The Inbetween Days

by Eva Woods

  Okay. Review what she knew so far. She was Rosie Cooke, aged midthirties-ish, from Devon, one uptight mother, one harassed father. One quiet sister who was, it seemed, three years younger, and one half sister who was a lot younger and seemed like kind of a cool kid, despite her taste in music. Rosie was single—but where was Luke?—and lived alone in a studio flat with a dodgy neighbor. Until recently she’d worked in a coffee shop and had for a number of years tried to be an actress.

  And she’d hurt so many people. She’d been the worst daughter, sister, friend imaginable. She’d failed at everything. She’d lost touch with poor, dead Melissa, let Mr. Malcolm down, and neglected her grandma, and well—she could hardly have been nicer to Darryl, seeing as they’d only met when his chest was being cracked open by a rib-spreader. But could she perhaps have communicated more kindness to him in that one look they’d shared?

  “You’re driving yourself mad,” Darryl commented. He was now sitting in the chair beside her bed, flicking through the copy of the Times Literary Supplement her mother had brought. Rosie was in the hospital with her brain smooshed and her mother still wanted her to have improving reading material.

  “There’s not much else to do here. Any chance you could use your ghostly powers to switch on Escape to the Country?”

  “Mate, I’m not a ghost. And there’s no time. We’ve got to go.”

  “Maybe it’ll be another memory with Luke?” She could hear the longing in her own voice. “I mean, that wasn’t the last time I ever saw him, was it? In the park?” It couldn’t have been. She could sense that the memories marked Luke were in a huge towering filing cabinet, the doors secured with padlocks that were bulging under the strain. “We were happy. We spent the day together. There must be more to our story. Can you show me that?”

  “It doesn’t work that way, sorry, mate. Come on.”

  The world faded. The dials spun: 15 7 2005. She knew when that was. That summer. The one she’d met Luke. And for once she fell into her memory smiling.

  15 July 2005 (Twelve years ago)

  The first thing Rosie felt was sand under her feet. She inhaled deeply, smelling the sea and flowers and sizzling meat. It was a beach at night, a little harbor with boats bobbing in it, and farther along the sand, a small taverna where the delicious meat smell was coming from. “I know this,” she said. It was Crete. It was a few days after she’d met Luke on the beach. “Where am I...oh, there.”

  Past Rosie was coming down the beach with her sandals in her hand, long bare legs in cutoff denims. Her hair was rippling down her back, a pink flower stuck over one ear, and despite her caution in the sun she had a soft glow all over. “I look so happy.”

  Of course she was. She was in Greece, a perfect sunny day fading into a beautiful warm night, the moon turning the calm sea to a silver mirror. She looked good, and she was on her way to meet the cute boy from the beach, a whole night just the two of them. Plus, she was already slightly drunk from the bottle of toffee vodka she’d downed before leaving the holiday apartment.

  She watched her past self almost dance across the sand, like in a Duran Duran song, and pause at the taverna to shake sand from her feet and put on her raffia sandals. When she saw Luke, her face almost split with smiling. Waiting for her at a table with a beer in front of him, his tanned arms resting on the checked tablecloth. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and the bridge of his nose was slightly red. He too was grinning like an idiot. “Hi!”

  “Hi!”

  “Just you tonight?”

  “Oh yeah, the others were a bit worse for wear. I hope that’s okay?” Rosie still couldn’t remember who she’d been on holiday with. Ingrid and Jack, maybe, based on the earlier memory. But if she had a boyfriend, why was she grinning at this new guy like that?

  “God, of course!” They could hardly look at each other without smiling.

  Luke fumbled for a menu, written in tourist English, laminated with pictures of the food on it. But they were twenty-one. This passed for fancy. “Um, what would you like? A fillet of turbo fish? Sounds racy.”

  Rosie played along. “I might go for the stack with pooper sauce.”

  “It does not say that?”

  “It does!” They giggled.

  “You need a drink.” Luke looked round for the waiter. “Er, giasou...”

  “Yes,” the waiter said, bored. Past Rosie ordered some hideous concoction called a Malibu Sunrise, and when it came it was in a huge frosted glass with sparklers, straws and lurid pink liquid inside. They ordered food they wouldn’t eat—too nervous, too excited—fried calamari and dolmada and pita bread and tzatziki.

  “So,” said Luke, when they were both a drink in and slightly less nervous. “It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? Your flight to Morocco?”

  “Yeah.” Past Rosie visibly drooped. “Last leg of our trip, then it’s back to rainy old Devon. My parents want me to temp while I find an office job in London. Mum thinks accountancy would be great for me.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “God no. I...” She turned shy, afraid he might laugh. “I want to go to drama school. I should have done it at uni, but Dad was worried it was a ‘soft’ option.” You’ve got to work out what you want to do with your life, Rosie! Rosie didn’t know what she wanted. Except she did, but she didn’t think she could actually be an actress. You needed money for that, to tide you over in lean times. You needed contacts. And you had to be good. She’d starred in three shows at university, and after the last one, a production of The Tempest, the director had clutched both her hands and said, “Rosie. You MUST go to drama school. Promise me.” And she’d laughed uncomfortably and gone to get drunk with the cast, but her heart had swelled up and up in her chest. Could she? Maybe she could. But she knew what her mother’s face would look like when she said she wanted to go to drama school and she couldn’t bear it. So instead of making a decision, she’d run away.

  “So you did Business Studies instead?” He’d remembered. He’d been listening.

  “You can’t get much more different, right?”

  “Did you act at school?” Luke was slurping down the last of his second beer. They all drank so much back then, free from worries about work or babysitters or getting the last train home.

  “Yeah. I was meant to be the lead in something but I...I didn’t in the end. Maybe it’s too late now. That’s what my parents say anyway.”

  Present-day Rosie winced. Poor Mr. Malcolm. What a twat she’d been, dropping out of that play.

  “Rosie, that’s ridiculous,” said Luke hotly. She liked his passion. His fair hair flopped over his tanned face as he scowled. “You can’t be too old for anything in your twenties.”

  “Except, maybe, wetting the bed.”

  “A guy in my hostel did that last week. Too much raki.” They both laughed.

  “You really think I should do it?” she said.

  “If it’s your passion.” He grew somber for a minute. “You and I both know, Rosie, that life is short.” Past Rosie put her hand shyly over his, and he gripped it, and Rosie remembered how that felt, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. But she couldn’t remember what had happened to Luke. He’d lost someone? For that matter, what had happened to her?

  He took another gulp of beer. “When my dad was ill, he made me promise I wouldn’t go into some crappy job just to make money, like he had. That I wouldn’t settle down until I’d lived a bit, explored the world. So here I am, traveling on his dime.” Of course. She remembered now. His father had died when Luke was fourteen. He’d left Luke money in his will, which he’d stipulated had to be used for travel. She’d thought it was an amazing thing to do, one her own parents would never think of.

  Past Rosie raised her cocktail solemnly. “To your dad.”

  “To Dad. And to living first.” They drank.

  “So...where will you go after this?” she asked sh
yly.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I might check out Istanbul, get the ferry. Then volunteer in Africa, help build schools or something. That’s the beauty of it. I’ve got no ties, I’ve got some cash thanks to Dad, and I’ll go where the road takes me.” Oh Luke. She’d forgotten the exquisite confidence of young men, rushing into the world with open arms, sure that it would never hurt them.

  “You don’t think you might get...lonely?” said Past Rosie, faux-casual.

  “I’ll meet people on the way—the way I met you guys. Youth hostels, trains. It’s all very friendly.”

  Rosie tried again. “But wouldn’t it be nice if you had people with you? Some travel buddies?”

  He still wasn’t getting it. “I guess, but Nick has to go back to start his job and...” Finally, the penny dropped. “You’re not saying...?”

  “Well, we’re sort of going the same way, aren’t we?” Past Rosie laughed nervously, gulping half her cocktail. “I mean. Only if you want to.”

  “The others wouldn’t mind?”

  “Oh no. Ingrid would love to have another person.”

  He was watching her closely. “Ingrid would?”

  Rosie couldn’t meet his eyes. “Um, sure. We all would. It’d be fun!”

  “Well...if you’re sure...”

  “You mean...”

  “Yeah, why not? Let’s travel together!”

  They both stared at each other, electrified with the hugeness of this step, and with the excitement of the world spread out in front of them. Past Rosie laughed. “It’s mad. We only just met!”

  “But that’s the beauty of travel. You make friends on the road, you have adventures...”

  Friends. Past Rosie looked slightly crestfallen at that. “I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”

  He put his hand on hers again, strong and brown, the wrist twisted round with gap-year beads. “Rosie, I’d love to come with you. It would be awesome.”

  For a moment, it looked like they would kiss, there in the taverna with the Greek accordion music and the laminated menus and sunburned tourists. Rosie could remember the dizzy feeling of it, almost not wanting it to happen because it would end the delicious anticipation of the moment. Her head was tilted toward his. She could feel his breath on her cheek, smell his aftershave and the faint tang of sun cream. Jack couldn’t have been further from her thoughts. Kiss me, for God’s sake! But they both chickened out, downed their drinks instead. “Another round!” Rosie declared. “To travel!”

  “To adventure!”

  “To the open road!”

  “To Dad.” Luke suddenly had tears in his eyes. “He’d have loved this. He’d have loved you.”

  “Really?” Rosie was now tearful too. They were very drunk.

  “Come on. Let’s go for a walk on the beach. It’s best at night.”

  And that was where kissing happened. Had they kissed on the beach that night? Had she broken up with Jack? Had she cheated on him? Or maybe they were already over. Enthusiastically, Past Rosie flung down her euros on the table and staggered after him along the sand, beer bottles in hand. The bored waiter came to clear their barely touched plates, and looked after them for a moment, with an indulgent smile—ah, young people—before forgetting about them altogether.

  But they hadn’t got more than three steps when two figures materialized in front of them on the beach. A young woman, her face pink as a lobster, her hair sun-lightened, wearing a tight red bodycon dress and high heels that were sinking into the sand. And a young man, in a polo shirt and shorts, a jumper knotted about his shoulders. Both seemed effervescent, wide-eyed. They had, Rosie now realized, probably taken something back at the apartment. She’d been so naive back then.

  “There you are!” said Ingrid, latching onto to Luke, threading her arm through his. “Sorry I didn’t come out earlier. Too many sambucas last night.”

  “Oh,” said Rosie, looking between the newcomers. “You felt better, then?”

  “Suddenly could eat a scabby donkey,” said Jack, putting his arm around Rosie. She winced as he pressed on her sunburn. “Alright, Luke, mate?” He grasped the other boy’s hand and pumped it hard. Luke also winced. “Thanks for wining and dining my lady. I’m back on form now. What do you say we take these girls for some vino?”

  “Sure,” said Luke, unenthusiastically, and Rosie watched Ingrid lead him off, talking loudly about her family’s ski chalet in Chamonix. Jack and Past Rosie followed behind. Her past self’s face said it all: disappointment. Jealousy. What a mess.

  “Oh,” said Now Rosie, watching it all fade. Why hadn’t she realized? She turned to Darryl. “I was on holiday with Jack when I met Luke. Jack, my boyfriend. That’s why we didn’t...why nothing happened? Did Luke get together with Ingrid instead? Is that why we fell out? Oh God, surely not. He was engaged to that other girl.” Poor, dumped Ingrid, who after all had every right to flirt with the cute single boy they’d fallen in with on their travels. Whereas Rosie, Rosie who had a boyfriend, had no right at all. “So what happened next?”

  “Mate, you know what happened. It’s all in there.”

  “I don’t! I can’t remember. All I know is I think he got married. Not to me.” She didn’t know why she felt ashamed saying this. Rosie screwed up her face, trying hard to pin down the memory of what happened next. It was darting round her head, always out of reach, like a fly when you try to scoop it out an open window. She shook her head, frustrated. “This isn’t working! There’s so much I still can’t remember.”

  She and Luke had been so happy then, on the Greek beach, talking and laughing. If you asked her what happy felt like, she would have chosen that night. But she hadn’t been single. And Luke was no longer in her life, even as a friend? What had happened next? Rosie had a nasty feeling she was about to find out.

  Daisy

  “I suppose we should have some dinner.” Her mother looked vaguely round her kitchen. Daisy knew the fridge would contain only Slimming World meals and the cat’s super-luxury food, much more expensive than what they’d had on the sandwiches in their school packed lunches. Mopsy, her mother’s ancient and vengeful tabby, had shot under the cooker as soon as Daisy appeared. He hated Rosie and Daisy both, as if he knew they were rivals for Alison’s undivided love.

  “We could order a takeaway?”

  “Darling, the calories!”

  That made Daisy think of the boy in the café, the kind way he’d looked at her, the deftness of his movements flicking the cake into the bag for her. “Rosie’s in the hospital, Mum. We have to keep our strength up.”

  “Well, I suppose I could eat a Chinese maybe. Just something small. That black bean stuff. And some fried rice.”

  This was Daisy’s chance. “I’ll go and pick it up. It’ll be quicker. You pack some things to take to London, then we’ll eat and get some rest, okay?”

  “Okay.” This was a change, Daisy taking charge. As if the absence of Rosie, her argumentative, fiery presence, had left a gap for her sister to step into. As she picked up the car keys, there was a knock on the back door, and she opened it.

  A man stood there, middle-aged, with distinguished gray hair and a quilted jacket.

  “Oh hello, is Ali in?” he said. Ali, indeed. What was going on there?

  Her mother looked flustered. “Oh John, hello. This is my daughter—eh, my other daughter. Daisy. John just moved in next door, darling.”

  “Hello,” Daisy said, scoping John out. No wedding ring. Sixty-ish, in good nick. A small bunch of roses in his hand, wrapped in tinfoil, obviously homegrown. And Mopsy had slunk out from his hiding place and was rubbing himself against the man’s chinos. Mopsy, who hated everyone except Daisy’s mum. Curious.

  “How is she?” he asked, sympathetically, as if he knew Rosie. Or had heard a lot about her.

  Her mother shook her head. “Not too good. We just came down to get so
me things. It’s likely to be a long haul I’m afraid.”

  “Oh Ali. I’m so sorry.”

  Her mother’s eyes shone with tears. “It’s...it’s very hard to see her like that.”

  “Well, don’t you worry about things here, I can water the garden, feed Mopsy, whatever you like. I’ve already got the key after all.”

  “Thank you, John. That’s very kind of you.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. Just wanted to drop these over. I do hope she’ll be alright.” He put the flowers on the side, and nodded and smiled at Daisy as he left.

  “Er...the new neighbor,” her mother explained. She still looked flustered.

  “He seems nice.”

  “He has two boys about your age. His wife died last year, cancer, so hard. Wanted a change of scene. Has a nice chocolate Lab, Lily, who Mopsy just hates. He sits on the fence and tries to scratch at the poor dog.” Excessive detail. Suspicious. Her mother’s face had gone red.

  “Well. I’ll go and get the food, then. I won’t be long.”

  “Get some spring rolls too, darling.”

  “Spring rolls, got it.” Daisy went to the door.

  “Oh, and those prawn cracker thingies!”

  Daisy smiled to herself slightly, wondering how long it had been since her mother had let herself eat anything unhealthy. In the car, she sat and thought for a moment. She’d been to the Timmons’s house a hundred times back in the day, dropping Rosie off, picking her reluctantly up. Could she remember where it was?

  * * *

  Turned out, she could. It was in what had once been the town’s poorest council estate. Now the houses had all been sold off, and the drives were full of Audis and Golfs, children’s scooters piled by the doors. Daisy went up the drive, feeling abashed. What would she say? Hello, I’m looking for your daughter? I’m not selling anything! Perhaps she should have messaged in advance.