did to my grandmother – watched it destroy her slowly and painfully, day by day; crushing the light out of her until she had no life left…
‘I’ll do it,’ I said, surprising myself.
‘It’s not as if I haven’t got enough on my plate what with all the new clients we’ve taken on recently…’ Marguerite continued, standing up and scraping her chestnut curls into a bun at the back of her head with a stretchy hair band, ‘…and Craig was one of our best – I can’t believe he’s done this to me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ I repeated, adjusting the elastic around my foot and flexing my toes.
‘What?’ Marguerite stared at me, hands on hips, one eyebrow up. Even at 5’4”, there was something very intimidating about her.
‘I’ll take the placement; I’ll house-sit for six months.’
‘Oh bless you, Cally,’ her eyebrow lowered and she went back to fixing her hair ‘that’s very sweet but the flat isn’t here in Wildham, it’s in central London.’
‘I realise that, but I fancy a change of scenery.’
‘But… no… what about your job? It would cost you a fortune to commute back and forth every day, not to mention all the extra travelling time. The company pays for my season rail ticket, but they can’t afford to cover the travel expenses of a sitter – that’s why we only recruit locally.’
‘Actually I was thinking of leaving my job – taking a break from that, too.’
‘What?!’ Both eyebrows were up now. ‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s boring – you know that – working in a call centre was never my dream career.’
‘I know but… what’s going on?’ She perched beside me, clutching my arm in concern. ‘Is everything OK between you and Liam?’
‘Yes, Liam’s fine – same as always – this isn’t about him.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I just want to get away for a bit – try something different – I’ve always fancied writing a book; maybe this is the perfect opportunity.’
Marguerite cocked her head to one side. ‘What are you running away from?’
‘I’m not,’ I lied. I had never lied to Marguerite before. It was stomach-churningly easy. I pushed the feeling aside. ‘Look, you need someone to house-sit in London for six months and I want to get away from here for a bit – problem solved.’ She knew for sure I was hiding something, but she was also desperate.
‘It doesn’t pay all that well…’
‘That’s OK; I’ll figure something out – maybe get a part-time job.’
‘And the property isn’t one of the plushest on our books – it’s a two-bed flat at the top of an office building – so the area’s practically deserted at night…’
‘Sounds ideal for writing – nice and quiet.’
‘Oh my god, are you really sure about this?’ A cautious smile of relief spreading across her face. ‘Do you want to talk it over with Liam first?’
‘No. My mind is made up.’
‘OK – I’ll have to take you over there, talk you through everything, and there’ll be some paperwork to sign… when do you think you could start?’ It was almost Easter and the thought of spending the four-day weekend trapped at home with my boyfriend and my diagnosis seemed like a prison sentence.
‘How about I meet you there tomorrow morning?’
‘Really? That would be marvellous.’ The muffled sound of ballet slippers tapping against floorboards indicated the start of the class, and I followed Marguerite into the large mirrored studio. As I took up a position facing my reflection I couldn’t help noticing how normal I looked – entirely familiar and unremarkable. And yet the girl staring back at me was a stranger now. ‘I’m shocked by your spontaneity, Cally – I’d never have guessed you had it in you!’
‘No, me neither,’ I muttered under my breath, averting my gaze.
I was weary by the time I let myself into the small terraced house I shared with Liam. After our warm-up we’d practised complex pirouette and allegro enchaînments until we were sore, but at least Marguerite was kept too busy to interrogate me further about my sudden change in plans. I’d never kept anything from my best friend before, and if she pushed too hard, I knew I would cave and tell her everything.
‘Alright Love? Good class?’ Liam called from the living room as I hung up my coat. I stuck
my head round the door to find him sat in his favourite armchair, as usual, watching the TV news. Visually my boyfriend was a giant – a hulking great six-and-a-half-foot tall, broad-shouldered, furrow-browed rugby player, who physically filled the tasteful interior of our rented home with muscle, heavy footsteps, and the earthy scent of wet grass. And yet he was the gentlest, sweetest, most considerate man you could ever hope to meet. He worked locally as a gardener with his brother, Lester, and lived quietly – keeping his thoughts to himself. He was handsome in a natural, outdoorsy sort of way, with short dirty-blonde hair and warm brown eyes, and he was steadfastly loyal.
‘Yes thanks.’
He glanced up and smiled at me, the fondness in his expression was habitual, but no less genuine for all that. ‘Good. Your dinner’s in the oven.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, swallowing back a surge of guilt and ducking back into the hallway.
‘Salmon and new potatoes,’ he called after me.
‘Sounds lovely,’ I replied, my voice wavering slightly. In the kitchen I fetched a glass of water and stood at the sink gazing out across the neat back yard to the shadowy trees beyond. My waiting dinner smelled delicious, but I had no appetite.
There was no denying that I was lucky to have a kind, considerate boyfriend who loved me and cooked for me. And I loved him too, of course. We’d been together a long time – nearly six years – and our life together was comfortable, familiar, settled. Like being asleep. That was how it felt now. I hadn’t really noticed before, but since this morning it had become glaringly obvious – I’d been sleepwalking through my life, tiptoeing so as not to rock the boat or ruffle any feathers. Thirty years old and my whole life was nothing more than a montage of quiet compromises. But no more. Liam didn’t deserve to have his heart broken, but I had to do this; get away; for me. I didn’t have time to worry about his feelings or let him down gently – if he knew the truth he’d never let me go. I ate as much of my dinner as I could and then kissed Liam goodnight as we retired to bed.
But there was no way I could sleep.
As Liam slumbered beside me, I was wide awake and alive with possibilities as if for the first time. I made a list in my head of all the places I wanted to visit. To start with it comprised of random, far-flung exotic places abroad, but as the night wore on, my sensible, practical nature took over. By morning I’d narrowed down the list to a few financially-achievable destinations within the M25.
While Liam rose, showered, and loaded his van with gardening tools, I stayed in bed and made a ‘to do’ list. I’d always been good at lists. At work all our calls were planned, scripted, bullet pointed and organised into flow charts – providing step by step procedures for all phone call eventualities. I’d always found it reassuring. I waited until I heard Liam drive away before reaching for my phone, my stomach filled with butterflies. In a calm voice I rang my boss and told him that I quit, effective immediately, and despite his understandable disbelief and irritation, I managed to end the call, and my career, with remarkable ease.
Pulling on my safe blue jeans, a grey marl T-shirt and a beige jumper that wouldn’t show the dirt, it occurred to me that I despised my clothes. They were sensible, practical, and ordinary – deliberately chosen so that I would go unnoticed and blend into the background. With a rush of gusto I emptied the entire contents of my wardrobe out onto the bedroom carpet and stuffed everything into bin-bags. I held back a spare outfit, a night shirt and some underwear, enough clothes to tide me over, and then set off for the charity shop around the corner. It was raining outside and it took three trips, but it was exhilarating to know that the collection of ugly clothes was no longer mine.
On the way back I stopped at the bank and stared at my current account balance on the ATM screen. There were ample funds available, but I couldn’t bring myself to withdraw them – it was one thing to leave Liam, and another to leave him short of money – the thought of him struggling financially was too much to bear. With the account still complete with standing orders and direct debits to cover my half of the rent and bills for another two months, I switched over to my savings account and emptied it completely. Exiting the bank with a bag full of cash was surreal – as if I’d robbed it – and felt faintly preposterous. But it was necessary; using my debit and credit cards would only make it easy for Liam to track me down once my statements arrived through the door. And if he found me he would try to persuade me to return home with him. I’d no doubt fall back in to the easy comfort of his arms readily. No, if I was going to do this, I needed to give it my best shot. Mentally I made a note to also have my post redirected, so that Liam wouldn’t see any letters from the hospital.
Back at the house I packed the cash and my remaining few clothes into a wheeled suitcase along with a few toiletries, my passport, my mobile, my laptop, my eBook-reader and all the relevant chargers. After a few seconds deliberation I added a framed photograph of my parents at their home in Spain and an action shot of Liam playing rugby before zipping the case closed. Bessie was too big to go in my case, so I popped her in a separate carrier bag, aware that I was being sentimental, but unable to leave her behind. Childhood stuffed bunny rabbit aside, it seemed I owned few material possessions that I couldn’t live without.
The notepad magnetically stuck to the fridge drew my eye and filled me with dread. It had provided the space for hundreds of brief communications between us over the years, most of them fairly innocuous – ‘I’ll get milk’ or ‘your Mum called’. But some of them, particularly in the early days, were sweet and loving – ‘back around 10pm, miss you already x’. Right now, all it held was the beginning of a shopping list in the bottom corner, and the power to destroy our relationship forever.
I’d spent half the night trying to compose a Dear John in my mind; something that adequately conveyed all that I wanted to say without divulging my reason for leaving. But that was the one thing he’d want to know – the why. I was tempted to leave no word at all, but that was worse. Too cruel. I had to write something. I picked up a pen, absently chewing the end before attacking the paper with hasty, clichéd phrases:
I’m sorry but it’s over. I can’t stay. Please don’t try to find me.
It’s not your fault, it’s nothing you’ve done, it’s just over, I’m sorry.
Goodbye, Cally.
My eyes filled with tears as I read it back. There was so much missing. I wanted to thank him for being so good to me; for protecting and caring for me, but ‘thank you’ sounded trite and impersonal in my head. I yearned to point out that he didn’t deserve to be treated this way, but that was hypocritical. I longed to add that I’d always care and wouldn’t forget about him, because it was true, but I couldn’t give him hope. I would not be coming back.
I left through the front door, locked it, and then dropped the keys through the letterbox. They landed on the mat with a dull thump. It started to rain again and I squared my shoulders and pulled my raincoat tighter around me as I walked away.
Chapter Two
‘Come on, Bay, man up,’ I told myself.
I could do this. I would do this. I had to. It was time to go. Closing my eyes I steadied myself, sucked down a breath, and pushed the bar to open the fire exit. But it was stuck. Fuck.
Incredulous, I opened my eyes. Un-fucking-believable. After a whole year of psyching myself up I was finally ready to do this, and now I couldn’t get the fucking door open. Just as well it wasn’t a real emergency. Jiggling the handle I wrenched at it a few more times and then kicked angrily at the door frame with the sole of my bare foot for good measure. It probably hurt but I was too coked up to feel it. And anyway, pain was all relative. I pushed again at the emergency release bar, and at last it gave way, the door swinging open and pushing back a year’s worth of accumulated leaves, debris and dirt. Stooping, I shifted a concrete block to wedge the fire exit open, and then sagged against the door; pressing my forehead to the smooth surface. The fresh air whipped around me, chilling my clammy skin and making my ball
s contract.
A panorama of lights speckled the canvas of the city in all directions – a proliferation of lit windows, traffic lights, street lamps, neon signs, spotlights and touristy illuminations, straddling both sides of the slithering black river. I focused on the music spilling out of the flat below, carrying me forwards; the haunting melody riding the swell of the wind; the call of her sweet voice luring me closer to the concrete edge of the roof. Wedging my naked toes up against it I gazed down into the inky black void below. She was down there in the darkness waiting for me. Three years had passed, but she wasn’t going away. She was only growing more impatient; more insistent. This time I would do it. I owed her that. Stepping up onto the low walled edge I carefully positioned my feet, holding my arms out to the sides for balance, like a tightrope walker. I closed my eyes feeling the wind buffeting against my body, hearing the buzz, hum and wail of the city below. All I had to do was fall forwards; relinquish my fear and let go of my miserable existence, once and for all.
My heart pounded in my chest, my ears ached with the timbre of her voice, my eyes glazed with uninvited tears, and my muscles clenched taut and trembling. You can do this.
Just. Fucking. Let. Go.
Chapter Three
‘Cally!’ Marguerite cried, waving as she strode towards me, her heels slapping on the wet pavement. ‘Sorry I’m late; signal failure at Baker Street; you’ll have to get used to things like that while you’re living here.’ She smiled as she squeezed me in a one-armed hug and air-kissed my cheeks. Her other arm supported a large purple leather handbag and a manila file full of papers. ‘So this is it!’ She said glancing up at TMC Tower – a sleek, glass-fronted office building – before rummaging in her bag for a set of keys. ‘You found it OK?’
‘Yes, thanks,’ I said, finding my voice. We were in the heart of London – the financial district. Revolving doors fed into a spacious, light-filled lobby complete with a reception desk, a chrome seating area and a bank of elevators beyond. The building was modest by skyscraper standards, reaching only twelve storeys in height (I’d counted) but I could see lights and movement behind the tinted windows on the floors above, and business was in full swing. I felt conspicuously scruffy in my jeans and trainers as professional-looking men and women swept past us in their suits. ‘What sort of work do they do here?’