‘Lost your way and turned up here,’ he says. ‘With musical theatre blaring in your car. You said you’re writing a show?’
I might as well put everything out on the table. ‘That’s not going well, either …’
He laughs. ‘What a pair! Why do we torture ourselves? Maybe we should get reliable jobs, where we don’t—’
‘No,’ I interrupt, quite forcefully. ‘I’ve done that. And as scary as all of this is, not trying this when you want to so badly is even harder.’
We choose this. Nobody is standing over us, gun to head, forcing us to do this work while relentless questions swirl in an endless crisis of confidence:Is this any good? Will anyone like it? Will their opinions crush it? Crush me? Am I making anyone care?
‘I’m forty,’ I go on. ‘The age my professor was when it happened. But so far behind.’
He shrugs. ‘Pfft! Behind whom? Haven’t you seen all those inspirational stories about late bloomers? What’s your musical about?’
I’ve gone clammy, the way I always do when people ask. Because the answer is invariably much bigger than the simple question they think they’ve raised.
It’s about being widowed.Just say it.But as soon as I even think about that, a montage of memories pushes forward of all the times I’ve tried to break this news gently in the past. People physically reeling, as if assaulted by my situation. The awkward silences. All the platitudes when, desperate to ease the horrendous pressure hanging between us, they say the least helpful things of all.
At least he didn’t suffer … At least it was quick, Audrey. That must be comforting?
Not having a chance to say goodbye? The ending of it all, just instantly.Where’s the comfort in that?
Beau is watching me closely, waiting patiently for my brain to step through all of this and make my announcement.
‘The working title isWidowed: The Musical.’
I stare him down, daring him to panic. Expecting him to pull out his wallet, place some cash on the table, and make an excuse to get away from this. Away from me and all my broken pieces.
You have to be strong to deal with the story of my life. Unflappable, once we face the inevitableHow did it happen?And the even worseHow did you cope?When I share those answers, it’s like I’m stripping off my clothes, each awful piece of information exposing yet another layer, until there’s nothing left but bare skin and open wounds and the gnawing guilt that I’ll never shake, because what sort of person would I be if I forgave myself?
People can’t be near the naked truth. What if the ice I’m standing on cracks, and they fall through, too? So I run the safer mantra:I’m fine. It’s fine. We’re all fine.
But it turns out I don’t have to say any of that now, because Beau simply looks at me, calmly, still leaning forward, striking eyes compassionate and deeply engaged. There’s no sign of flight. He isn’t trying to reassemble me or distract me. He doesn’t seem to knowwe might fall.
He simply says, ‘I’m sorry, Hepburn,’ in a tone that is warm and real and strong, accompanied by body language that suggests he is not going anywhere. ‘I really am. That’s fucked.’
41
FRASER
In the four hours that it’s taken Rachael to pack her bags and drive here, I’ve thought of little else but the way she looked on that video call and the fact that she has news.
She was withdrawn with the Bookies the other night, and it’s not like her to bolt to the beach on a whim. If she must experience the ocean, it’s from the balcony of a five-star hotel. Rachael is pro-planning. She is anti-sand.
‘Where’s Parks?’ she asks, fidgeting with an uncharacteristically messy blonde bun, her car parked beside our tent in the camping ground. She’s in blue jeans, a white Tshirt and sneakers, which, on anyone else, would look like a normal weekend outfit, thrown on before running out the door. Rachael is not the run-out-the-door type. She’s not even wearing earrings. The whole situation is an unsettling glitch in the matrix.
I nod towards the playground, where Parker has struck up a conversation with another kid. They’ve been in each other’s pockets since breakfast, going back and forth on the swings, liberated from the shackles of online connection and back in the real world. With the morning’s momentous developments, I’m glad to see the childish exuberance intact.
‘Did you really come all this way just to see her?’ I ask, hands in my pockets, body on edge.
She lifts up her sunglasses. Even then, I can’t read her. ‘I remember the day I got my first period. I would not have wanted it to happen in a tent.’
‘You never want anything to happen in a tent,’ I argue. ‘But thank you.’
‘The long drive was probably good for me, too, Frase. I needed to clear my head.’
Clear it of what?
‘There’s a cafe up the road?’ Tea brewed over the campfire isn’t going to cut it. She’ll need a latte.
