I let out a heavy sigh. ‘No thanks, I prefer total silence.’
His phone bleeped. As he glanced at the message, I couldn’t stop words flying off the tip of my tongue. ‘Is that Zoe or Carrie messaging you?’
I have never seen someone change seats so fast in all my life.
I’m now sitting on Aunt Polly’s sofa, flicking through her photo album. It’s mid-afternoon and my aunt is upstairs having a nap. I noticed the album under the coffee table while vacuuming. Aunt Polly and I only looked at the photos of Luke and me, but I’m curious about the rest.
This morning, she was cheerful despite telling me her hair was starting to fall out. As I drove her to the hospital, she talked about her exhaustion and daily self-injections to boost her white blood cells, putting my worries into perspective: an annoying curse, a chaotic flatmate, a cat trying to escape, and a negative view on love. I’m not facing cancer or worrying about my blood count. We shared an emotional hug in the car park, and I said her bravery and positivity inspired me. She said if I’d seen her the first time she had to inject herself, I’d see her bravery differently; she cried like a small child.
Once we got home, I cleaned her bungalow and sorted through her pile of ironing while she settled on the sofa with her crossword book, her novels, and the TV remote.
After flipping through pages of teen photos, I find one of Aunt Polly and Hilary outside a lively bar abroad. The sky is clear, and everything looks bright – perhaps Ibiza. Seeing them smile together in tiny denim shorts, low-cut vests, flip-flops and Hilary’s pink cowboy hat makes me emotional. I notice Aunt Polly’s smile looks wider with Hilary. Turning more pages, I see a photo of them in a nightclub, holding large cocktails, with Hilary talking to a bare-chested man in a policeman’s hat, probably after giving relationship advice to a male stripper with issues, which Aunt Polly joked probably saved his relationship.
I think about Hilary, her advice, which always helped my aunt and me navigate difficult times, and how she was there for us, no matter what was going on in her own life.
‘Hilary,’ I murmur, ‘I wish you were here.’
The rest of the photo album celebrates Aunt Polly and Hilary’s friendship. On the final page, they are preparing for a road trip along the south coast. Aunt Polly had recently moved to Tide-Leigh. I’d found a flat to rent and had decided not to go live by the coast. She and Hilary started their great adventure from her bungalow. It was their last holiday together. After this, Hilary moved away to be nearer her ex-husband, Mike. She and Aunt Polly stopped speaking, and Hilary became a distant memory.
In the photo, Aunt Polly is hanging out of the passenger window, wearing a straw hat and clutching a bag full of wine bottles and packets of crisps. Hilary stands beside her, wearing giant pink sunglasses and clutching a bodyboard. I remember waving them off and shaking my head in embarrassment as Hilary turned up Bon Jovi on her car radio.
As I go to close the album, I notice there is something tucked behind the photo of them about to embark on their road trip. Upon closer inspection, I can see that it’s an envelope inside the plastic wallet. I pull it out and see that it’s addressed to Aunt Polly. My eyes dart to the Exeter postmark.
My heart starts to thud. I have always been curious about what happened between them. Perhaps the answer is in this letter? I know that Hilary cared a lot about my aunt, and she would want to know about the breast cancer.
An uncomfortable feeling passes over me. This letter is personal to Aunt Polly. The reason why their friendship ended is none of my business, and that’s how it should remain.
I hear shuffling around upstairs. In a panic, I slide the envelope back behind the photo, close the album and shove it under the coffee table.
Later, I exit the station, and spots of rain greet me. We haven’t had rain since the night my bedroom started leaking. Looking up at the sinister grey clouds above, I recall the sheets of paper Gary fixed to my ceiling. Let’s hope the rain isn’t torrential.
As I climb up the stairs to my apartment, I hear voices. One belongs to Oliver, while the other is a familiar female voice. Oliver is standing in the doorway of my flat, talking to Eva. They both look up as I approach.
‘Ah, Nelly, perfect timing,’ says Oliver. ‘Your friend is here to see you.’ He smiles at both of us before disappearing inside the flat.
Eva looks at me. ‘Hello again.’
‘What are you doing here, Eva?’
She gestures into the flat. ‘You’re living with Oliver James – the romance author?’
I nod. ‘He’s my new flatmate.’
Her eyes widen, and her mouth opens in shock. ‘When he opened the door, I nearly fainted.’
‘He won’t be here long,’ I say with a casual shrug. ‘It’s temporary while his flat in London sells.’
‘Why is he here?’
‘He’s no longer a fan of London life.’
She gives me an odd look; the same one we share when she knows something about one of my book customers that I don’t. She always had a good ear for town gossip.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
She pushes her blonde hair behind her ears. ‘You know that Oliver James is his pen name – don’t you?’
‘Errrr. Is it?’
