A cloud of gloom passes over me. What does she want to tell me? ‘I can’t wait, Aunt Polly, tell me now.’
She lets out a sigh. ‘Nelly, I wanted to ask whether you would come with me to have my chemo. They want to start it on Wednesday, and I know that’s your day off from the bookshop. I was worried it would be a lot of?—’
I interrupt her. ‘You don’t have to ask. I’ll be there.’
Aunt Polly gave up her time, energy, sleep, and possibly her sanity for me. The least I can do is be there for her when she’s unwell and needs to have treatment.
‘The course is weekly. It would be every Wednesday. But… what about the cost of the train fares?’
‘I’ll sort it, Aunt Polly,’ I croak. ‘You don’t have to worry; I’ll be by your side.’
My aunt’s sobs come in bursts. Hearing her cry and knowing I am not there to comfort her makes my heart break. ‘I’m sorry, Nelly.’ She sniffs. ‘I’m just scared.’
‘It’s okay to be scared,’ I say as tears roll down my cheeks. ‘We’re going to get through this together. I am going to be holding your hand, bringing you book gifts, and I might even treat you to one of our new bookmarks.’
‘Oh, Nelly, you don’t have to go to any trouble, but I wouldn’t say no to one of those.’ She blows her nose, which makes me hold the receiver away and smile. My aunt has always favoured an extra-loud nose blow. ‘Let’s talk on Sunday,’ she says, her voice sounding a little stronger. ‘Would you like to join me at the café when you arrive? My treat.’
‘Only if we can eat far too much cake.’
I can hear a weak laugh. ‘See you on Sunday.’ She hangs up, and I wipe my watery eyes.
Gary’s envelope is waiting for me when I get home. It sits where I left it on the hall table, leaning against Mum’s vase. I should have shoved it in a drawer or, even better, set it on fire. Snatching the envelope, I tear it into pieces. After tossing the remains in the bin and apologising to Mum’s vase for leaning Gary’s letter against it, I wander into my bedroom. A note on my bed greets me. It reads,Fixed it. Gary claims he has repaired the hole in the ceiling. This is surprising. I glance up at the ceiling and groan. The stain has been covered with sheets of white paper stapled in place. He hasn’t solved the problem at all.
Aunt Polly’s news weighs heavily on my shoulders. I sit on the bed and let my tears fall into my lap. She means the world to me. Over the years, when my curse has shown me nothing but heartbreak and darkened my world, my aunt has answered it with cake at her favourite café, long talks about books, and slow walks along the beach. These small, steady things have given me the light to find my way again.
Sensing that I need some emotional support, Lenny weaves his body through my legs while emitting a loud purr.
‘Where would I be without you, Lenny?’ I whisper, giving his chin a good stroke. ‘You are Mummy’s best boy.’
We sit in our favourite spot in the living room. I’ve placed my chair by the small sash window, creating an ideal spot for unwinding after a bad day and perfect for people-watching. Beside my chair is a stack of my favourite go-to reads for when my days feel heavy and I turn to reading about other lonely but resilient souls. On top isJane Eyre, and beneath it isAnne of Green Gables.
Below the window lies a cobbled street lined with cafés, restaurants, and shops. The evenings stay light for hours because it’s May. My chair used to belong to my mother. It’s a classic wingback in a rich ruby colour. I am possessive over it, and even when Eva lived with me, I never let her sit in it. This is my happy place. It’s where I sit night after night watching the world beneath my window while listening to my vinyl records (mainly Coldplay), enjoying music, safe in the knowledge that there’s no risk of anyone touching me.
Tonight, people-watching, Chris Martin’s voice and Coldplay’s latest album do little to ease my stress. The worries about Aunt Polly and my financial situation are gnawing at me. I decide to make myself a comforting plate of beans on toast.
After my tea, I do some research on what Aunt Polly is about to endure with her treatment. I read several articles and watch a few YouTube video diaries from breast cancer patients. They all mention that the fatigue due to the chemo is debilitating. I need to change my original plan to visit her once a week. I am Aunt Polly’s only family, and she’s going to need support. I’ll accompany her to chemotherapy on a Wednesday, but I’ll also see her on Sundays, which is my other day off. I can do her laundry, clean the bungalow, and run errands. I checked the train prices earlier, and travelling twice a week will be costly. With my rent increase, my weekly budget is becoming alarmingly tight.
Cynthia’s face comes to mind. I know she made me cross with her business offer, but maybe I should now consider telling people how their love stories will end for money? I feel the same prickle of irritation that I did when I was sitting in her magical garage. Witnessing disastrous endings to relationships, marriages, affairs, and situationships is tough enough, but taking people’s money makes me feel uncomfortable.
But I also don’t want a flatmate, especially one who writes about first kisses, soulmates, and meet-cutes in cake shops.
However, I need to do something. I don’t want Aunt Polly to undergo chemotherapy on her own.
An idea unfolds in my mind. I could advertise for a flatmate. There must be better flatmates than Oliver James out there.
7
The cries of seagulls and a cloudless blue sky greet me as I step off the train. Journeys on packed trains can be challenging and emotionally draining, especially in the warmer months. And today, this train was packed with beach day-trippers and stopped at every little station. Despite pressing myself against the window and trying to avoid physical contact with my fellow passengers, they ignored all the signs I was giving. My curse was busy showing me an endless reel of melancholic visions about love. The little packet of boiled sweets I bought at the station was a lifesaver as they helped me feel better when the world went quiet.
The train reached the station before my aunt’s stop, and I didn’t think my journey could get any worse. ‘Is that seat taken?’ I looked up to see a young lad, clutching a skateboard. He had blond surfer hair, baggy faded jeans and a boyish smile. A door opened inside my mind, and my memories of Luke rushed out. I couldn’t get the words ‘yes, it is taken’ out of my mouth fast enough.
By the time I reached Tide-Leigh, a lively seaside town on England’s southwest coast, my head was aching with sadness and salt air. The road to Aunt Polly’s house was chaos; tourists hurrying towards the beach, screaming children, inflatable rings and cars blaring loud music. As I weaved through it, I thought of the flat share advert I had posted last night. My criteria are simple:
No scary doll collection.
Must like cats.
Must agree to strict no-physical contact rules.
