I looked down at the crisp, white pages in my lap. It astonished me that Bo had written this work just because I’d said I wanted to know about her life. It was something we’d argued about; only once, though – when I grew fed up with asking Bo questions she never answered. Now, I read and understood. Bo couldn’t speak. She turned her face away, and handed me the words on paper instead. ‘This is me.’
All I wanted now was to get off the train, turn around and go back to her. We needed to be together. That much was clear. This had been a collision, a wild combination of souls; a big bang, destiny…
14
I’d been back in Brighton a week, and had only heard from her once – just one brief email saying she hoped I’d made it home safely and that the move to the new place went well. ‘Get in touch when you’re settled,’ she’d said, as though she were expecting some sort of halt in our daily contact, the contact I would move heaven and earth to keep going, the contact I relied on to know that Bo was still OK with all this, that she hadn’t changed her mind, wasn’t retreating to the husk of her family.
Amidst the wide hole created by Bo’s silence, I tried to get on with life. I didn’t contact her. I got up in the morning and went to work, taught my classes of Italian and Spanish beginners, then came home and forced myself to write five hundred words of my book. Afterwards, in the evenings, I would focus on sorting the flat out, making it as pleasant as I could: I hung pictures, bought flowers for the sitting room and a crimson throw for the old, worn sofa. I ought to have been happy. This was a step up, so much better than the damp bedsit with greasy walls over on Brunswick Place. But Bo’s absence hurt, and the pain outweighed all the excitement of moving my life forwards. Why aren’t you here? I thought, as I lay in bed at night. But I knew the answer to that. Marriage. Children. Wealth. Of course she wasn’t bloody here.
It shocked me, how awful this was. Like a sickness. We’d said goodbye at the station the previous week. I’d walked away from her, settled into my seat on the train, stared out of the window and wept. It wasn’t an ordinary goodbye. It felt like grief; the deep, deep pull of it dragging me beneath the surface of sense. I was flailing, drowning, lost in this love that was too big for me.
I tried to plan my future. Bo was always telling me to commit to my writing, to make it my priority, give it greater importance than money or love. But finding the discipline was hard and I needed forcing. I went online and looked up postgraduate degrees in creative writing. They were everywhere. Nearly every university in the country had cashed in on the ambitions of people who’d been led to believe that they, too, could be just like J.K. Rowling if they only dreamed hard enough and forked out the tuition fees.
On Friday evening, I sent out six applications: Manchester, Lancaster, Brunel, UEA, Sussex, Goldsmith’s … That should do. Someone would take me, and if Bo ever did come back into my life, I could go to Manchester or Lancaster and live near her.
Where the hell was she? Where was Bo?
I couldn’t carry on like this, with the whole length of the country between us. I needed to be near her.
A text message came from Anna: Drink? Now?
Sure. Where? I replied.
Ancient Mariner. See you in ten minutes.
I pulled on my denim jacket, brushed my hair and headed down to the beach. It was only seven, but the bars were filling up, as they always did on sunny evenings. I found Anna sitting at a glass table, smoking. ‘I ordered you a beer,’ she said as I approached.
‘Thanks.’ I sat down opposite her.
She said, ‘So. What’s new?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You went to the Lake District…’ she said, as if trying to jog my memory.
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘It was great. Oh, God, Anna. This is so awful.’
‘It was always going to be messy. She’s in her forties and she’s married with two kids. It can only go one way. I told you that…’
‘I thought … I haven’t heard from her since I came back.’
‘You need to sack this off.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can. Stop wallowing; stop thinking about her. Get pissed with me, find a man, move on.’
I nearly choked on my beer. The very thought of finding a man and moving on was impossible. Impossible. You have no idea about love, I wanted to say. Instead, I slugged my drink and said, ‘OK.’
The night passed in a blur. Money was spent, drink was drunk, nightclubs were hit, music was loud. I remembered, at some point, sitting on a purple-velvet sofa in the dark of an underground bar, thinking, It’s too loud, I hate this, I’ve always hated it, and wishing I could be with Bo instead, reading poetry.
In the morning, I woke up in a strange bed, next to a bloke I didn’t know, in a house I’d never been to before. My mouth felt like Gandhi’s flip-flop, my head ached. All the signs were there that I’d shagged him. I needed the morning-after pill, an STD test. I was twenty-five. I was too old for this.
A hangover with self-loathing. The old familiar.
I got dressed and left before he opened his eyes.
When I got home, there it was. An email from Bo. Just two words.
‘Call me.’
15
I needed a shower before phoning her. I needed to wash last night away. How would Bo feel if she knew what I’d done? She would probably be fine about it, I thought. She’d accept that she was hardly in a position to demand fidelity. The thought of her not being bothered by it hurt.
I washed the bloke off my skin and the stale smoke out of my hair. My head still ached. I stepped out of the shower and slipped into my pyjamas. I was going nowhere today. As soon as I’d spoken to Bo, I was going to crawl into bed and spend from now until night reading. A book not written by Bo.
I dialled her number. She picked it up immediately.
‘It’s me.’
‘Alice,’ she said. ‘Gus is out. He’s in Manchester again this weekend. The girls are at their music classes. I wanted to talk to you.’
Gus away, and she hadn’t asked me to stay.
I got straight to the point, ‘Have you got cold feet?’
‘No,’ she said immediately.
‘That’s good,’ I said, and could hear the relief in my voice. ‘It sounds serious, though.’
‘It is. I think we need to stop the emails.’
‘What?’
‘Listen, you’ve met Gus. You know he’s not an easy man. He’s always been jealous, but it’s been worse over the last few years, ever since my career took off and he hasn’t … Anyway, he uses my computer and it’s normal for him to read my emails. Can we agree to just talk on the phone instead? Every morning. I’m free then, and he won’t know.’
‘But I work.’
‘Evenings, then. Please, darling. I can’t risk this yet. I need to do it in my own time. If I handle this badly, Gus could…’ She let her voice trail off, made me read the implications.
Gus could …What could he do? Hit her? It didn’t seem impossible to me.
I said, ‘OK.’
‘And if you have any of my old emails, could you delete them? I know that sounds paranoid, but you just never know…’
I paused again. Then I said, ‘OK.’
‘Do you understand why I’m asking you to do this?’
‘Yes. I do understand. Of course.’
‘We’ll be together again soon. I’ll make sure of it,’ she said. ‘Look, I have to go now.’
I waited for her to explain why. She didn’t. She just said a quick goodbye and ended the call.
I put the phone down beside me on the sofa.
So Bo was all about protecting her life, pretending I didn’t exist, hiding me away like some dirty little secret. I knew, of course, that Bo wasn’t like my own parents. She wouldn’t recklessly pursue her own passions through the wreckage of other lives. She was a careful mother; the well-being of her daughters lay at the heart of every decision. She might go wi
ld for a time, but sense would take over in the end.
I knew this. It was what I loved about her.
She was building a fortress around her life.
It was the distance that was the problem, we both knew that. If she lived here or I lived there, then we could see each other every day, and Gus would think we were friends – two writers working together. But like this, everything had to be clandestine, every moment stolen from the edges of her life.
I had an offer from Lancaster University. I accepted because it was close to Bo. I went to work, stuck with it, pocketed the money, dreamed of something better.
I taught a group of Mexicans how to say ‘knickers’. It was a word that appeared in their reading comprehension task and I thought they probably wouldn’t know it, so had to teach it first. The task involved standing in front of the class, holding up a picture of knickers, modelling the word for them and getting them to say it back to me. Knickers.
This was not, ever, what I’d planned for my life. When I was twenty-one, I’d been for an interview for the graduate training scheme at the accounting firm, Arthur Andersen. They’d asked, ‘Where do you see yourself in five years’ time?’ I hadn’t answered, ‘Standing in a run-down language school in Brighton, teaching a room full of Mexicans how to say “knickers”.’
Now, I told myself it was part of the joy of life – the endless surprise of it all. Like falling for a married woman fifteen years older than me. That had been a surprise, too.
Another beep. A text message. Another surprise.
Bo: I have a suggestion. I know you’ve only just moved, and I know it’s a lot to ask, but … why don’t you let your flat go and come and live in Grasmere? There is plenty of accommodation in the village, and I’m sure you could find work to keep you going. I can help you financially if you need help. I know it’s not perfect, but it would at least mean we didn’t have almost the entire length of England between us. We could see each other every day while I work out what to do. I need to come up with a plan that causes the least damage to everyone.
I typed back: Are you serious?
– Yes.
– Erm … move to Grasmere. There is one reason to do this (you), and a million reasons not to, such as having no job, your husband being there, and the possibility of him killing me. Also, I am due to start my MA in five weeks.
– He won’t kill you (as long as you delete these messages).
– But I might kill him in a fit of bunny-boiling jealousy and rage.
– I trust you not to.
– I don’t know anyone in Grasmere.
– You know me.
– I suppose that’s true. It is a major selling point.
– So? Will you?
– Yes.
From: [email protected]
Sent: 22 August 2015, 11:04
To: [email protected]
Subject: Property to rent
Dear Lakeland Properties,
I am looking for a small property to rent in Grasmere as soon as possible. I am single and have no pets and a budget of up to £600 a month.
Yours,
Alice Dark
From: [email protected]
Sent: 22 August 2015, 11:04
To: [email protected]
Dear Miss Dark,
At the moment, we have one property matching your requirements. It is a studio flat in the village centre, about two minutes’ walk from the lake. It is available immediately. Let us know if you would like to view it.
Lakeland Properties
– B, There’s a flat in Grasmere. I phoned the agent at Lakeland Properties to say I want it, but I have to view it first, or have someone else view it on my behalf. Will you? A xx
– Yes, of course. I’ll go asap and get back to you.
Dear Miss Dark,
Thank you for your letter confirming that you intend to end your tenancy at Flat 3, 26 Burlington Street. The remaining rent payable for the early end is £2,800.
Regards,
Halls Lettings
– A. It’s lovely and I’ve held it for you with a deposit of £200 (don’t worry about paying me back). It can be yours in two weeks. Bx
Dear Miss Dark,
Please find enclosed the details of the tenancy at The Studio, Grasmere, Cumbria. The outstanding deposit of £700 together with the first month’s rent of £600 is payable when you take over the tenancy on Wednesday, 9th September.
Yours,
Lakeland Properties
That was it. All my money. Spent on going to be near Bo.
I told her I’d done it.
She didn’t reply.
16
From: [email protected]
Sent: 29 August 2015, 13:04
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello
Oh, darling Bo. How do you want me to prove my love for you? Is it through fleeing my home, my town, my job and everything I have always held dear in order that I might be near you? Is it through squandering the only money I have on a wasted six-month tenancy and risking poverty just so I can be closer to you as you struggle to squeeze the dreadful secret of me into your otherwise tidy life? Is it through knowing that you and I will never truly be together and yet doing these things anyway? Tell me, my love, is this enough?
Sorry. I was just seeing if I could mimic the voice of a Victorian poet for a while. How did I do? I’ve often thought I would be better as a Victorian. Feminine hysteria was expected in those days, and I am feeling slightly hysterical at the moment, as I am behaving in a manner underpinned by no sense whatsover. What we are doing – well, what I am doing – is folly. Absolute folly. I fear I have been manipulated by Hollywood. Only in Hollywood does someone behave like this and it all turn out OK. I am assuming you plan to rescue me when I can’t get a job or pay my rent, cos seriously, I have nothing now. Except you, which makes everything worthwhile.
Dammit, I think I have lost my senses with love.
Ax
From: [email protected]
Sent: 30 August 2015, 13:04
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
You’ve been silent for a whole twenty-four hours. I tell myself that this is normal and means nothing except that you are busy, but when I have just parted with my every penny and have started packing up my life in order to be near you, I could really do with you tellling me (a few times) that I am not making a crazy mistake.
Love you,
Axx
From: [email protected]
Sent: 31 August 2015, 09:17
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
Still silent. Are you OK? Please speak to me.
From: [email protected]
Sent: 1 September 2015, 02:28
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
Bo, what is going on? Please get in touch.
From: [email protected]
Sent: 2 September, 2015 04:43
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
Day five. No word. I really need to hear from you.
I won’t contact you now. I’ll leave it to you to get in touch.
From: [email protected]
Sent: 2 September 2015, 04:43
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
I have tried to leave this, but you really need to let me know if I am still moving to Grasmere. I’m meant to be going in four days. You are being very unfair. Or you’re dead. Which is it?
From: [email protected]
Sent: 3 September 2015, 15:35
To: [email protected]
Subject: Hello?
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?
17
The 8th of September. The day before I was meant to be moving three hundred miles to Grasmere, and I still hadn’t heard a word from Bo. This silence had gone on for more than a week. My mind was wrecked with the
confusion of it. Why? I told myself that if I hadn’t heard after five days, then I would cancel the move and stay here. But I’d paid all that money and bought a train ticket, and besides, Bo – beautiful, lovely Bo – would never do this. Never. She would never ask me to live near her and then suddenly discard me. There had to be a reason for it.
I wondered if the reason was Gus. I didn’t know him well, but I’d seen enough of him to understand: he read her letters, her emails; he was always bad-tempered and angry; he spoke to her without ever showing love or respect. And I knew she was scared of him. She’d pretty well told me that.
I tried hard not to worry, but dramatic images kept placing themselves in my mind: Bo, bruised and battered and afraid, unable to contact me…
I pushed the thought away as I packed the last of my things. I didn’t have much, just clothes and books. The flat was furnished, and the only things I owned were a television and a wooden stand for it. I’d already packed the books into four boxes and arranged for them to be couriered to Grasmere the following week. It didn’t take long to get everything else into the battered old backpack, which had once gone overland across Africa with me, back in the days when I was able to delude myself that sleeping in a shack on the beach and getting sick on rancid meat meant I’d had a profound cultural experience.
I propped the backpack against a kitchen cupboard and sent a message to Jake. Are you awake? It was 11:30. Probably not.
The reply came quickly. Yes.
– Do you want my telly?
– Don’t you want it
– I’m moving tomorrow. Going on train. No space.
– Sure
– Can I come over?
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