Joe was fairly easy to find. I had a first name. I knew he was a cellist. I guessed he was probably touring in an orchestra, and the Vienna Philharmonic had been playing in Budapest that very weekend, and they had photos and short biographies of all their musicians. He was the first cellist, which meant he was the very best, and he lived in Vienna. And he had a public Instagram account. I stare now at his latest snap and remember the way he smiled at me when I asked for the photo. The way he asked if I would take my veil off—and our eyes connected. A small request that was so potently sexy when I recall it now, like he had asked me to remove my clothes. Oh God. I was deep in the vat of promise now.
I have less than three months to complete Project Mara, to be ready when fate brings him to my door. Or at least, to the Star and Anchor at 7 p.m. I glance around my bedroom with its muted neutral bedsheets, mushroom-colored curtains, IKEA dresser, and mirror smeared with sticky fingerprints and make a mental note to add “bedroom deep clean and revamp” to my list of upgrades. And then I actually look in my bedroom mirror. Noah once told me I was a “bootleg Anne Hathaway.” It was said in jest, but it stuck with me.
I have big brown eyes that can make me look permanently startled, and long dark hair that has not seen a hairdresser in years, and my skin is so pale that it can look a little blue-toned in the winter. My eyebrows are beyond full—they are edging toward each other in the center, and I can do better than a smear of ChapStick on the makeup front.
Right now,thisisn’t alook. It is aplease don’t look.
At thirty-one. Lynn said I look older. Do I really? I have a deep line between my eyebrows from being in a constant state of mild vexation. I am wilting before I’ve ever bloomed.
I am going to change that. I have a plan. Project Mara, and I am hoping to tackle the first item on my list today: nails.
I open up my star sign for the day, an impulsive reaction to make sure I am on the right track.
Good news, Sagittarians! The universe is finally giving you the chance to expand again. Make it a priority right now to move and wander and dream. You were born to grow and to thrive. Get out there! The good stuff is coming.
I grin, holding my phone to my chest, a giddy rush through me, as I picture Joe’s eyes as he spots me across the pub. The ultimate movie meet-cute (even if we’ve technically already met). That spotting of the girl across the room who you just know is the one. I am going to beher.It’s you...?he will say, just like Tom Hanks says to Meg Ryan on top of the Empire State Building. I am sitting in impossibly feminine strappy sandals and a willowy tea dress reading something literary but not too boring, like Elena Ferrante or Sally Rooney, and drinking something sophisticated like an old-fashioned or whisky neat. I will glance up, doe-eyed but sassy, flicking my hair back because it’s fallen in front of my face—but in no way meaning to be sexy with it. But still. Sexy as.
“Do we know each other?” I’ll ask.
My phone beeps, interrupting the moment, and it’s my mother.
Have you been kidnapped??
I glance at my watch. It is time to leave for Charlie’s and I could call her when I was nearly there. That way there was aHi, Mum, I’m in the carto signify the short time I would have for her, followed by theI’ve just gotten to Charlie’s houseto give the call a clear ending. There is only so much damage that can be done in ten minutes. By me, or by her.
A minute later, I slink through the house, hoping to avoid another interaction with Ash, but he sees me.
“I’m so sorry about the noise,” he calls out, now fully clothed. “Could I make amends with a glass of mud-brown agricultural water?” He holds aloft his drink, stopping wearily to sniff it. “What an absolute carry-on for a single glass of tepid, earthy funk juice.”
“Sounds inviting, but I know where that carrot has been,” I say teasingly.
“This isn’t going to escalate,” he says quickly, looking extremely earnest. “You won’t come home to find protein powder in the fridge, or kettlebells in the hall. My mum was throwing the juicer out and—”
“It’s fine,” I say, stepping backward toward the door. I throw him a bone so I can escape. “Juicing in your undies is not a crime, Ash. Not yet.”
I shoot him a reassuring smile and pull open the door. A few steps up the road the sun hits my roll-neck sweater and I realize I have terribly misjudged the weather. I race up the cobblestoned streets to where I parked my car, stopping momentarily to notice the nearly empty car park at the church, which Ash mentioned. Could I really park there? Withmycar?
It’s crappy. It’s diesel. And it’s a fucking vintage hearse. A death cart. With my long dark hair and pale face, I know how I look: like Wednesday Addams on a road trip.
Perhaps it isn’t such a stretch to park at the church. I barrel up to the front door. I have this at least in common with Ash; I’m not much of a churchgoer myself.
I put my hand up to the cold wood at the front door.
Do you knock on a church door? Can anyone walk in? I think they can, and so I take a step in the door and peer inside. It does not look inviting. It looks dark and cold and a little scary. It doesn’t smell inviting either. I stare up at the notice board pinned in the little entranceway. Choirs. Sunday schools. Soup kitchens. My eyes run across the sign for guitar lessons. Oil painting. Available nannies. Piano. Yoga. Tai chi. So many people putting themselves out there.
The notices all look a little sad. Lonely, untouched phone numbers remain untorn off so many of the posters that I feel a pang of sorrow. All those carefully snipped little tabs with mobile numbers and names like Jean and Helga and Moe. I suddenly can’t bear the failed dreams permeating from the ink on those little sheets of paper.
And so I quickly tear off a bunch of numbers: guitar lessons, cross-stitch, choir, English tutorials, marching band, summer camp, and art classes. I keep going so that all the posters look like there has been keen interest.
I cannot get out of the church entrance hall quick enough. The parking request will have to wait. I get to my car and force open the door with a jiggle of the key and a precise yank upward. The car starts with a heavy diesel chug and rattles along the coastal road, the usual humiliating stares in my direction as my vintage hearse makes its way toward Margate.
When the satnav says I’m exactly ten minutes until Charlie’s house, I call my mum.
“Mara! I’ve been worried! Did you get my messages yesterday?” Mum begins, her tone high, her voice tight.
I rest my mobile in my lap.
“Yes, sorry. I’ve been busy,” I say. “Mum, I’m driving to Charlie’s, okay?”
