“Maud!” I said, slightly stunned at her altruism. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Darling.” She gave me a fond hug. “ ‘From each according to his ability, to each according to his need.’ I heard that the other day. Isn’t it fab?”
“That’s Karl Marx,” said Sarika faintly.
“Maud, you are not a Communist,” Nell said in outrage. “Do not start pretending you’re a Communist.”
“I’m not anything!” Maud blinked at her. “You know that, Nell, my love. Except founding member of the Ava-writing-her-book support group.”
“The most important thing is, we won’t disturb you, Ava,” said Sarika, hauling the conversation back on track. “We’re here when you need us, but if you need to ignore us, that’s fine too.”
“Take as long as you like.” Maud nodded. “Focus on what you’re doing. Don’t worry about anything else. It’ll be great! Only, don’t meet anyone,” she added sternly. “Or you’ll never finish.”
“I won’t.” I rolled my eyes. “No chance.”
Buoyed by their support, I then negotiated an unpaid sabbatical with Brakesons. I’d actually planned to hand in my notice. It was the head of department who offered a sabbatical and said it would look good as data in their new Staff Flexibility and Welfare initiative and would I mind writing five hundred words about it for the recruitment webpage?
So it was all set. I couldn’t have had second thoughts even if I wanted to. But the truth is, I never did. Sometimes life just needs to swerve a new way.
I let my gaze drift over my screen, over the story I’ve been telling these last few months. It’s not about Clara or Chester. I got sick of them, and what the hell do they know about life anyway, with their corsets and hay wagons?
It’s about Harold. And me. It’s the story of our relationship from the first moment I saw him and experienced an overwhelming, instant love. I didn’t know how much I had to say about Harold till I started writing, and then I couldn’t stop. I could write six books about him. It’s funny in parts, because Harold has done some outrageous things (I’m really quite embarrassed), but it’s also painful. Because that’s what life is like. And you can’t talk about dogs without talking about life. I’ve written about my parents. And my childhood. And…stuff.
Matt’s in it, too, though I’ve changed his name to Tom. And what I’ve written about him is also painful, in places. But, then, it’s real.
Real is hard. And you can’t dodge that. As I’ve come to learn.
Sensing my attention has drifted away, Harold gives a little bark, and I tilt my head to gaze down at my precious boy. Undimmed, undaunted, forever Harold, gazing up as though to say, “What next?”
“Ava?” A soft voice sounds at my door, which is ajar.
“Hi!” I swivel in my seat. “Come in!”
A moment later, Farida is in the room, wearing an elegant ensemble of flared black trousers and an embroidered tunic.
“How’s it going?” she asks, with a bubble of anticipation in her voice.
“Finished!” I say exuberantly.
“Oh, my dear Ava!” Her face creases into a joyful smile.
“Only a first draft,” I amend. “But I’ve typed ‘The End.’ That’s something.”
“Typing ‘The End’ is everything,” Farida corrects me. “Especially for the first time. It answers a question you’ve probably been asking your whole life, even if subconsciously.”
“Yes.” I nod, rubbing my face, feeling suddenly exhausted. “I can’t believe it. I never thought…”
“I did.” Farida gives me a wise smile. “You must come and have a drink. We must celebrate! Felicity will be thrilled! We’re in the anteroom.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say, and watch as she walks out, her leather slippers noiseless on the stone floor. She’s been such a mentor. Both Farida and Felicity, her partner.
As my thoughts rest on Felicity, I smile for the thousandth time. I still remember that extraordinary moment after I’d arrived in October and was drinking a welcome cup of fennel tea in the refectory, hoping I’d done the right thing. Farida said casually, “Let me introduce you to Felicity, my partner.” Then a familiar woman with salt-and-pepper hair walked into the room and I nearly fell over backward.
Because it was Scribe! Farida’s lover is Scribe! Or Felicity, as I call her now. It turned out that throughout the retreat, when everyone’s attention was on Dutch and me, the real blooming romance was going on between Farida and Felicity. And theirs lasted. Felicity spends two weeks out of every month here, and they’re clearly besotted, in a low-key, elegant way.
Of course, I had a million questions for them both—and that’s when my jaw dropped even farther.
“I’m not really a stay-at-home housewife,” Felicity confessed that same evening, as we drank wine and dipped crackers into fava bean puree. “I’m a literary agent. But I couldn’t divulge that to the group. I would have been besieged by manuscripts. It would have ruined the dynamic.” She shook her head. “So I told a white lie.”
“A literary agent?” I stared at her. “So, what, you were looking for writers? It was all a lie?”
“No!” she said, turning pink. “I am trying to write, in my spare time. After a fashion. But I suppose the real reason I came to the retreat is that I’d met Farida at a literary festival in Milan. Couldn’t get her out of my mind.” She looked at Farida fondly. “So I booked a week’s retreat. Just to see. Just to…give it a chance.”
“Thank God,” said Farida emphatically. And she clasped Felicity’s hand and I felt a little misty. Because it just shows, it can all work out. It can.
I brush my hair and teeth, apply lip gloss and scent, and throw an embroidered shawl over my clothes. (Farida’s style is kind of catching.) Then I head with Harold through the courtyard to the anteroom, which is a small sitting room lined with books and made welcoming with a huge fire, heavy throws, and fat candles that Farida lights every night.
Felicity is sitting on a low ottoman, watching the flames, but she leaps up as she hears me enter.
“Ava! I hear you’ve finished! Congratulations!” She envelops me in a hug, and Harold barks in appreciation.
“I don’t know if it’s any good,” I say as she releases me. “But I finished. That’s what I wanted, to finish something.”
As I say the words, I have a sudden, almost painful urge to tell Matt. See? I finished. I did finish something.
But Matt was a long time ago now. And I try not to think about him.
“I can’t wait to read more of Harold’s story.” Felicity’s eyes dance as they meet mine. “Ava, you know how much I loved the first ten chapters. May I read the rest?”
“Touting for business, my love?” says Farida briskly, coming into the room holding a terra-cotta bowl of olives. “Felicity is the best agent,” she adds fondly.
“I’m one of many,” corrects Felicity. “I’m merely petitioning to be considered. Ava must manage her career as she sees fit.”
“I don’t have a career!” I retort, smiling at them both yet feeling a bit unhinged. I’ve only just typed The End and my eyes are still bloodshot from peering at the screen and an agent wants to read what I’ve written?
“I have a feeling,” says Felicity, and she pats my arm. “But tonight just enjoy your accomplishment. Relax!”
Farida pours me some red wine and we raise our glasses, while Harold settles down in his favorite spot by the fire. These two feel like old friends after so many months together. They’ve been my world, while the rest of my life has been shadowy and distant. I’ve WhatsApped with Nell, Maud, and Sarika, but not in the same intense way as before. Not day to day. Not minute by minute.
It’s not that I’ve been single-minded these last six months. Of course other ideas have popped into my head. (Import Italian pottery!
Learn about frescoes!) But I’ve told myself, Not now, which is something I never did before. And instead of chatting on WhatsApp all day, I made myself strict rules for social media. I guess you could call them my own personal deal-breakers.
I feel like a different person now. A stronger person. A person in charge of herself.
“Oh!” Felicity’s exclamation breaks my thoughts, and she looks up from her phone. “Oh, this is marvelous! Ava, have you seen?”
“What?”
“I’ve just received an email from Aaron. Remember Aaron—Kirk? I think you must have got it, too; you’re on the list.”
I pull out my phone to check. The Wi-Fi is alive (this room is one of the few hotspots), and sure enough, I have a new email. It’s from Aaron Chambers, and it’s an invitation to the launch of his self-published graphic novel, Emril Announces. He’s holding it in a pub off Leicester Square, and he’s added a message:
Hope to see all you guys from the retreat, couldn’t have done it without you!!!
“Good for Kirk!” says Farida. “You really were one of my more promising groups.”
“Are you going to go?” Felicity asks me, and I blink at her over my wineglass. Go? How can I go? I’m in Italy. I’m writing a book. I don’t “go” to things anymore.
But then it hits me, as though for the first time. I’ve achieved what I came here to do. I’ve typed The End. That was my goal and I’ve done it. So what do I do now? I never thought that far ahead; I never made any plans; I was too focused on the task in hand. I feel a tiny flicker of panic, which I try to suppress by gulping my wine.
“Ava, darling, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like,” says Farida, reading my thoughts. “It’s wonderful to have you. You don’t need to rush into any decisions.”
“Thanks, Farida,” I say gratefully, and for a moment I let myself imagine a sunlit existence where I never leave these walls but just eat olives and drink wine and play with Harold till I’m ninety and fluent in Italian.
But already I know it wouldn’t be the right choice for me. It would be running away. I’ve been cocooned all these months. I’ve had a single purpose. I’ve blocked out all the mess and difficulties of real, actual life. Now I need to get back. Find my place in the world again. Engage with people and challenges and work and shopping and buses and the washing up.
Plus, let’s be frank, I can’t afford to stay here forever. Farida doesn’t charge peak rates over the winter, but she doesn’t charge nothing either. Even with my discount as a former retreat guest, these six months have eaten substantially into my savings. It’s time to go home.
And if I go to Kirk’s launch, Matt might be there.
As I let an unguarded Matt-thought into my brain, my stomach churns reflexively, and I draw breath, trying to stay steady. I’m waiting for the moment that thinking of Matt doesn’t make my stomach churn. It hasn’t happened yet. But, on the other hand, I do manage to go hours without thinking about him now. Now.
At first, of course, it was impossible, and I found myself thinking, What have I done? Why have I come here of all places?
I wandered desperately about the monastery, searching for a safe, Matt-free place, but memories of him were everywhere. In every courtyard, every corner, every doorway, I could see shadows of Dutch. Shadows of Aria. Shadows of us, laughing, arm in arm, a baggage-free couple in matching kurta pajamas, on our way to certain bliss.
On the second night I spilled the whole story of our breakup to Farida and Felicity, thinking that it might help. It was a very bonding evening and I’m glad I did, but it didn’t solve my problem.
In the end, it was like an exorcism. I walked around the whole monastery, my hands in my pockets, my chin stuck forward, muttering, “Bring it on.” Positively encouraging all the painful images to swoosh through my mind. And that did work, kind of. The more I forced myself to think about it, the less raw the hurt became. I started to laugh again and see just a courtyard, not a scene from our romance.
But Matt’s shadow didn’t leave me completely. I still went to bed every night, brooding. Thinking: What went wrong? Did it have to go wrong? Could we have made things work? I tried to retrace the steps to our split. I tried holding all our conversations again, with different outcomes. I drove myself a bit mad. Because let’s face it: We did break up. And Matt hasn’t turned up, hammering on the door of the monastery. Or even sent me a text.
In fact, the last time I saw any Warwick family member face-to-face was when I made a quick delivery to Matt’s parents’ house in Berkshire, before I left for Italy. I rang the doorbell, and as the door swung open, I couldn’t believe my luck, because it was Elsa herself.
“Oh, hello,” I said briskly, before she could speak. “I’ve got a present for you.” I reached into my carrier bag and pulled out a framed photo of Matt swinging a golf club, which I’d harvested from Facebook. “That’s for you….” I reached for another framed photo of him, this one in a martial-arts tournament. “And that’s for you….”
I produced photo after photo, until eight framed pictures of Matt were teetering in a pile in her arms and Elsa was peering at me over the top of them, looking shell-shocked.
“I noticed you didn’t have any,” I said politely. “I should think your son noticed too.” Then I turned on my heel and left.
I thought that would be a nice clean finish. And at first it was. For the first few weeks here, I managed not to look Matt up online at all. Then I crumbled. I couldn’t help myself. So I had a quick peek, expecting to see photos of him in Japan with Genevieve. But to my astonishment, there was a news story from a trade magazine: Matthias Warwick steps down from Harriet’s House. It said he was leaving for “fresh challenges” and there was lot of blah about his achievements and family history, which I skimmed, feeling stunned. He didn’t just refuse to go to Japan, he quit! He quit Harriet’s House!
Of course, I had a burning desire to know everything. I wanted to know how he’d decided, and how his parents had responded, and how he was feeling, and whether he’d gone to work with Topher or was doing something else….But I’m not Sarah. I’m not a stalker. Plus, if I’d started down that rabbit hole, I would never have got my book written.
So somehow I managed to be strong. I didn’t go on a trawl of the Internet, nor try to contact him, nor even text Topher on some casual pretext. I assumed I would never see him again, never know the answers. Case closed.
But now it’s opening up again, just a chink. If I go to that pub in Leicester Square, Matt might be there. Just the thought of seeing him again makes me feel half sick with nerves, half heady with exhilaration.
What if he’s with someone else by now? the Red Queen instantly demands inside my brain. Because he’s bound to be. You don’t think he’ll still be single, do you? A man like that gets snapped up at once. At once.
By Genevieve?
No, not Genevieve, but some beautiful, amazing woman who loves Japanese punk and held his hand while he quit Harriet’s House and is already pregnant with his baby.
(I have a sudden urge to hit her.)
(No. Retract. That would be a hate crime and I’m not a violent person and she doesn’t exist.)
Well, what if he is with someone else? optimistic Alice answers in my head. Then I’ll get closure. Exactly. So, in fact, however you look at it, it would be a mistake not to go. Yes. I should go.
I come to and realize that Farida and Felicity are both quietly watching me process my thoughts, in that patient way they have.
“I think I’ll go,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I’ll go along to Kirk’s thing. I need to go back to the UK anyway, sort out my life. It would be supportive. And nice to see the group again. And…” I clear my throat. “Anyway. I think I’ll go.”
“I’m sure that’s a good idea,” says Farida, and Felicity nods, her face creased with empathy. And neither
of them mentions it again, but I know they’re thinking what I can’t bring myself to say. Matt might be there. He just might be there.
Twenty-Five
He’s not here.
As I lean against the bar, breathing in beer fumes, clutching a glass of terrible wine, and listening to Aaron’s lengthy speech about his graphic novel, the last vestiges of my smile have fallen away. My cheeks have drooped. I’ve stopped swinging my head toward the door like a hopeful dog. If he was going to come, he would have come by now. It’s over.
Of course, everyone expected us to arrive hand in hand, or even married. Everyone demanded to know what had happened. I batted away the questions with carefully curated, positive sound bites:
I’m all good! Really good! So good!
Yes, Dutch and I split up, but it wasn’t meant to be, so. Yes, I know, a shame. These things happen.
I’ve just returned from the monastery, can you believe it? Got back yesterday. Yes, it is amazing in winter. Farida sends her love….
No, I haven’t seen Dutch for a while.
No, there wasn’t anyone else involved, it just…Anyway! Enough about me.
But all the time, the disappointment was inside me, heavy and warm, weighing me down. I’d hoped. I’d really hoped. I’m not even sure what for, exactly. Just…something good. Yes, something good.
Because here’s the thing. You can cut all the flowers, but you can’t stop spring from coming. I don’t care what they say, you can’t. It pops up. It won’t be subdued. It’s there all the time, deep underground, dormant, waiting. The minute I saw that email from Kirk, I felt a daisy spring up, bobbing its head around as though to say, “You never know….”
It wasn’t overoptimism. It wasn’t some deluded fantasy. It was just…maybe. Everyone’s allowed a maybe, aren’t they? And that maybe feeling propelled me all the way through packing up, saying my farewells to Farida and Felicity, flying home, choosing an outfit, applying my makeup, and coming out here tonight. Hope. Just a little daisy of hope.
Love Your Life Page 30