Our Stop

by Laura Jane Williams

  ‘Do I have to talk to anyone?’

  ‘No. Well. Just the facialist. To tell her you’re sad and you want a boost.’

  ‘Okay. Maybe a pedicure too. I feel more in control of my life when my toes are nice.’

  ‘Done and done. I just have to make a phone call to the office, and then I’ll let the concierge know.’

  Emma opened the sliding glass doors to retrieve her phone from charging inside, and Nadia sat with her feet curled up behind her. Looking out over the stream, Nadia idly wondered what kind of man would make a gesture like writing in to a newspaper. When Emma had picked her up that morning she’d tossed the paper across to her and said, ‘He’s written to you again,’ in a sing-song voice, and as they’d driven out of the city and into the countryside Nadia had replayed his new advert to her again and again in her mind. You’re funny. Do you get told that a lot? Funny and cute. How lucky am I?!

  She was enjoying the slow burn of it. Things had gone way too fast with Awful Ben – she knew now that it was called ‘Love Bombing’. Men like Ben seduced hard and fast and quickly, so that the love was disorientating and you lost yourself in it. Once upon a time Nadia had thought that was how love was supposed to be, but she’d learnt the hard way that what was so much better was taking steps slowly, deliberately. Checking in with each other along the way. That’s what Train Guy felt like to her: like a chance to grow something beautiful, over time. There was a reassurance to it. And it was the bit about luck that made her smile. How lucky am I?! Train Guy had said. She felt lucky too. Lucky to still believe she had a chance at love. Even if Train Guy came to nothing, writing back and forth with him was fun. She resolved not to think about Awful Ben anymore. He was the past. She could decide her own future.

  Nadia snapped out of her reverie to a low murmured voice around the back of the cabin.

  ‘Emma?’ she said, craning her neck around the side of their place to see her stood with her back to her. Emma spun around, a funny look on her face.

  ‘Coming!’ she said, whispering something into her mobile.

  She disappeared from sight and Nadia heard the front door open, before her friend appeared by the screen door to the balcony.

  ‘Facials in twenty minutes!’ Emma said, opening the door. ‘And I was thinking, how do you feel about the pub down the road for dinner? The Ox and Cart?’

  She seemed a little wired to Nadia, but Nadia didn’t say anything. Instead, she settled on, ‘Facials: excellent. Pub? Less keen on going out if I’ll have no make-up on. Shall we get room service instead?’

  ‘Great,’ said Emma, her brightness almost a bit forced.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Me? Yes. Of course. Are you?’

  Nadia stared at her friend. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘Yeah, I’m feeling better,’ she said.

  16

  Daniel

  ‘Well, what about the time you stole that bouncer’s waistcoat, and he chased you all the way down to Walkabout and then broke your nose?’ Jonny laughed, as Dean delivered another round of beers to the table.

  ‘Oh my god – he should have gone to jail for that!’ Daniel was hysterical at the memory. They’d been ribbing Jeremy for a good ten minutes about how out of control he was in third year. Daniel looked around the table in the front room of The Ox and Cart, where his mismatched collection of friends sat. There was the love monster Jeremy, now happily settled down with Sabrina and father to two kids – his second had just been born. Jonny lived with his wife Tilly, not far from Terrence, whose Cotswold estate they were all staying at as his pregnant wife was away for the weekend. Terrence had become a professional poker player at eighteen and used the money to put himself through an undergraduate degree and then an MBA, turning ten thousand pounds into three million by the time he was twenty-eight and adopting twins a few years ago, almost out of a need to keep occupied. And now he’d be a dad to a third! Sam was there, and Taz, Dean too; and although Daniel wished all the uni lads were there, being together with this group was enough. He was having a brilliant time.

  ‘Yeah, but Jimmy was shagging his girlfriend, and she asked us not to press any charges, remember? She was scared he’d find out?’ Jeremy had had several girlfriends that year, not so much because he was a cad, but more because he really did have that much love to give. He could charm a lamppost and believe everything he said, as he said it.

  They’d all piled into the house after a delayed train to Charlbury from Paddington after work, starving and tearing into the pizza in the oven that had gone both soggy and crusty at the same time after being reheated, because Terrence still didn’t understand how the Aga worked.

  ‘I’m from a backstreet terrace in Manchester!’ he said, as way of apology. ‘I only learned what heated floors were two years ago!’

  They’d made their way down the road to the pub, and easy banter and memories were stirred up in record time, juxtaposed with the new lives they all lived, all married or fathers and in Terrence’s case, millionaires too. In the years Daniel had known his ‘group’, he’d always felt at home. There was a shorthand between them that had only got shorter since doing shots as freshers and competing over who could list the most obscure band. They could have drifted apart in their late twenties, when life got busy and more complicated than they were used to. But it hadn’t. They’d gone the distance together. They were as tight as ever, even if they all lived in different places now. They didn’t see each other enough, but when they did get together it was like being in university halls all over again.

  ‘How you doing, you know – after your dad?’ Dean had said on the train, not long after they’d boarded. Daniel had vague recollections of them being at the funeral, but he’d been in no state to string sentences together.

  Daniel told them all the truth.

  ‘I was a mess,’ he’d said, ‘but I’m doing all the right things to get through it and feel pretty okay now. The doc gave me some pills and I go and talk to someone about my head and see my mum a bit more in case she’s lonely.’

  ‘Fucking hell, yeah,’ Jonny had said. ‘I’ve only been married eighteen months but fuck me, if anything happened to Tilly I don’t know how I’d get up in the morning.’

  ‘We’re here for you, pal,’ Dean said, raising his beer can towards him so that all of them saluted the memory of Mr Weissman, silently saying a prayer that it hadn’t been them to lose their father. It was a strange rite of passage to pass through first: Terrence had been the first to get married, and Jeremy the first to become a dad, but Daniel was the first to have lost a parent.

  He felt better just for being with the people who made him feel safe. The ones who’d seen him pull an all-nighter because he left essays until the last minute and the ones whose sisters he’d snogged when they’d come to visit and the ones who’d got so drunk with him the night of their graduation ceremony that they’d all ended up in the hospital while Taz got his stomach pumped, eating McDonald’s and sobering up as they talked about what they wanted for their lives. For all of them, the answer was the same: to lead better lives than their parents had. They’d all managed it.

  Daniel got up to go to the loo, and Dean said, ‘Your round on the way back, mate!’ Daniel flipped up his middle finger at him good-naturedly as he walked to the Gents. He peed and noted in the mirror as he washed his hands how bright-eyed he looked. He was still buzzing about his latest advert getting published so fast. He was able to enjoy being where he was, in the moment, with his mates, because he knew that right now she could be reading his reply and that at half seven on Monday morning something brilliant could happen. Would happen – he could feel it. Life was good. He could honestly say, for the first time in ages, that he felt positive about what was coming next. About the future.

  He stood beside a couple at the bar of the country pub as he waited to put in an order for the next round. It was hard not to eavesdrop, really, and it sounded like their first mini-break. The first mini-break is, as Daniel and h
is friends had long concluded, a relationship rite of passage, especially for young professionals from a city where house-shares were the norm. The first mini-break was normally the first time you’d get totally uninterrupted time together, with sex that didn’t have to be quiet in case the person in the room next door heard, or saw you nip to the loo in the buff in the middle of the night. Daniel thought about his first weekend away with his ex, Sarah. He’d planned a whole schedule around what he thought would be romantic – a country hotel, afternoons in a rowing boat on the lake, champagne in the room on arrival. As it turned out they’d had a horrible fight on the train ride there and then erroneously assumed there’d be a line of cabs waiting at the station to take them to where they were staying, but there weren’t. They’d stood in the drizzle that would later make rowing on the lake a write-off for forty-five minutes until a car they’d ordered from the number stuck to the information board arrived. They’d made the best of it, each trying to put on a brave face. But they’d both been a little crestfallen that it hadn’t all rolled out as perfectly as they’d imagined. Was it strange to imagine going away with Nadia? They could even come here, to this exact pub, and after sharing a bottle of red wine by the fire he could tell her, a little tipsily, that he’d come here right after he’d written to her again and he’d promised himself there and then that he’d come back, and with her. He looked over his shoulder at his buddies. He wanted what they all had – happy marriages that meant they had somebody to share the highs with, and hold the hand of when things were less good. He loved all of their wives – even Rashida, who could be a bit bossy, a bit strident – and he was so excited to one day introduce his person to them all too.

  ‘So she wrote back,’ Daniel heard a man’s voice say, ‘and it was this cocky and funny and kind of provocative answer, and they’ve gone back and forth a bit, and now everyone is waiting to see if they go out. I don’t know –’ he paused to take a sip of his wine ‘– I think it’s one of those things where everyone is like, “She wrote back! They have to get married now!” Or whatever. Because it’s like a movie or something, you know?’

  Daniel cocked his head and tried to listen to what the woman said in response. He was so sure they were talking about him, and about Nadia. About her note to him. Was that egotistical of him? But surely there weren’t a string of people writing letters to each other in the newspaper. Maybe he was imagining things because he was excited by the day. That must be it.

  ‘What can I get for you, mate?’ the barman asked, and Daniel held up one hand and two fingers to signal seven pints, and said, ‘Seven of the Abbot’s, please, mate.’

  Daniel craned his neck to continue to listen to the couple. ‘Well, if it were me,’ the woman was saying, ‘I’d want a big romantic gesture like that. Like, if you meet somebody that way …’ And then Daniel couldn’t hear what she said after that. Well, he thought. Even if they’re not talking about us, that’s still worth remembering. Big romantic gesture. That’s like Romeo said. Got it. A shudder went down his spine. He’d thought of him and Nadia as an us.

  He delivered the booze to the table and Jeremy was in the middle of a story about his new kid, his second, and how his penis was like a tiny sprinkle system and they’d had to buy a Penis teepee.

  ‘I’m not kidding,’ he was saying. ‘It’s a tiny teepee that you put over the kid’s dick, so when he pisses himself as you change him it doesn’t go all over you!’ It was the kind of Dad Talk Daniel couldn’t contribute to, not being one himself, but it was nice to be a part of. He was just happy. Happy to be here and be alive and have the whole promise of a future in front of him. Nadia’s face drifted into his mind and the lads continued to play ‘dad one-upmanship’ with their various anecdotes.

  And then he chastised himself: Fucking hell mate, try having a date first.

  He finished off his pint and tuned back in to the rest of the group, telling himself that was enough fantasizing for now. Somebody asked if they should hop in a cab and go down to Soho Farmhouse for a nightcap because Terrence and Dean had membership so could get everybody in, but the idea was sunk by the rest of the group who decided to head back to the house.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ Terrence said. ‘But I swear to god, she’ll kill me if you smoke in the house so just … well, fucking don’t, okay?’

  Rowdily, they stumbled out of the pub and into the last scraps of country summer light. Jonny and Dean both pulled packets of cigarettes from their jean pockets and promptly sparked up.

  17

  Nadia

  ‘I’m just saying,’ said Nadia, ‘that you seem a bit distant, is all. Like, whatever it is, you can tell me.’

  They were sat at breakfast in the courtyard of the club, handsome waiters buzzing around them and the promise of poached eggs with hollandaise sauce on the way.

  ‘I. Am. Not. Hiding. Anything,’ she said, enunciating every syllable. ‘Don’t crowd me, okay? If I want to talk, I’ll talk!’

  She said it shiftily – not mad, or angry – she was like a teenager who didn’t have the words for her feelings yet. But the feelings were most definitely there.

  Nadia couldn’t figure it out. She’d waited all weekend to say something, thinking every time she caught Emma’s mind wandering off halfway through the conversation, or noting how she obsessively checked her phone, that surely it would be the last time. Nadia gave Emma imaginary chance after imaginary chance, but she kept using them up. Nadia had gone from being slightly irked to totally outraged to now genuinely concerned about Emma’s behaviour. It was like she’d had bad news she didn’t want to share, or was waiting for bad news to come. Nadia’s own funk had lifted enough to be aware of the company she was in, and the company she was in was undoubtedly in pain.

  ‘It’s only because I’m worried,’ Nadia said. ‘I thought I was the broken one this weekend. But I feel like you need some TLC too.’

  Emma softened.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said, acknowledging the waiter with a smile and muttering thank you as her orange juice was delivered. ‘I don’t mean to snap. I’m obsessed with my phone because of work and I promise I’m not doing anything other than listening to you 100 per cent. I’m enjoying myself! I am!’

  Nadia reached out to touch her friend’s hand.

  ‘Me too,’ she said, not buying what Emma was saying at all. ‘But also I’m here, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Emma nodded, smiling.

  Their eggs came, and they ate, observing with a nudge when an Australian pop star from the noughties walked past their table, and smiling broadly when Brooklyn Beckham walked past with Madonna’s son. It was a clear and bright morning, and the place bustled with Sunday morning energy: lots of cashmere sweatpants and Sunday supplements and cappuccinos. Camera phones were against the rules, but Emma still took a photograph of their food.

  ‘What time is the class?’ said Nadia, eventually.

  ‘Oh, bugger, yes: we should think about going down there actually. We’ve got about twenty minutes.’

  ‘Awesome.’

  They’d both laughed in serendipitous glee as the Sunday’s social schedule had been slipped under their cabin door the night before while they’d been eating ribs and sweet potato skins. In amongst an organic skincare workshop and a core workout class, there’d been the details for a fascial release session with a world-renowned expert.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ said Emma. ‘This is what I was telling you about – the thing Denise at work did! After her divorce!’

  Nadia peered over at where she was pointing. The leaflet said,

  Myofascial Release is a safe and effective hands-on technique that involves applying gentle sustained pressure into the Myofascial connective tissue restrictions to eliminate both physical and emotional pain and restore motion. Taught by Ivanka Nilsson.

  ‘I’m still not sure about this …’ Nadia said. ‘But. Okay. Fine. Let’s do it.’

  The pair signalled for Emma’s membership card back and she signed for the food,
allowing it to be charged to their room, and in their Lycra leggings and Nike trainers – the uniform of any exercise class – headed to the gym.

  For the first twenty-five minutes of the hour-long class, Nadia was almost hysterical in her laughter. What they were doing was ridiculous to her. Ivanka Nilsson turned out to be a six-foot-something blonde Swede who had the air of a shot-putter about her, and there were only five people in the class. Her English was flawless, but retained an authoritarian air to it – Nadia often found that about native Nordic speakers: their directness came across in the way they intoned their English. She was slightly afraid to be caught laughing, like she’d be told off. It was made worse by the fact that Emma was totally into it and was mostly listening to the instructions with her eyes closed (‘Intuitive release,’ Ivanka called it), so Nadia felt even more adrift and silly. Basically, the whole point was to find where it hurt to roll your body on a tennis ball, and then gently move back and forth so that whilst yes, it was painful, ultimately (or so said Ivanka), it would eventually cease to hurt.

  Well yes, thought Nadia, because I’ve gone bloody numb.

  ‘There are two ways to treat malaise,’ Ivanka said, walking between the five mats in bare feet, heel-toe, heel-toe, heel-toe. ‘Our emotional trauma is stored in the fibres of our body, in between our muscles. Our bodies hold on to sadness, and grief, and it causes physical pain. Sometimes, we bury these emotions so deeply that symptoms do not demonstrate themselves for many, many years. But they are there. And so, by rubbing deeply into this fascia using a simple tennis ball, we access these hidden emotions, and we release them.’

  Nadia looked over at Emma again, hoping to roll her eyes in united sympathy. Emma was lying on her back with the tennis ball just above her right bum cheek, making small circular movements so that her body rotated over the ball. Her eyes were closed, and to Nadia, at this angle, it looked like … she was crying?