He mumbles, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.
‘Oliver – it’s four in the morning.’
‘My life is crumbling, Nelly,’ he moans. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ His brow is deeply furrowed, and he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I know he’s struggling, but I am too. ‘Oliver, I spent today with my poor aunt, who has a daily battle with the effects of chemo and every evening must inject herself.’
He nods. ‘That’s tough. I’m sorry.’
‘I have had no sleep due to my leaking ceiling and your lost keys. In a few hours, I must go to work. Please go to bed before I say something I will regret.’
‘I didn’t sleep with…’
‘I don’t care, Oliver. GO TO BED!’ I roar so loud he scurries away into his bedroom and closes the door.
22
Oliver is not up when I leave for work which is probably for the best. Before leaving I slide a note under Gary’s door, which I wrote in the early hours after my dripping ceiling had awoken me. It is written in capitals, and at one point, I was so angry with him that I pressed so hard against the paper that a hole formed. There’s no greeting, and I haven’t even included his name. It reads:
MY CEILING IS LEAKING AGAIN. FIX IT. NOT WITH PAPER.
The bookshop is quiet, which is a relief as I am tired. Miranda is having a day at a spa which is another blessing.
The shop doorbell jangles and I look up to see Henry, my old friend from my childhood swimming club. He smiles and comes to the counter. ‘Hello, I’m back here with work for a few weeks. I have decided that I will keep pestering you for a coffee until you agree.’
I feel a prickle of anxiety and grab a pencil to fiddle with. ‘Maybe next week?’
His smile gets wider. ‘Great, I will come in again soon. Oh, do you have my mum’s book?’
Reaching down I grab Margo Lane’s book and hand it to him. ‘How is your mum?’
He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Her best mate passed away a year ago and she’s been struggling. I saw people on social media talking about this book about the healing power of water. Mum loved swimming when she was younger.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Do you still swim, Nelly?’
The thought of swimming makes Mum’s face flash up inside my mind. My chest aches as I remember Mum cheering for me at swimming competitions and watching her glide through the water when we went swimming together. I used to wonder whether she was a secret mermaid. My shoulders and neck stiffen. ‘No, I haven’t been in the water for years.’
I watch as he opens Margo’s book and turns to a page. My eyes roam over the words in bold text at the top.
Every crash of a wave is an embrace.
The sea carried her alone, and she realised she had never felt safer in the water.
The sea greeted her like an old friend.
Henry snaps the book shut. ‘I’ll come in again next week, reminding you about a coffee. Remember how annoying I was when we were at the swimming club – well, I am still that little kid.’ He laughs before taking out his phone. ‘What’s the damage for the book?’
He pays and says he will be back soon. As he leaves, our fingers touch. When the bright light clears, I can see him on the hard shoulder of a motorway. He’s leaning against a car and watching a figure, who has their back to him. They have a cap on; they’re wrapped in a red tartan travel blanket and looking ahead up the motorway lane and into the distance. That’s a weird ending for his love story. Maybe they have broken down, and the capped figure will fall in love with whoever is coming to rescue them?
For the rest of the day, I think about Mum and the words from Margo’s book. The memory of our conversation in the car comes back to me, and I remember how insistent she was that I keep swimming. It unlocks another memory: how the kids at primary school teased me for wearing gloves, and how this made me look forward to the weekly swimming lessons. Being in the water always gave me a sense of liberation. I didn’t have to worry about touching anyone or other children laughing at me. The ones who made my life a misery would always be in the baby pool with floats, whereas I would be free in the adult pool.
By the time I lock up the shop, I am questioning why I have turned my back on swimming. Before I leave, I do something I have never done before – I find a second copy of Margo Lane’s book in the non-fiction section and slip it into my bag.
I arrive home, climb the stairs and hear voices from my flat. Gary waves at me from the doorway. ‘Bad news, Penelope.’
‘My name is Nelly – what bad news?’
