‘Sorry, Mum. I didn’t mean to be a cow. I just… well, you’ve been so much happier since you landed in Bonnie Bay. Lightersomehow. You’ve been drawing again, and smiling more, and… look, have you ever thought about, you know, staying there?’
‘Have you been speaking to Kate behind my back?’
‘Um, no, that would be weird. I’m just saying. I like it there too. So if you did decide to stay, I’d be up for it. Maybe you could marry Rory. He could build you a wedding arch from old wheelbarrows and car bumpers.’
Marry Rory? What the heck is this? Is she just fishing? Joking, deliberately baiting me? Does she know?
‘Don’t look so shocked!’ she adds. ‘I’m just winding you up! Though I did think there was a bit of a spark there between you two, disgusting as that sounds. I hope you didn’t start bonking like bunnies the minute my back was turned!’
I feel a sudden blush fire up across my cheeks, and I don’t have a clue what to say. This is not a conversation I was expecting, a lie I was prepared to tell. And I have to lie, don’t I, at least for now? I can hardly dump the truth on her while she’s thousands of miles away. Luckily, I’m saved from that particular moral dilemma by the fact that she loses interest – her dad calls her from off-screen. I am saved by the yell. She holds the phone away from her face while she has a conversation, then comes back and tells me she has to go. That they’re taking a bike ride around Central Park. That sounds way more interesting than talking to me, and we hastily say our goodbyes.
I shake my head and walk through the building, switching off the lights and tidying away stray copies of books and magazines. I blow out the candles, close the curtains, and head into the children’s room. I look again at the murals, at the bright blues and turquoises of the sea wall, the lush green fields of the farmlands. Rory really has done an amazing job.
Finally, I turn to my favourite – the forests. He’s done something clever with the perspective, making it look as though you could actually walk into those woods, head deep into thatworld of majestic Scottish pine and silver birch. It’s so real I can almost feel the crunch of the leaves beneath my feet, the scent of the damp earth and the fresh night air.
As I stand and stare, I notice that the branches of one of the trees seem to be calling out for an owl or two, that the hollow of a huge trunk would be the perfect place for a badger to lurk. That a slinky fox could so easily be winding its way through the foliage. I’m still not totally sure what a capercaillie looks like, but I’m sure there’s a place for one here…
Almost without thinking about it, I head to the cupboard where Rory keeps his supplies. It’s locked, in case little hands start to explore, but the key is on the chain. I open it, inhale the intoxicating aroma of paints and cleaners. It makes me smile, familiar and yet also exciting. The bookshop contains a world of words, this cupboard contains a world of potential images.
Can I do this? Should I? What if I mess up? What if I ruin all of Rory’s beautiful work? I have been drawing a lot since I’ve been here, and with his encouragement, I’ve also dabbled a bit in painting. The two of us, in his little studio – it’s tucked away in one of the outbuildings, blissfully positioned with a view down to the bay, bathed in sunlight by day and swathed in stars at night.
I’ve reacquainted myself with brushes, with mixing, with basic techniques. Not quite like riding a bike, but there’s definitely still some muscle memory there. My mind and my fingers seemed to connect, and I hadn’t forgotten everything. I still had an urge to create, and an instinct for how to do it. Maybe, I think, as I get out the paints and equipment, that’s why I’m not quite as excited to be Chief Global Project Manager – open brackets International close brackets – as I should be. It is, exactly as Beth said, still going to be boring. Is it what I want? And if I don’t want it, what other options do I have?
I start tentatively on the outline of an owl on the branch, and it soon develops into a whole owl family – mum, dad, two babies.I’m pretty sure that’s not necessarily a realistic interpretation of animal life, but this is a mural for children. It reminds me of a book Beth used to love as a kid, calledOwl Babies, full of gorgeous pictures and a simple but moving story.
I make my owls all different colours, one of them tawny in shades of gold and brown, another snowy-white with amber eyes, the babies a mix. Again, probably not correct – but lovely, I think, standing back to admire them.
Huh. They actually look good. Maybe I’m sneakily an artistic genius after all…
The other animals turn out to be a little more challenging, and I’m not at all convinced I’ve got the proportions quite right on the badger. The fox is less real than I’d have liked, looking more like a ghost fox wisping its way between the trees, but its bushy tail is vibrant, its eyes shining. I wonder about adding textures at some point – layered paints, even fabrics, so that visiting children can touch as well as look? It’s an idea. I’ll have to talk to Rory about it.
I’m so wrapped up in what I’m doing that I barely notice the passing of time. Maybe this is another thing I’d forgotten – how easy it is to lose yourself in painting. I yawn, noticing the colourful smears on my hands, knowing they’re probably matched by smears on my face too. I smile, realising I don’t care. I’ve had such a wonderful time, and I think it looks good. I think it’s okay. I bite down a nervous gulp as I stand back and inspect my handiwork, wondering what Rory might think. The more I stare, the more I start to lose all objectivity, my new-found confidence crumbling.
I grab up my phone and snap some pics. I need a second opinion, but I’m not sure who to ask. Rory is too scary. Beth is cycling through Central Park. Kate is probably asleep. Moira… I send them to Moira.
Within seconds she replies, and I have an image of her lying there in her hospital bed, cut off from all she holds precious. I hate the thought of her being alone late at night, worrying, maybe lonely. I’m glad I messaged her now, even if she tells me I have the artistic ability of a toddler and bans me from wielding a brush in her bookshop ever again.
They’re beautiful, Jane, she has typed. My heart soars a little, watching the screen and the tiny dots that tell me she’s still writing.
They’re just what the room needed, and you’re just what Bonnie Bay needs. I will agree to having my portrait done as part of our new display – but only if you paint it. Don’t leave us just yet, my sweet.
I sigh, and send back some kisses. My mind goes back to the day we found the card that brought us here. To the way Beth and I were at loggerheads, the way I was being bullied by my boss. The way I felt so grey and empty. The way Moira’s words resonated with me.
She was right, of course. The most important stories don’t lie in the pages of books. They are indeed told by our hearts, found in secret messages, hidden between the wrinkles in our souls. My soul? How is that looking now? And my heart, how is that feeling?
Better, I think, putting away the pots and taking the brushes through to the kitchen to clean. Not just better – I feel like a different person. Like I’ve found my second chance. I feel free, light, like something has been switched on inside me. Lit up and shining.
It’s as though the old me and the new me have combined, and created something completely new – I’m older, wiser, moreexperienced. I still like making lists and planning. But that doesn’t mean that Juliet is dead and buried, like I’d once feared. She’s here with me right now, bringing a sense of joy to my days, my nights. My whole life. I finally feel like I’m not split in two – I’m finally whole, not the before-me and the after-me. I’m finally the right person, at the right time.
A lot of different factors have contributed to that – Moira, Kate, this beautiful bookshop in this beautiful land. Beth for encouraging our journey, me for being brave enough to agree to it. Mainly, I know, as I cast a final look around the magical night-time shapes of the sleeping books, him. Rory. My Romeo. Even thinking about him warms me inside.
I have no clue what has inspired all of this emotion. Not so long ago I was tired, sitting with Kate, a touch of the blues hovering over me. Is it the painting? Is it the feeling of a day well lived, busy, full of purpose? Talking to Beth, Moira’s comments? All of it, I suppose – and also the knowledge that Rory could have painted those animals just as well as I did, if not better. I have a suspicion he left them for me to do, that he knew that one day, I would have both the urge and the confidence to pick up those brushes again.
I suddenly feel desperate to be with him, and run along the cobbles to my car. I make the trip back up to his mountain kingdom in record speed, wheels crunching on gravel as I park up outside the house.
Just like that first night, the outlines and silhouettes of his works in progress, of his materials, are strange and discordant – but now I know that he will take them, and make them into things of beauty. I have seen him work, seen him cut and grind and weld, magicking the most mundane of objects into something new, transforming the discarded into something wondrous.
I feel like that myself right now. I feel like I arrived here discarded, mundane, ordinary. Not even the lead character of my own story. And now, I think, as I push open the front door, I feel so different. He has brought me back to life, in so many ways – through his kindness, his patience, his art. His tender touch, the heat that only he has ever been able to generate in me. The sheer magnetism of the man, the tug I always feel in his direction – irresistible even after all these years.
