1EDEN
October 30
Everybody lies and everybody dies. Those are two of the only things you can be certain of in an uncertain world. The half dark is my happy place. That thin sliver of time that separates night from day, and day from night. Twilight. Sunset. Nightfall. If we give things a different name, it’s easier to pretend they aren’t the same. Like love and heartbreak. No joy lasts forever. No sorrow lasts forever either, and time is too precious to be wasted. So, even though it is getting late, and the sky is already dressing itself for dusk, I head out into the night and I run.
The cool evening air slaps my face and stings my skin and I see clouds of my own breath in front of me, but I like the cold almost as much as I like the dark. The smell of the sea floods my senses, and I can hear relentless waves crashing in the distance, getting louder as I run closer. The next sixty minutes are mine. For the next hour I am not just the wife, or a mother, or a woman trying to find her way in an increasingly lost world. For the next hour I am just me. I leave my worries behind, along with my phone, knowing that my problems will all still be waiting for me when I get home.
I jog down the hill toward the village, my long blond ponytail swinging from side to side as my trainers pound the pavement. I livefor these moments of feeling young and free again. Thirtysomething isn’t old, but the milestone of a big birthday motivated me to make a few changes. Running was just one of them. I’m so grateful for everything that I have—my husband, our home, my health, our freedom—but sometimes I can’t help wondering how things might have turned out if I had made different choices when I was younger. Life is filled with sliding doors and dead ends, and I’m sure everyone wonderswhat iffrom time to time. I run a little faster, as though I can escape the thoughts if I put enough distance between me and them. I’m good at running away from the world when real life gets too loud.
The picturesque fishing village that recently became our home is small and quaint and quiet. Hope Falls is bordered by the Cornish coast on one side and wild moors on the other. Stepping into the village feels like stepping back in time, and I like living somewhere with so much history. Modern places rarely have a good story to tell, a bit like modern people. A network of narrow lanes and cobbled streets tightly packed with tiny, terraced houses and quirky independent shops lead downhill to the seafront. Almost all the shops are closed, as are the cafés and restaurants at this time of year when the tourists retreat to the cities they came from. Former fishermen’s cottages painted in pretty pastel shades line the harbor, but most of them are now holiday homes so sit empty in winter. The ghost-town vibe might bother some people, but I like the peace and quiet. I find it calming.
I keep running, only slowing down when I reach the art gallery, but I still don’t stop.
Not even when I see my name on a poster in the window.
EDEN FOXLocal artist exhibition8PMtonight
My first exhibition still feels like a dream come true.
A dream that I’ve had for so long. Too long.
That’s what happens when you live someone else’s dreams instead of your own.
I got married young. For years, being a wife and a mother seemed to take up all my time, but I finally have some spare to do something for me again now that our daughter no longer lives with us. Once I got over the initial guilt of putting myself first for a change, it felt good to rehabilitate my ambition, and painting is my one true passion. Dreams deflate as we get older. Sometimes they disappear completely, real life sucks all the air out of them, but I’m trying to resuscitate mine. Tonight will be the first time I’ve shown my work, and it’s the first time my husband and I will meet our new neighbors. People who I hope might become friends, because I don’t have too many of those. Remembering why hurts, so I concentrate on my breathing, find my rhythm, and run away from my worries.
They soon catch up with me again.
My husband hasn’t been himself since our daughter moved out and we moved here. I can’t decide whether it’s just empty-nest syndrome or something more. Moving out of the city was my idea, but moving to Cornwall was his, despite his job in London. Harrison kept our old flat in the city and sometimes stays there instead of coming home to me. I don’t mind; his work is important. I do mind that he secretly sees our daughter without me and thinks I don’t know, but the two of them always had a closer bond. Even though I’m the one who gave up their life to care for her and raise her because he was too busy.
It’s almost completely dark when I reach the scenic harbor where I am greeted by panoramic views of the ocean. The tall, black granite harbor walls have protected this village for over two hundred years, and will no doubt still be standing long after I am gone. Sturdy. Strong. Safe. These walls are all the things I am not but wish to be,and I touch the stone for good luck even though I know there’s no such thing. Lines of bobbing fishing boats decorate the waterfront, their different colors now shaded by shadows, and the night air is still and cool and quiet. By the time I turn onto the coast path, the last of the light has been swallowed by the horizon and the only thing lighting the sea now is the reflection of a full moon: a shimmering silver path dancing on blackened waves. There is an infinite black blanket of sky covered in star-shaped sequins, a whole universe of endless possibility and wonder, and it reminds me how small and insignificant we and our sometimes seemingly insurmountable problems are.
I am painfully shy. The thought of meeting so many strangers at the gallery tonight, knowing that they’ll all be silently judgingme, not just my work, fills me with fear. Some people love a good party; personally, I prefer a good book. I spent years alone at home taking care of our daughter. Things might have been different if she wasnormal, but she needed me twenty-four seven, and as a result I am out of practice when it comes to social situations. I rarely leave the house at all these days, except to run. Harrison is the opposite. He has always known how to charm strangers and make them fall in love with him. Just like he did with me. I have never been a people person. I have spent a lifetime feeling as though I don’t fit and don’t belong, but I hope things might be different now that we have moved here.
A brand-new start for a brand-new me.
I run with the sea-salt wind in my face and the soothing sound of the ocean in my ears and propel myself along the steepest part of the coast path to the top of the hill, where there is a waterfall crashing and cascading down the cliff. Harrison and I shared a romantic picnic here recently to watch the sunset. He called itour special place, but the scenic spot that gave Hope Falls its name is also the place where many people give up hope. The carefully positioned suicide hotline poster always dampens my mood. I guess sometimes hope fails. I continue on my circular route for a mile or so, then turnoff the coast path, heading farther inland and onto the moor. I run to get away from it all but always end up back where I started. The irony is not lost on me.
Our house is just outside the village, all on its own at the top of a steep hill, literally built into the cliffs overlooking Hope Falls. It was called Spyglass when we bought it and the name suits the quirky building with its huge windows that look like eyes. The house has white, wonky, wavelike walls, and knowing it is our forever home makes me so happy. It’s an emotion I haven’t worn for a while and I’m relieved it still fits. Hopefully the vintage black velvet dress I have chosen to wear later will still fit too.
Spyglass was built in the sixteenth century; it was previously owned by a woman who had lived there for almost one hundred years. It looked more like a museum than a home when we first stepped inside, couldn’t have been more different from our modern flat in London, and I could tell Harrison wasn’t sure. The potential cost almost blinded him from the potential, but when I fall in love with something I have to have it. Renovating is more my bag than his—my husband doesn’t have the patience—but sometimes even the simplest of makeovers can transform a place—or a person—making them almost unrecognizable.
When I reach the front gate I see that Harrison’s midlife-crisis car is in the driveway. I’m so happy that he is home from London on time for the exhibition that I run down the garden path, excited to see him. We’ve had more than our fair share of hard times and heartbreak over the years, but all of that is behind us now. Hope Falls is a fresh start for our marriage, not just for me, and I’m hoping he’ll be proud of me tonight. Maybe look at me the way he used to, when we were still just us. Who I used to be is always doing battle with who I want to be.
The only thing I take with me when I run is my key to the front door.
When I go to slot it in the lock it doesn’t seem to fit, so I try again.
It still won’t go in and I don’t understand.
It’s as though it’s the wrong key, or the wrong house, which isn’t possible. This is the only property on this quiet country lane overlooking the village.
I stare at the key, then at the door. The key is on a key chain Harrison gave me the day we got the house. We shared a bottle of champagne in our special place by the waterfall, watching the sun set and the moon rise, and he handed me a beautiful gift box. Inside was the key to the house attached to a silver key chain with my name—Eden—surrounded by stars on the front, and the wordsLove you to the moon and backon the other side.
I try to open the door again and when the key still doesn’t work, I tap the fox-shaped knocker three times. There must be some simple explanation. Harri will probably take the key from my hand and slot it straight in the lock and make me feel like a fool. The thought makes me smile again, but the smile is soon replaced with a frown.
My husband doesn’t open the door.
A woman does.
