And now, here I am, where I belong. Getting what I deserve, my eyes staring blankly out to the horizon, past the graceful arch of Durdle Door.
Reaching into my pocket, I take out the ancient iPod I’ve somehow never been able to let go of and select the playlist El started for me years ago. She occasionally adds to it, mostly when I get dumped. She’s really good at finding great break-up songs. I laugh bitterly as I realise there are quite a few on the list. Unwinding the earphones, I tuck the buds into my ears, hoping if the music is loud enough it’ll drown out the guilty voice threatening to occupy my head. As soon as ‘You Could Be Happy’ by Snow Patrol starts, I know I’ve made a mistake. Tears fill my eyes as every jagged bit of hurt and loss I’ve been shying away from fills my head, clenching around my heart. My eyes screw up, my throat closes, and silent sobs choke me. Tears roll down my face, unwanted, unbidden. It physically aches – God, it feels like I can’t breathe – and I want to curl in on myself and disappear. The pain in my chest is what I imagine a heart attack feels like. I bring my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around them, holding onto myself because no one else can, or is here to. Pressing the button to loop the song on repeat, I play it again, letting the music and words release my grief.
During the fourth repeat, a hand lands on the shoulder of my thin denim jacket. I jump. Whipping the earphones out, I look up, at the same time realising the light is dimming. ‘Jake. What are you doing here?’ I ask, scrubbing my swollen face self-consciously with my hands.
Sitting down beside me, he drapes a tartan blanket around my shoulders. ‘I know,’ he says simply, gazing out to sea where dusk is starting to fall. ‘And your dad was worried because he couldn’t get hold of you. He was worried you’d done a runner like your mum. Sorry if that sounds insensitive. His words, not mine.’ Then he adds quietly. ‘I also thought you might need someone.’
‘I’m nothing like her,’ I reply in a taut voice, pulling the blanket closer. ‘Maybe I used to go missing for a few hours occasionally when I was in my early teens, but it was mostly when I needed space, or was painting or drawing.’ Even as I say it, shame fills me. I’m not telling the whole truth, not by a long way. I think of that night at my first secondary school, the heat and smoky darkness which filled the room. ‘Dad has nothing to worry about. And what do you know?’
‘That you’re pregnant,’ he answers. ‘Also, that you’re not sure what you’re going to do about it, but you may not keep it. Your dad was rough on you, and he’s sorry.’ He pauses, and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘He is truly sorry, Jones.’
Open-mouthed, I can’t speak for a moment. Dad told him? But it was private. Then I grasp that given Dad’s one of the most intensely private people I know, he must’ve been frantic to tell Jake. I deliberately left my mobile phone in the car so I could avoid the calls and messages. I couldn’t face anyone. I just needed the quiet. Now I feel guilty, but it’s soon swamped by the tsunami of emotions I’m battling. The fact that Jake just sits there patiently waiting unravels me.
‘I was pregnant,’ I murmur brokenly. ‘But I’m not any more.’
His eyes widen – one green, one brown – and I see in them a compassion I don’t deserve. ‘What happened?’
‘I started bleeding this morning, after my argument with Dad.’ I speak in a factual tone, trying to get through it. It’s the type of stuff I wouldn’t usually share with a guy, but for some reason I’m completely comfortable telling Jake. ‘It carried on, got heavier, got worse. I started getting cramps, so I went to hospital. I was in A&E for half the day. It’s part of the reason I didn’t answer my phone. And then afterwards, at the hospital, when they’d told me I’d suffered a miscarriage …’ I trail off. ‘I didn’t much feel like talking to anyone.’
‘God, Jones. You went through that alone?’
‘Don’t. Don’t feel sorry for me, don’t sympathise. I c-can’t,’ I cry. ‘I didn’t want it. Or at least, I didn’t think I did. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?’
He nods easily, switching his attention to the archway in front of us. The sun is setting, and is positioned so it’s shining right through the arch, like a key in a hole.
Before I know it, and maybe because he’s not looking at me, it all spills out. ‘You must think I’m an awful person, because I didn’t want the baby –’ my breath catches, but I press on ‘– or at least, I wasn’t sure if I did. And now it’s gone, before it even had a chance, because I failed. I couldn’t do the one thing women are made for. I didn’t keep it safe,’ I sob, ‘maybe because I didn’t want to.’ His hand finds mine, but he says nothing and so I hold on, talking. Talking because I can’t stop. ‘It’s not fair. I … I didn’t know, I didn’t want to hurt it, I didn’t know what I wanted.’ I choke, salty tears filling my mouth. ‘Now it’s gone, and I feel empty. My stomach hurts but I still feel sick, and I just want the whole thing to go away. I want it behind me, but I can’t think of anything else! Everything is a big fat mess, and the last time I saw you, I was horrible and now here you are being so sweet. And I don’t deserve it. I can’t take it!’
Grabbing a handful of stones, I throw them across the beach, narrowly missing a seagull perched on a piece of driftwood watching us. The sight sends me into hysterics, and I burst into tears. Jake places a steadying hand on my back, letting me weep. After several long minutes, my crying quietens and the beat of the waves on the shore soothes me. The worst of it is over for now, and relief is the strongest emotion, closely followed by exhaustion. I hide my face in the blanket and whisper a subdued thanks. When I lift my head, Jake’s watching me with concern.
His shoulder nudges mine. ‘Your dad said you were involved with another student, that you have a boyfriend,’ he says gently. ‘What did he want?’
‘Well, when I finally told him, it turned out he didn’t want either of us,’ I say in a bleak tone. ‘Guess now he’s off the hook.’
‘Well, it’s not easy. It’s a difficult situation.’ Ignoring my tear-streaked face, he looks me in the eye. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean—’
His words churn my stomach. Is he on Ricky’s side? ‘So, now you’re defending him? There was no misunderstanding what he said. He meant it. He was clear.’ Fury whips through me, lashing me, making me strike out. It’s just too much. It piles on top of the anger I already feel. The A&E doctor said the pregnancy hormones will take a few weeks to leave my system, so my moods will be up and down for a while. A horrible irony. You still get the symptoms, even after the reason for them has gone. ‘Why do men always stick together? Ricky told me to stop crying and get it sorted, and Dad can barely look at me.’ Scrambling to my feet, I toss the blanket at his feet and start backing away. All I want to do is leave.
Jake stands, coming towards me, his shoulders broad against the sunset. ‘Jones. Wait. Where are you going?’
Holding my hands out in front of me, I shake my head. ‘I need my friends, not you. Not someone who’s going to make excuses for a guy he doesn’t even know.’ I’m hurt, and desperate to push him away. He shouldn’t be around me right now; I’m no good. ‘And after all, we’re not friends, are we? Because you left me again, without saying goodbye, and again haven’t been in touch. You can’t just keep slipping in and out of my life, Jake, and then expect to carry on where we left off. I never know where I stand with you.’
He flinches. ‘That’s not fair. It’s my job!’
‘I understand that,’ I say, wrapping my arms around my middle, ‘but it shouldn’t stop you getting in touch. You found a way to do that with Grandad, by writing those letters to him. What about the postcards you used to send me? They just stopped!’
‘I’m sorry.’ He stares at me. ‘But there’s no way I could’ve known you’d want me to carry on. The last time we were together you were pretty clear I’d pissed you off and was overstepping the mark. If I’d known you felt differently, well … You say you don’t know where you stand,’ he speaks into my silence, ‘but you must know I’m your friend. We’ve
had a few clashes over the years, but we have history. Plus, I like you Jones. You must know that.’
‘Why? Why would you like me?’ I laugh harshly, feeling like the worst person in the world right now. Shamed. Sad. If I could climb out of my own skin, I would. The emotions running through me are almost unbearable. And something about his use of the word ‘friend’ stings.
Coming closer, he grabs my hands and holds tight.
‘Because you have a wonderful eye and a brilliant imagination – if you didn’t, you couldn’t draw and paint the way you do.’ His eyes gleam in the rays of the setting sun. ‘I love the way you see the world. Your art is always full of hope and magic. You’re kind too. It’s in the way you shared your food with me in the park that first week and didn’t push me to talk about stuff I wasn’t ready to. The way you’ve always looked after your dad and Ray. And the compassion you showed when I told you about my parents on the morning of Ray’s death. Your words at the funeral, about Ray, they were heartfelt and lovely – he would have been so proud. Everyone in that church was proud, Jones. Yes, you can be spiky and stubborn, and you have a bit of a temper and can be ditzy – and you have the worst taste in men – but you have a beautiful soul.’
Wrenching my hands away, I scowl, only able to focus on the bad bits. It’s like he can see the worst parts of me, and is using them against me. My temper’s something I’ve worked so hard to contain, and it hurts he’d mention it. I know I’m ditzy. I don’t always listen – there are moments when my common sense disappears because I’m often daydreaming about things I’m going to paint, and I have a hard time concentrating, but still … ‘You don’t know me at all, do you?’ He can’t, if he doesn’t understand how much his words would burn me.
‘If don’t know you, how did I know you’d be here, of all places?’
‘Lucky guess,’ I spit, throwing my arms out to the side, ‘so why don’t you just bugger off? You’re good at that!’
But he doesn’t. He just walks a few feet away and stares out at the blue-green sea, which is calm now with no whitecaps. I notice the resigned sigh which runs through his body, the way his shoulders tense then relax, and how his broad chest puffs out.
What am I doing? Just because I’m hurting, it doesn’t give me the right to hurt someone else. Despite the pain in my heart, I’d like to think I’ve learnt something over the past year. Deflating like a balloon emptied of air, I go after Jake, traipsing doggedly towards the sea’s edge. The physical effort it takes is immense. The memory of his letter to Grandad and my realisation that Jake’s a good guy give me the strength I need. ‘I shouldn’t have said that,’ I murmur, standing next to him. ‘My boyfriend betrayed me, my body’s betrayed me, and I didn’t even have the chance to decide what to do about the baby; the choice was taken from me. I’m sorry. Maybe we’re not close friends, but you always seem to be there for me, even though I don’t always appreciate it.’ His chin dips in a nod of acknowledgement. ‘The truth is,’ I rush on, touching the plain heart charm on the bracelet round my wrist, ‘I’m angry with her too. My mum. She should be here for this, to help me through it. To listen, to give comfort, to say whatever it is that mums say at times like these. But she’s not.’ Sighing, my eyes search his face in the falling darkness. ‘Dad loves me, but he doesn’t understand, and I can’t bear to see the look of disappointment on his face. He’s worked so hard to raise me, to provide, to give me a good education, and as far as he was concerned, I was considering throwing it away on an unplanned baby.’
Jake finally turns to me. ‘Just because something isn’t planned, it doesn’t mean it’s a mistake.’
‘Well, I’ll never know now, will I?’ Tears fill my eyes again and trickle down my face. I’m so sick of crying. Over the past year I’ve shed so many tears, and I’m ready for it to end. So ready.
‘Come here.’ Opening his arms, Jake wraps them around me before I can reply.
Stiffening, I try to pull away, but he raises one hand and starts to stroke my hair soothingly.
‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs against the top of my head. ‘You’ll be okay.’
I don’t mean to, but the warmth of his body is a comfort and I relax into him. He’s so tall, so much bigger than me. I feel safe and secure. It’s okay to lean on him. To let him absorb my pain. It’s reassuring, and I bury my face in his chest. He keeps stroking my hair and the tears keep flowing but I feel better. After a while the teardrops slow, and the worst of it has passed.
Edging back in his arms, I gaze up at him. His eyes are dark, his features hidden by the twilight. He looks dangerous and like a stranger, even though I’ve known him since I was eleven.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asks.
One of his palms is warm against my lower back, and the other hand is still stroking my hair. It feels nice, but something’s changed.
He looks at my mouth and brings me closer. ‘Jones?’
I feel sick, and there’s a twinge in my stomach. ‘Jake—’
Then he drops his head and kisses me, his lips firm on mine. Breaking away, I push both hands against his chest, forcing him back. I must have caught him unawares because he stumbles backwards and lands on the stones.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ I cry. ‘I thought you said we were friends.’
It’s hard to see his face as he leaps to his feet, but his anguished voice says it all. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I was just trying to comfort you.’
‘Well, don’t!’ Spinning around, I stride towards the steps, shingle churning beneath me. I’m not capable of running. ‘And don’t even think about following me. Just leave me alone!’ I hiss.
My heartbeat thrums in my chest, my cheeks burning with heat. How could he? After being so sweet about the baby and comforting me, how could he do that when I’m at my most vulnerable? When I’m so confused?
I trudge up the hill, exhausted, the evening moonlight shining down on Durdle Door behind me, leaving Jake on the beach alone.
***
It’s close to eleven by the time I get home. I called Dad to say I was safe, and coming back. I apologised for worrying him and asked him to text my friends and let them know I’m okay. He insisted on staying up to wait for me, so I had to get tough and insist he go to sleep, saying I was too upset to see him. He made me promise we’d talk properly tomorrow though.
Unfortunately, it’s not a promise I can keep. My head’s too full of the argument with Dad this morning, losing the baby, what I’m going to do about Ricky, how shit I feel physically, and then Jake kissing me.
It’s too much to deal with, and so although I came home, I’m not staying. I can’t. I need some time and space. I can’t be here, but I also can’t go back to Brighton. I’m not ready to be around my uni friends, or face Ricky yet. I’ll find somewhere else, just for a little while. I’m going to drive through the night until I end up somewhere that feels right, then hide away for a week or two. Despite what Dad believes, I still have a significant amount of money left from Grandad, and it’s not as if I’m intending to grab my bag and flee to the French Riviera for the high life or anything. I just want somewhere pretty, quiet, and still. Grabbing my duffel bag, I stuff some clothes into it, shove in a book, take my spare art set from the bottom of the wardrobe, and sneak out of the house. I’ll call Dad in the morning so he doesn’t worry. I’ll explain what happened with the baby. I take a deep breath and let it shudder out. I will tell him I’m fine but need time to myself.
Climbing into my VW Beetle, I wonder if I should be driving but I’m wide awake and amped up with all the upset of today, so I’ll make a start. If I get tired, I’ll pull over. Switching the CD player on, a Coldplay song comes on, and I massage my lower stomach. Taking two ibuprofen with an old bottle of water from the footwell, I start the engine, watching as a set of lights sweep onto our road. Instinctively, I know it’s Jake. He was only ten minutes behind me. I don’t want to see him.
Backing up slowly, I reverse down the drive and wait un
til I’m at the end of the road before putting my headlights on.
***
I arrive back in Brighton three weeks later. I ended up staying in a village in North Devon called Sheepwash. It was tiny. Ten or so houses around a pretty little flowered square serving as residents’ parking, a small grey church, a local pub with strong pale beer, and a small shop with a post-office counter. It was also exactly what I needed: self-contained, quiet, with little else to focus my energy on.
I stayed in a beautiful thatched cottage painted pale blue, with a large wildflower garden and a double bedroom overlooking the village square. My room filled with sunlight each morning despite the old wooden shutters inside the window, but I woke up feeling rested despite the early starts. I slept well, ate cake, went for walks on Bude beach, and watched films at the cinema in Okehampton. I spent time in the leafy green garden too, painting all my hurt away: a watercolour of my favourite view from Hengistbury Head, right from the top and overlooking the spit, filled with rows of colourful beach huts and with Mudeford Quay in the background; Bournemouth Pier stretching out from its sandy beach in oils, their colours vibrant on the paper. I turned a few of my charcoal sketches of Brighton into bigger pieces rich with detail. I painted until my back ached and my fingers were stiff, but it was a release and felt like falling in love again.
I thought a lot and got my head straight. Checking in with Dad daily by sending a quick text meant he didn’t worry, and I spoke with Eloise, Shell, and Chloe to tell them each what’d happened. We cried together and they all offered to come and see me, but I wanted to be alone. El texted me rude pictures every day to cheer me up, Chloe sent me inspirational quotes, and Shell somehow tracked down where I was and posted me extra art supplies. Having good friends, I realised, is so important. As Jake would say, I’m lucky.
During my second week in Sheepwash, I felt strong enough to call Ricky and have The Talk. We ended it. The pregnancy and losing a baby were too much for our relationship to endure, and I no longer felt any excitement at the idea of seeing him. He sounded relieved, which caused a small twist of hurt, but at least he said sorry for the way he’d reacted.
The Last Charm: The most page-turning and emotional summer romance fiction of 2020! Page 14