The Note: An uplifting, life-affirming romance about finding love in an unexpected place

by Zoë Folbigg

  But Maya doesn’t turn around to see who has caught Nena’s eye. She’s just desperate to see the wedding dress Nena has chosen.

  ‘Cool! Did you take a pic?’

  ‘Not allowed,’ Nena says, snapping back in to the conversation. ‘In case I copy it, which is a laugh, given I can’t sew on a button. Let’s go this weekend, yeah?’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Just tell me if it’s too… womanly will you?’

  ‘Womanly is good,’ says Maya, straightening the thin belt on another vintage cotton sundress.

  ‘You can work it, Maya – even at a gig, you look like a fifties maven – I love this style evolution of yours – but I’m not sure I can pull it off.’

  Maya thinks back to a year ago when her uniform of jeans and Converse suited her nicely, but she likes feeling a little more polished. Even if it didn’t work for James Miller.

  ‘With this hair? Hardly!’ Maya says, shaking waves that grew in the mosh pit to Hokusai like proportions. As Maya swats a dismissive hand in the air, she accidentally knocks the girl behind her at the bar.

  ‘Oh sorry!’ Maya says, going to turn around as the band strike up the fiery and feral first chords of ‘Hotel Yorba’. Nena stops Maya midway through turning as she drags her by the arm, down the stairs and through the double doors into the auditorium, where she jumps with such vigour she almost freezes mid-air. Hair swishing, skirt twirling. The couple upstairs at the circle bar are too embroiled in a heart-to-heart to hear the music.

  *

  Maya walks with some urgency up the platform. It is the first day in months that she has felt like there’s some unforced buoyancy in her stride – not the bounce she experiences when she goes running, but actual happy feet. It is exactly one year since James Miller waltzed up the platform and into her life, but Maya doesn’t know that fact. Today she owes the spring in her step to Nena and to Jack White, whose ‘Seven Nation Army’ charged her swiftly from her flat to the station in record time in ballerina flats, and whose image plays in her mind as she weaves through familiar faces as the train pulls in.

  Last night, as the gig finished and Maya looked up at the ethereal and raucous raconteur standing on the monitor in front of her, holding his guitar aloft in triumph to bid her goodnight, Maya felt fierce and free and strong. And that perhaps there is life without love, because if that moment summed up her life, then she has a very good one.

  The Superior Train creaks to a stop and the few Hazelworth workers get off, deliberately slowly to annoy the London-bound commuters in their haste for a seat. In her tardiness, Maya has to jump on the train halfway up, but leaps in, the full skirt of her floral ‘twosie’ (she coined that, too) just missing the doors as she wafts in and her tummy flashes the carriage under the gentle curve of the crop.

  Close.

  The train rolls out of the station and Maya keeps walking through from carriage to carriage, using her naked elbow, rather than her fingers, to press the buttons of the interior doors.

  Phew, a seat.

  Maya slinks into the aisle seat on a set of four with a little table separating the forward-facing two from the rear-facing two.

  That was lucky.

  Maya puts her new red leather tote, the same shade of red as the roses within her blooming top and skirt, on her lap and sees James Miller across the aisle. Already lost in a book. She takes a sharp intake of breath, which rolls out as a slow, dejected sigh. A girl with Chinese eyes and black hair cut into a blunt bob leans on James’s reliable shoulder, and gently scratches her nose as she closes her eyes. She is comfortable, restful, secure in his company. James Miller lowers his glasses and rubs tired eyes.

  The theatrical desperation and crunching guitars of ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself’ tear through Maya’s ears and shoot straight to her heart like electric shock therapy. Suddenly all the strength and hope she felt since last night pours into the red and green seat she’s sitting on and through the carpeted floor onto the tracks. Maya sighs. And wonders without being able to hear anything beyond the music in her ears whether James Miller heard her sigh. Or his girlfriend.

  I hate Kitty Jones.

  Maya tries not to look but can’t help herself from stealing a glance of the woman James Miller loves.

  Of course he has a girlfriend, he’s beautiful. She’s stunning. Why would he have given me a second look?

  Maya looks at the doll-like face of the woman in the short fuchsia dress with the tiers of horizontal frills dancing off her smooth light brown skin. Maya pictures the two of them entwined and gets up to walk into the front carriage up ahead.

  I can’t do this.

  *

  A distorted dash of roses in bloom catch James’s eye as he rubs the sleep out of the inner corner. He’s tired. It was a late night. He’s not used to those. He’s been staying in and sleeping a lot and watching DVDs and smoking weed and having a glass of red wine and then another and not really wanting to talk to people. Last night was James’s first night out since Kitty left him. Dominic came into work with four tickets to a gig and James realised that he’d barely seen anything this year. When they’d finished working on hair you can whip and pubic hair you can whip off, James and Dominic walked up the road to their former agency, the one where Josie is still the receptionist, where they were joined by their ‘other single friend’ as Josie put it, Phil, before heading to Hammersmith.

  James didn’t like being put in the ‘single friends’ bracket. He’s never been single. He doesn’t know what it’s like to not be part of a pair. Even over the years, when Kitty didn’t seem to like James much, she was a security blanket of weekends away, arriving at parties together, and signing cards ‘lots of love, James and Kitty’, even if it was always James who remembered to send them. His new single life feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable. It felt especially uncomfortable sending Mrs Jones a 60th birthday card signed ‘lots of love, James’, but James did it. And she sent one back saying that she was so very sorry and James would always be part of their family. James knew that wasn’t true. He would need to be phased out. Someone else would be going to their Boxing Day parties now. Not that he’d want to; Kitty’s the last person he wants to see. By screwing him over and lying to him for most of the time since they moved to Hazelworth, she finally succeeded in making James not like her very much. But he misses her. He misses the security blanket, he misses leaning his leg over her bony hips at night. Having someone to touch, even if she did sometimes flinch.

  That’s why it’s nice to have Josie leaning on him right now as he tries to get lost in a new book. As Josie is lulled to sleep by the wheels on the tracks and lets out that puff of air that only a person in the process of falling asleep can do, James realises Kitty hadn’t been that tactile with him in a long time. He thinks back to last night. At the steamy bar upstairs at the Apollo, Josie’s delicate doll-like face belied the Essex drawl and obscenities that fell out of little love-heart-shaped lips. Sympathy and kindness darted with expletives.

  ‘I spoke to Kitty you know,’ she said. James looked away. He didn’t really want to hear about it. He knows Josie and Kitty have been friends for a long time, but he didn’t want to hear about nights out forging new friendships with this Simon guy.

  ‘She wanted to know if we all hated her, whether to cut all ties with the group. Or whether we’d wanna meet Simon one day.’

  James downed the rest of his warm beer. Not asking what Josie’s response was, although he did want to know.

  ‘I told her “Dominic will always have Millsy’s back, he’s not bothered about making new mates”. I said I’d see her if we have girly nights out, but I don’t wanna force anything. Anyway, she lives up in Cambridge now so it won’t really happen.’

  James looked at Josie and nodded his head in time to the bassline downstairs in the main room.

  ‘She asked how you were.’

  ‘What did you say?’ James replied, finally showing interest in Josie’s encounter with Kitty before shou
ting an order for four gin and tonics to the barman.

  ‘I told her you were doin OK, I didn’t wanna tell her we hadn’t seen you. Get her knickers in a twist with drama. Feel sorry for you. You’re better than that, James.’ As Josie said his name, she put her tiny hand on his on the bar and squeezed it.

  From Josie’s tone, James suspected she wouldn’t make much effort with Kitty in the future, and he felt a bit bad that it pleased him.

  After the show, Phil went back to his flat in Perivale and a drunken Dominic insisted on getting the train back to Hazelworth with James.

  ‘It’s miles away, Dom!’ Josie bellowed on a pavement in W6.

  A ruddy Dominic was cheery to see his friend back out. ‘Josie, we’re going. Millsy, hail that cab!’

  ‘But Greenwich is way nearer, you loooon!’ bellowed Josie.

  After one G&T too many and high on garage rock and blues, Dominic thought it would be a good idea to go back to Hazelworth and do a 6 a.m. swim in the local lido to help him train for the triathlon he will never do.

  ‘What about Brockwell?’ begged Josie, who wanted to get out of her heels and into her slippers.

  ‘Millsy’s not in Brockwell, come on, we’re going to Hazelworth, keep him company!’

  ‘Oh this blinkin’ triathlon. When are you gonna do it then, babes?’

  The three of them fell into the black cab that took them all the way to the terminal. James tickled by the light-hearted row and the grand gesture of friendship disguised as pursuit of the perfect body – which Dominic often talks about but likes steak, chips and red wine too much to do anything about.

  On this train, as her thick black hair sweeps into his olive neck, while the man they both love is swimming (at 8 a.m. not 6 a.m.), stinking of the glue-like toxins he emits when he’s hung-over, James thinks about Josie and Dominic. Their vocal rows do disservice to the deep-rooted love and tenderness they have for each other. Warmth, laughter, conversations. And that’s something James would love if he ever falls in love again.

  *

  Maya stands tall at the front of the classroom, reminding herself to stay strong. The Italian scene on the wall hasn’t changed since September: no one has moved. But inside the classroom so much has changed since this cohort first met. Jan and Doug have found a property in the Alpujarras that they now have enough vocabulary to renovate. Gareth ended up sitting his GCSE Spanish while Cecily did her A Levels, and in a month’s time he will find out he got an A* and she will have the grades to go to her first choice of university. Glyn is wearing a T-shirt that isn’t beige. Housewife Esther seems to have uncovered a passion for flamenco dance, which she’s even roped her husband Roger into joining at Hazelworth Leisure Centre on a Thursday night. Doctor Helen now knows how to treat a jellyfish sting in Spanish. Ed is going back to spend the summer in Argentina with his girlfriend Valeria before she moves to London to study politics. Nathaniel made ever such a slight improvement on his Spanish accent, while still managing to speak Castilian as if it’s the Queen’s English. And even Keith managed to raise a glass and say ‘Salud!’ after Maya poured everyone a tipple of home-made sangria to drink alongside the polvorones she had baked for the end-of-term party.

  The empty chair remains. No one wanted to move Velma’s seat, lest it make her death seem permanent. And now it sits there in the centre of the front row under Maya’s nose, while her remaining pupils fill in their course evaluation sheets, a little light-headed from the sangria.

  Maya pictures Velma boarding a plane to Miami. Being helped up the stairs. Charming the crew. Laughing alongside her fellow passengers. Showing off photos of baby Audrey. Heading to an exciting new chapter in her glorious Technicolor life.

  Perhaps it’s better if I imagine she’s already there.

  Chapter Forty-One

  September 2014

  ‘Cheers Millsy!’ says Dominic.

  James clinks glasses and downs his dark rum in one.

  ‘Good shit.’

  A model drapes a long arm around James’s shoulder and raises a fashionably thick eyebrow.

  ‘Wow, you didn’t waste time with that, want another?’ she says in swishy Dutch tones.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ says James, going to stand up, before bejewelled fingers press him, urging him to sit down from his crotch. James’s rectangular glasses slide down his sun-dappled nose.

  A bronzed half-Dutch, half-Peruvian goddess swaggers over to the bar, still wearing the bikini and sheer kaftan from the day’s shoot, even though the sun has long since set. Dominic and James couldn’t stand another hour in Pez’s company, so they left him, his assistant Joe and the hair and make-up girls, back shooting pool and drinking and smoking the local produce in a beach bar on the seven-kilometre stretch of sand that runs up this western corner of Jamaica. James hoped Lisa and Yoshie would ditch Pez’s lecherous looks and clumsy chat-up lines and go and have fun without him, they were better than that, but they didn’t, and he couldn’t watch it any more. So James made his excuses and jumped in the taxi with Dominic to head back to the hotel on the winding rocky cliffside road away from the party. Just before the taxi door closed, a supermodel slipped in the back seat onto James’s lap, even though there was space for her in the front. Two hours and four drinks later, the three of them are among the last guests in the bar at the luxe cliff-edge bolthole.

  ‘You lucky bastard, Millsy. Lena Molina wants to knob you!’ Dominic looks like a kid at Christmas, happy that his friend is getting this kind of attention, envious that, just like when they were at uni, when James wasn’t the single one, or interested in girls other than Kitty, Dominic is again overlooked for his taller, quieter, less charming buddy. Not that Dominic would ever cheat on Josie. Fiercely loyal to his friend, fiercely loyal to his girlfriend.

  James blushes and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as they both look to the woman standing at the timber and thatched hotel bar. Dip-dyed hair starts brown at Lena’s crown and turns gold as it waves down to the middle of her back, finishing like spun sugar on a deliciously pert bottom. Long lean legs that could wrap twice around Dominic’s stout frame glisten and reflect the fairy lights that adorn the bar. More jewellery than clothes kiss sun cream and sun-drenched skin. James and Dominic have seen a lot of Lena Molina’s body over the past few days shooting the Femme campaign. Dominic can’t believe his mate is about to see even more.

  Lena saunters back, perched on sky-high wedges, with six shot glasses teetering in large unsteady hands. She puts them on the wooden table on the edge of an artfully lit cove.

  ‘Here. Let’s have some fun!’ she says, thrusting two shots into James’s hands and nodding at Dominic to help himself if you must as she plonks the rest down. An inconvenience at the table.

  Dominic knows James has never slept with a supermodel, so he graciously takes Lena’s hint and makes his excuses.

  ‘Mate, they’re all yours,’ he says, nudging the shot glasses back across the table so they all sit temptingly in front of James. Six soldiers leading him to his doom.

  Lena smiles, that’s exactly what she wanted to happen.

  ‘Night night, Damian,’ she says with a dazzling white smile.

  Dominic is too embarrassed to correct her, as if he didn’t feel insignificant enough already.

  Lena slides in closer to James and drapes a long angular arm over his strong tanned shoulder. She’s used to getting what she wants.

  *

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ says Alex, taking a sip of a skinny soy latte. ‘I had a meeting with Gina from FASH+ yesterday, and she said sales of plus-size clothes are going through the roof right now – so why don’t we do a late summer beach story focusing on big girls?’

  Maya bursts into the meeting room, 1.1, carrying a tray of pastries from the canteen.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, breakfast anyone?’

  Cressida looks at her Rado watch but doesn’t say a thing.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ says Emma, plucking a pain au raisin out from
the basket and enjoying her new curves. They suit her too.

  ‘My big big sister is rinsing my staff discount code lately,’ pipes up Chloe mid-doodle. ‘She says FASH+ is the only big girl’s brand that is bang on trend.’

  Olivia scratches her chin with a shiny sharp red talon.

  ‘Really?’ snarls Cressida.

  ‘Well most twenty-something girls don’t take their holidays during the school holidays,’ continues Alex. ‘So a FASH+ holiday wardrobe story on the home page would feel double appropes right now, now kids are back at school and FASH+ is flying,’ he says, peering over horn-rimmed glasses at his colleagues around the desk as his idea starts to take hold. Liz gives a deferential nod.

  ‘I guess holiday clothes are harder to cram into a carry-on when there’s so much bloody material in FASH+ sizes,’ ponders Cressida, click click clicking her FASH branded pen on and off as she looks out of the window.

  ‘I’m off to Ibiza next week,’ says Olivia, ignoring Cressida’s obvious disgust; excited by Alex’s suggestion. ‘I would be willing to do a beach edit while I’m away. I could get my mates to style up the pics, put nice filters on it.’

  Cressida’s face falls. ‘Nope. Sorry. I’m all for championing big girls, Olivia, but no matter what filter you use, they just don’t look good on the home page.’

  Maya does an internal groan and feels upset for Olivia, before her mind wanders to the tiny frame of Kitty Jones, who she hasn’t seen since the day after Jack White when she was curled into James Miller’s arm. Maya hasn’t seen James Miller much either. The odd morning here and there, not at all in the past week. Since seeing him with his girlfriend, Maya vowed to create some distance, to get on at a different carriage, because it hurts too much to see him. But despite knowing that this is the sensible thing to do, she misses Train Man terribly.