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by Penny Parkes

  Anna looked around, taking in her stash of pristine notebooks, her swollen ankle and the plush brocade curtains framing the breathtaking rooftop view.

  ‘You know, Em? I’m good here actually. I’m going to rest this ankle and maybe take a little time to work out what I want to do, where I want to be.’ She pushed aside the thought that this was exactly the same intention she’d jettisoned in Bath.

  ‘Good idea.’ The relief in her voice was obvious. ‘And just in case it needs saying, you do know that this house-sitting gig isn’t an all or nothing arrangement? I mean, most people just do it for a few weeks or months each year when they fancy a change of scene. You’re the only nutty nomad who never stays still. And God knows, I’ve loved working with you, but I’d be just as happy – happier, actually – to be your friend rather than your ena— I mean, booker.’

  Anna laughed. ‘Were you just going to say “enabler”, Emily?’

  ‘No! Well, maybe. But you have to admit you have some serious ants in those pants of yours. You’re like that dog on the TV – The Littlest Hobo – do you remember? He was always moving on too…’

  ‘Have you been smoking something? Be honest – I’m asking as your friend. Interventions work both ways you know,’ Anna laughed.

  ‘Google it!’ Emily said. ‘The resemblance is almost uncanny.’

  ‘If you say so. And seriously, Em? I know I was a little pissy earlier, but thank you for looking out for me. Like you say, things aren’t going so smoothly at the moment.’ She didn’t mention that this was throwing her back into the well-worn grooves of her teenage years, shuttled from pillar to post and in a constant state of uncertainty, but she didn’t need to. Emily cared. Even without the grisly backstory, she was a good friend to Anna and it bore saying once in a while. ‘I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No thanks needed. I just wanted to be sure I hadn’t abandoned you somewhere.’

  Anna looked around the luxurious hotel room. Her own personal cocoon for the next few nights. ‘I’m fine here, Em. Truly.’

  She hung up the phone and picked up her pen. There was no time like the present to test Callie’s theory. Perhaps Callie might even respond to one of Anna’s text messages if she thought that her opinion, her thoughts, actually mattered to someone. And not just anyone, Anna thought, as she picked up the hotel’s branded biro – hardly the stuff of Hemingway – Callie mattered to her.

  Chapter 40

  St Pancras, 2019

  Anna awoke with a vague confusion about where she was. The painkillers had given her a few good hours’ sleep, but she was now groggy and disorientated, even as her swollen ankle positively pulsed in protest under the weighty bed linen.

  Breakfast and then a plan – that was what she needed.

  She sat up and her notebook slithered to the floor with a thump, many of its pages torn loose and crumpled into angry balls. Testament to her late-night attempts to corral and crystallise her thoughts. It seemed that writing really was like a muscle and hers was weak from neglect. Tenuous ideas for her long dreamed-of novel eddied through her mind but they were stubbornly evasive and uncooperative. She could only see the scale of the task ahead of her.

  Gone were the days of easy productivity at university when she could nail two thousand words before lunch on a Saturday and go to the park.

  Gone were the days of direction and focus.

  She was utterly rudderless.

  A gentle tap at the door and Anna hobbled over, her stomach grumbling in anticipation of the full English she had ordered the night before.

  ‘Morning, miss.’ Ah, that Italian accent! ‘I’ve your breakfast here for you. The concierge also thought you might need to borrow this for your stay, shame to stay cooped up on such a beautiful day.’ The young man handed her a handsome walking cane with a silver top and smiled at her shocked reaction. ‘It’s been in lost property for months, miss, so nobody will complain for your borrowing it.’ He laid out the silver dome and tray of coffee and juice, smoothing the weekend papers into a fan shape beside them. ‘He also said, that if you’ve to see the doctor about your ankle, it would be better this morning; the afternoons get busy after all the sporting injuries turn up.’

  He paused and she panicked for a moment that she’d forgotten the tipping etiquette in a place like this. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, miss? You don’t want us to arrange transport for you, or call anyone?’ His eyes skittered around the hotel room, taking in the medical supplies strewn across the coffee table and the carnage of papers littering the bed.

  ‘You’re very kind, but I’ll be fine. And thank you for the walking stick. Very thoughtful. If you could just wait while I—’ She hobbled towards her bag and wobbled as she reached down to pull out her purse.

  ‘No, no, miss. Really not necessary. You take care now. Ciao.’ And he was gone. Taking with him his sparkling Italian eyes and that warm flirtation instinctively imbued into every interaction. The room felt a little emptier, a little lonelier, for all its sumptuous decadence.

  She certainly hadn’t realised when she’d wandered in through the door last night, battered, bruised and on the off chance that a room might be available, just what an incredible deal the receptionist had offered her. A pity deal, she now recognised. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t grateful.

  Just as she was grateful for the cane, which made lurching across the room towards her bacon somewhat safer and easier than it had been.

  And just because she couldn’t stride around the streets like she always did, didn’t mean she couldn’t go outside and enjoy London at its finest. Hop on an open-top bus and play tourist? And maybe, just maybe, it might be worth seeing a doctor too, since the distorted size of her ankle this morning perhaps explained the widening of that poor chap’s eyes far more than her fleecy pyjamas might have elicited on their own. Although the penguins doing yoga were an absolute eye-catcher, in her own humble opinion.

  She sat down and poured herself a coffee, feeling grown up and in control of her own day. Yes, this was decadent. Expensive too, no doubt, as London breakfasts go. But there was a pleasure to be had in knowing that this was something she herself had paid for, no services traded.

  A simple transaction.

  And when was the last time her travels had given her that?

  She snapped a photo for Kate – take that, octopus curry – and then nibbled at the perfect toast triangles initially before the call of the full English overpowered any restraint and she ate with gusto and a lack of inhibition she hadn’t felt in a while. Poached eggs, grilled halloumi, crispy bacon and two tiny chipolatas. She wouldn’t need to stop for lunch.

  Swallowing two more painkillers with the freshly squeezed orange juice, she flicked through the newspapers, skimming headlines and squinting at photos of celebrities she didn’t recognise. And then she came to the book reviews – where a small neat box on the opposite page caught her eye.

  A short-story competition.

  Two thousand words. What was that? Like three, maybe four pages of A4?

  It wasn’t a novel, but to Anna it was something more significant.

  Somewhere to start.

  * * *

  Several hours later, Anna sat on the rooftop terrace of the Ham Yard Hotel – why swap her run on luxury now? She’d crossed London by bus, the sun warming her face as she’d taken in landmark after landmark, vista after vista. A London she’d never really bothered to see before had lifted her spirits.

  The doctor, it turned out, had already been in the hotel seeing another patient. He’d given her ankle a quick once-over and decreed in dismissive tones that if the swelling got worse an X-ray might be in order, before suggesting a little codeine and rushing on his way. For free advice, it had really only offered reassurance.

  And so, with a cafetière of dark roast and a club sandwich in front of her, she sat with her foot elevated and the torn-out page from the newspaper in front of her.

  Two thousand words.

  How hard could that be t
o get her literary muscles flexing again.

  And then she thought of Annabel’s words back in the hospital in Bath. Books didn’t have to be classics, they didn’t have to be great literary outpourings of sentiment and insight. They could also entertain, comfort, arouse even.

  She could write from the heart and with conviction and nobody could question it, because it was her story, her words, her truth.

  She stilled for a moment, the very idea of sharing truths anathema to her usual reticence.

  Kate would encourage it, she knew. Kate, who viewed writing as therapy, as much as anything else.

  And perhaps that was where she was going wrong. For everything she wrote these days took on a life of its own. A direction already decreed. Whatever the topic, or the angle, Anna seemed destined to write the same story over and over again.

  Her own.

  Sure, it wasn’t always immediately recognisable as such. Names, places, relationships were always different, but the sentiment remained.

  They were stories of loss and of abandonment. Stories of pain and denial.

  She glanced at the newspaper page again. ‘Food must be at the heart of the story.’

  And whilst most people might think of fine dining, or harvesting luscious crops in exotic locations, Anna’s thoughts went straight to a bright yellow laminate kitchen and a double-slot toaster, to a slice of claggy white bread that would serve as dinner. Sugar sprinkled on top.

  She put down her club sandwich, the avocado and egg suddenly rich and intense, and picked up her phone.

  ‘Are you shagging? Because I can call back later?’ she said, earning a surprised look from the ladies who lunched at the next table.

  Kate’s laugh echoed down the line. ‘We’re doing couples yoga on the beach. And yes, you can shoot me now.’

  ‘Shoot me first,’ called Duncan from the background, and the two of them laughed together, in unison. Adorable. But also annoying if Anna were honest.

  ‘What do you need, Pod? Are you coming to pick us up from the airport tomorrow? I can cancel the car if you feel like a natter all the way back to Oxford.’

  ‘She’s sick of me already,’ Duncan called. ‘I’m no match for you on the conversation front, it seems.’

  Anna grinned despite herself. ‘No change there then,’ she said. ‘But no. You’ll have to wait a few days to catch up with me. I’m in self-imposed purdah in a smart London hotel, with a sprained ankle and a slightly mad plan that might force me to drink. Or possibly cop off with the hot Italian room service guy.’

  ‘What happened to hot, strapping fisherman guy?’ Duncan called, before being shushed by his wife and Anna clocked that in fact, she was on speakerphone and the whole beach could probably hear her every word.

  ‘Okay, let’s break this down. Nice job on a lovely hotel. Invite me next time. How’s the ankle? And what’s the mad plan?’

  ‘Yes. It’s fine. And I think you were right.’

  Anna heard a thump and a grunt. ‘Fuck. Sorry. Was in downward dog and I must have misheard that. Did you, Anna Wilson, finally admit that I was right?’ Her voice was filled with laughter and affection, like a hug from the Indian Ocean. ‘And what exactly was I right about?’

  ‘The writing thing. Or rather the lack-of-writing thing. Oh, and the life on hold situation too, in all probability,’ Anna said quietly.

  ‘Wow. Big day for me,’ Kate replied. ‘So what’s going on – are you going to send your book to Sarah? She’s dying to see it, you know. Messaged me again the other day.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Anna said. ‘It’s just, well it might be tricky. Seeing as the book is only in my head, not on the page exactly.’

  ‘She won’t mind seeing a partial, or a synopsis—’

  ‘No, Kate, seriously. I have to say this now, before the codeine buzz wears off. There is no book. Not a page. Nothing. Just an idea, and a dream of being a writer. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.’

  A long silence stretched out and Anna knew that she’d been right to do this with a few thousand miles between them. It felt honest and real and long, long overdue.

  ‘Anna,’ Kate said. ‘Why didn’t you say something sooner?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know how. Because it meant admitting I’d pissed away the better part of a decade being crap.’

  ‘Oh hang on,’ Kate cut in. ‘I’m not buying that. Have you written anything? No, apparently not. But have you travelled and seen the world and seen life from all sorts of angles you would never have known as a tourist? Well, hell, yeah. Do not sell yourself short.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Anna said.

  ‘But I don’t get it – what was I right about?’ Kate said, curious.

  ‘That sometimes the only way out is through.’

  The realisation earlier had dawned like a punch to her solar plexus, almost winding her with its intensity and strange familiarity. A kind of déjà vu.

  ‘Ah, that wasn’t me, that was Robert Frost, kind of. But I’ll happily take credit.’ Kate’s voice was gentle, concerned, but without a hint of judgement and Anna felt herself relax a little.

  The first step was admitting you had a problem. Possibly the bravest step. And whilst this wasn’t alcohol or drugs or gambling – God knows there was a veritable buffet of dysfunction in her DNA – maybe denial carried its own addictive qualities?

  ‘Every time I write, I end up writing about my childhood. And if not my childhood then the emotions that it triggered, or the feelings that never leave. It’s like the soundtrack to every story I’ve ever attempted.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ said Kate calmly, kindly. ‘It’s your story. It’s the filter through which you see the world, Anna. And maybe it’s time to stop fighting it?’

  ‘The only way out is through,’ Anna said again.

  ‘I think so,’ said Kate gently. ‘But I’m guessing it won’t be easy.’ She paused and there was a mumble in the background with Duncan. ‘Listen, when we get back, wherever you are, I’m coming to you, okay? Next weekend. I’m yours.’

  ‘Yes please,’ Anna said simply, choked with gratitude and love for this wonderful woman in her life.

  As she hung up, she heard a gasp from the lunching ladies beside her and looked up, following their gaze into the sky. From their vantage point on the roof terrace, only the taller buildings rearing up around them, they had a unique view of the London skyline – and, in this case, a bird’s-eye view of a single, yellow-clawed peregrine falcon, swooping down from the gods and plucking a hapless pigeon from the air, mid-flight.

  It felt like a sign.

  It felt as though Henry’s gentle acceptance of the circle of life was a lesson she herself needed to understand.

  This second sighting could only be a clarion call.

  The yellow claws flashed and feathers flew as the falcon bore its prey to a nearby ledge.

  No sentiment, just doing what needed to be done to stay alive.

  Rare. Beautiful. Unforgettable.

  She reached for her journal, sketching the roofline onto a fresh cream page, determined not to forget this feeling. Then she picked up her phone and dialled. ‘Henry? It’s me.’

  Chapter 41

  Oxford, 2010

  Anna leaned back in her chair and looked around the scrubbed pine table happily, cementing the moments in her mind, never wanting to forget what this felt like.

  ‘Another roastie, Anna?’ asked Louise, with a knowing smile. Even with the silver streaks that twinkled amongst the tawny brown of her bob, she was still the spitting image of her daughter.

  ‘Mu-um,’ said Kate. ‘She’s not foie gras. Stop feeding the girl!’

  Anna laughed. ‘Is it poor form to admit I was about to say yes, now you’ve said that? You know I can’t resist them.’ She held out her plate, Louise’s roast potatoes like crack cocaine for her soul. The perfect combination of soft potato inside and glorious golden crunch on the outside. It was worth dragging herself out of bed and into proper clothes on a Sunday for these alon
e.

  Kate’s little brother, Alex, snorted with delight. ‘My record is twelve. You won’t beat that, because you’re a girl.’

  Kate and Anna both drew an annoyed breath to respond, neither of them taking kindly to any aspersions on their roastie-scoffing abilities.

  ‘Lad, if there’s one thing I’ve learned,’ Kate’s dad cut in before war broke out, ‘it’s to never tell a woman she can’t do something. Even if she didn’t want to do it before, you’ve thrown down the gauntlet and you can bet that there’s every chance you’ll lose. Not always the challenge, but you’ll lose one way or another for even having doubted her.’

  ‘Quite right, Simon,’ said Louise with a loving smile down the table. Theirs wasn’t a marriage of hearts and flowers, indeed they seemed to live somewhat independently of one another for most of the week, their own spheres of academia calling on their time and attention, but these Sunday lunches were sacrosanct and the affection between them almost palpable.

  The bantering, the bickering, the political debate, and daft competition for Darwin Student of the Week from amongst Louise or Simon’s students. This ritual had become the part of the week that Anna looked forward to the most, especially with the pressure of finals looming. The days sped by, the weeks gathering momentum and Anna had almost, almost, forgiven herself for the debacle at the beginning of her final year.

  A moment’s weakness, a drunken slip that had thrown all her good intentions and hard work into jeopardy.

  Without Kate, without this bolthole, she might never have made it through.

  ‘Ta-da!’ said Louise with pride in her voice, startling Anna from her thoughts.

  She looked up to see Alex – all five foot nine of awkward, gangly teenager – blushingly, proudly carrying in his contribution to this week’s meal.

  ‘It’s pineapple upside-down cake,’ he said, as the single glacé cherry nipple rolled off the side of the luscious yellow dome.