She stares up at me, both of us frozen in place, leaning towards each other. My fingers are circling her wrist, and the touch of her skin beneath them is soft, warm. Perfect. Enough to make my heart thud, and for me to want more.
She pulls away, eyes huge, and flees to the other side of the room. Jesus. This rollercoaster is crazy. I start to apologise, but we’re interrupted by the return of Hurricane Beth flying back into the room. Her eyes take in the scene, but she is clearly wrapped up in her own news.
‘Mum – you’ll never guess what?’
Jane rallies. ‘No clue – Take That have got back together?’
‘No! Better!’
‘Um… we’ve won the lottery? Jacob Elordi sent you a love letter? Santa is real?’
‘No!’ Beth says, jumping up and down on the spot, she’s so excited. ‘Better than all of those – I’m going to New York!’
FOURTEEN
JANE
Beth has gone, and I am bereft for all kinds of reasons.
Once she spoke to her father, things moved quickly – but not so quickly that I didn’t make sure to get him alone on a video call first. I’m still furious that he let her down, and refuse to play fast and loose with my precious girl’s emotions. She is not his toy to be played with when he feels like, and ignored when it does not suit him. Since my showdown with my boss, John Marshall, I’ve noticed I am feeling more assertive towards domineering men – or maybe I’m just trying to find some control in a life that feels severely lacking in it. Either way, Peter was given a very severe grilling before I agreed to let Beth visit.
Annoyingly, he had been completely reasonable about that. He accepted all blame for what had happened, without even a hint of an attempt to shift responsibility, which is his usual MO. He’d apologised thoroughly and wholeheartedly, explaining that Valerie had been suffering from ‘baby blues’, and the trip to Florida was to stay with her family for some support. I didn’t let go that easily, pointing out how insensitive it was to post pictures on social media, and reminding him that ‘baby blues’ might sound harmless but could be post-natal depression.
Again, he was irritatingly accepting of everything I said, and even brought Valerie onto the call to talk to me. We’ve never met, but we have spoken a few times, and she always strikes me as being way too good for him. But that’s probably my bias speaking. She’d confessed that having a baby was much harder than she’d ever imagined, but assured me she was coping, that they both very much wanted Beth to come and meet her little brother.
Part of me had wanted to be stubborn, to refuse to let her go – to keep her close and protect her. And maybe, just maybe, part of me wanted to refuse for more selfish reasons. If Beth leaves, then my main motivation for staying in Bonnie Bay leaves with her. I knew I would have no excuse not to simply drive back down south, go into the office, and carry on with my life. Such as it is.
Now, I have seen her off at Aberdeen Airport, after her tearful farewell with Laurel – with promises of staying in touch, and being BFFs forever. Their friendship has been lovely to see, genuine and kind – and I’ve noticed it’s definitely shunted Lily and her more toxic approach to being gal pals to one side.
Beth had given me a big hug, told me she’d be fine, and disappeared off to London, where she will transfer to a connecting flight. It feels huge, too much of an adventure for my baby. Except she is almost seventeen, and not a baby at all. She will be fine, I tell myself, as I cry all the way back to the village. She will be fine, but I’m not so sure about me. I will miss her desperately, and I’m now facing up to the fact that I will also be leaving Bonnie Bay. I can’t stay at Rory’s alone, and besides, I was only here for Beth.
Wasn’t I?
Tomorrow, I will finish my packing, say goodbye to my newfound friends, and make the bleak and lonely drive to Watford. As I carefully navigate the winding roads of Rory’smountain kingdom, I feel gloomier by the second at that prospect. Being here, even for such a short time, feels like it’s changed me.
I will miss the bookshop, and all its quirky customers. I will miss Moira, and Kate, and cuddle time with baby Alice. I will miss the sense of peace and wonder that Moira’s card promised me, and that to some extent I found.
Mainly, I will misshim. Despite the tension, despite the shock of it all, being around him again has felt strangely right. We have found each other here, in Bonnie Bay, reuniting decades after we planned to run away together. Older, possibly wiser. But still us, still the same even though we look so different. When I’m around him, part of me still feels like that young girl with all her hopes and dreams intact, her heart whole. Part of me still looks at him, and sees the love of her life, when in reality he is a stranger.
And that, I remind myself as I drive along the path to the house, is exactly why I have to leave.
Rory has his own life here, I have my own in London. He is perfectly content in his mountain kingdom, and who can blame him? He is part of this delightfully eccentric community that suits him so well. His work is obviously something he loves. And I know, from gossipy chats with Rosie at the café, that he does not go short of female companionship. There is an infrequent but long-term visitor called Catrina, and trips to meet ‘special friends’. Rosie had said all of this with a scandalous and yet approving arch to her eyebrow, adding without any hint of meaning it that she wouldn’t say no to a ‘ride on the Rory train’ herself.
He has everything he needs here, and I’m sure I’ve probably cramped his style – the frumpy, washed-out version of his Juliet. Nobody would name a boat after me these days, that’s for sure.As for the work… I can carry on doing that long distance. I don’t want to abandon Moira, but I also can’t stay.
I park up and get out of the car. One of his motorbikes is outside the house, and I imagine he’s been for a cruise on what is yet again a gorgeous day. The sun is fading now, and the sea is painted all the shades of orange that orange has to offer. It’s the most beautiful sight that’s ever filled my eyes. I wipe away fresh tears, unable to even imagine how rubbish it’s going to feel back in my real life.
I go inside, and hear the sound of the TV coming from the living room. I smile when I realise that he’s watchingThe Chase, one of my favourites. The contestant presumably gets the answer wrong, and Rory exclaims: ‘For feck’s sake, man! It was obviously theMona Lisa!’
He reminds me of myself, bickering with the TV on the nights Beth is out or locked in her room. What would happen if I went in there, and sat with him? Would we have a drink, have a laugh, spend the night snuggled up on the sofa? The thought of that is almost as tempting as the other things. The things I try so hard not to think about.
I go up the stairs as quietly as I can. He may or may not have noticed me coming back, depending on how involved he was with screaming at the telly. I welcome the win, and head into Beth’s room. Predictably enough, she’s left it a mess. I tidy up the covers, and gather random scrunchies and socks from their resting places on the floor. I pick up her pink pyjama top, and sneakily hold it to my face, inhaling her scent. Jo Malone Wild Bluebell and Beth. It’s enough to start me crying again.
I give myself a couple of minutes, then shake it off and move into my own room. I put some music on my phone. I should go for something upbeat and perky, maybe a classic from the Spice Girls oeuvre, but instead my fingers choose that bloodyRomeo +Julietsoundtrack again instead. ‘#1 Crush’ by Garbage, with its moody lyrics and intense rhythms.
I open my case, and start to randomly throw things inside it. I’ve been here for just over a week, but have already started to think of it as home. Already accumulated a surprising amount of stuff – paperwork to do with the grant application, a scented candle gifted to me by Ginny, who runs the village grocery, a book calledDream Animalsby Emily Winfield Martin, which is for children but has the most beautiful illustrations. Moira gave it to me, along with a signed copy ofTrainspottingby Irvine Welsh, which I’ve seen but shamefully never read.
I pile it all into the case, along with my clothes, even the dirty ones. I can sort it all out when I get home.
