I am not one thing
But many little pieces
She felt the same way I did.
One of these I gave to you
Now part of it has died
Who is she talking about? Who did she give her heart to?
Did she write this poem while she was still at school? Is it about Isak?
Or Charlie?
I’m not sure I should show him – what if it hits him hard like the driftwood heart did? That was such an awful day, but, then, he did seem to feel better afterwards.
And this poem is relevant to my work. This is Nicki, writing from the heart,abouther heart. I’d like to know when she wrote it. Charlie did say I could ask him anything. I’m hardly going to ring his mother about it.
April is still in the midst of her afternoon nap when I come out of my office, and I think twice about disturbing Charlie while he’s working. Eventually, I go downstairs to make a cup of tea and take the page with me, just in case he ventures indoors.
He does.
‘Hey,’ he says, wiping the sweat from his brow as he comes through the French doors. I notice he’s not wearing Nicki’s headband today. ‘God, it’s hot.’
‘Do you want a cuppa?’ I ask, turning on the radio and filling the kettle.
‘No, I need something cooler.’ He gets a glass out of the cupboard and opens the fridge, his eyes landing on the piece of paper on the worktop. ‘What’s this?’ he asks as I tense.
‘It fell out of one of Nicki’s books. Have you seen it before?’
I watch with trepidation as his eyes dart back and forth, reading down the lines of verse on the page.
‘No,’ he murmurs eventually, turning it over.
‘There’s no date,’ I tell him, relieved that he’s not freaking out.
‘It looks like her handwriting from when she was at school,’ he comments. ‘It’s pretty melodramatic, which also sounds like Nicki back then.’
‘Do you think it’s about you?’ I ask.
His lips turn down at the corners. ‘I don’t think so. This has Isak written all over it.’
He sounds on edge. I go and stand beside him, leaning against the counter as he reads the words again.
‘I guess I’m one of the “others”,’ he says drily. ‘Along with Samuel.’
‘Urgh, Samuel,’ I moan. ‘He sounded like a right little prick.’
Charlie flashes me a grin and some of his tension dissipates. ‘He was. Twat.’
I nod at the poem. ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Not great,’ he admits, sobering. ‘It was a long time ago, but it brings it back a bit, to be honest.’
He pushes off from the worktop and places the sheet of paper face down on the counter, filling his glass with apple juice.
‘Sara wants me to publish my Beau account,’ I reveal, and then start with surprise because I thought I’d decided to keep that information to myself. For as long as I could, anyway.
