“I see people.”
“The same people,” he said, pointing an empty shell at her. “From the same village you’ve lived in for most of your life. People move to Wells to retire, Em, to see out the end of their lives. After they’ve done all they can, made their memories, had their adventures, broken hearts, wishes fulfilled.”
Emily licked salty droplets from her fingers, ignoring the thinly veiled insult.
“Well?” A drop of juice fell from his chin.
“Well, what?”
“I think you should leave Norfolk.”
“You don’t understand.”
“No, I don’t.” He sat back, pushed away his plate. He looked down to see the way her hand had unconsciously been moving bread crumbs into a pattern on the tablecloth. It was the shape of a mouse, with a long tail that curled around her plate.
“You used to make up stories.”
“I did?”
“All the time.” He nodded, then reached out for another piece of bread. “When we were in the park, or on the bus, or watching some incredibly dull play. You would make up stories about all the people around us. Imagining where they lived, what their secrets were. If they liked Marmite or fudge.”
“Vanilla fudge.” It was like heaven in a bite.
“Chocolate.” He gave her a gentle nudge with his foot, under the table, and it made her smile. “My point is you could carry on, you know, without her.”
It was the same idea presented to Emily over and over, by well-meaning friends. Her grandmother’s friends, people she only knew because of her. On some level Emily knew they were right. She understood she was the best person to carry on Catriona Robinson’s legacy. But she also didn’t want to do it by herself, because what if Tyler was wrong? What if they were all wrong and she was nothing more than someone who painted the pictures of someone else’s story?
“No.”
He was looking at her in that way again, as if she were his own private puzzle that he needed to solve.
“So, this unfinished manuscript.” He sat back, looped his hands behind his head. “You know how it ends?”
“Sort of.” The truth was her grandmother had never said.
“Are you allowed to tell me?”
Emily leant down beneath her chair, took out her sketchbook, and opened it to reveal a picture of Ophelia as a teenager. She was carrying the magical atlas in her rucksack while skimming through country lanes on her bike.
Tyler turned the book around, looked at the detail of each strand of Ophelia’s hair, the spokes of wheel that seemed to be spinning and the tiny specks of dirt that clung to her skin.
“Where is she going?”
“No idea.”
“Maybe you don’t need to know,” he said. “Maybe all she’s doing is giving the atlas to someone else because she’s grown up. She doesn’t need it any more.”
“But that’s so sad,” Emily blurted out. “Just because you’re not a child doesn’t mean all the magic should be taken away.”
“At last she speaks!” he said with a grin. “I was beginning to think you never would.”
It hit her, square between the eyes, as she realized that, for the first time in weeks, she had spoken a complete sentence, sentences, without taking a breath. Without stopping to think about how her tongue would betray her, stumble over the words, or worse, spit all over the table.
“So is it just me, or do you really not speak to anyone at all?”
“I…” Emily hesitated, because she hadn’t really thought about why, not for years.
“You never used to care what people think.”
Emily took a sip of her drink, then looked away.
Tyler regarded her for a moment more, then pulled the sketchbook close to look at the picture again; at how the atlas seemed to be leaping, rather than falling, from Ophelia’s rucksack. He noticed a flock of sheep blocking the road ahead, as if trying to get her to stop, to turn around and see what was hidden within the picture.
He stared at the face of a wizened shepherd, one hand curled around an ancient hook, the other cradling a fuzzy yellow duckling. Tyler recognized the shepherd, even if Emily appeared not to. It was her father. She was hiding things within her drawings, things even she couldn’t see.
“You seem to notice everything.” He rested his hand on the depiction of someone who taught him how to throw a decent punch, never to rat on his true friends, and always, always, stand up for those you love. “You were always so good at understanding people and their emotions better than they did themselves.”
“I draw what I see.”
“No,” he said with a swift shake of his head. “It’s more than that. There’s a story behind the picture. More than any of the words your grandmother wrote. I see it now.” He looked at her, really looked at her, taking in the pronounced cupid’s bow, wide hazel eyes, and skin like the finest porcelain. “You’re more talented than you think.”
Emily swatted away the compliment, ignoring his kind words because she was so unaccustomed to such attention and had no idea what to do with it.
“What about you?” She had seen the shades of blue under his eyes. The subtle lines were there, underneath two-day stubble, along with the absence of something that used to be, replaced by a different kind of smile.
“What about me?”
She nodded at the guitar perched on the chair beside him.
“I love music,” he said. “It’s what makes me feel alive in a way that nothing else ever could. But, as you know, I come from a family where everything was decided for me. Which school I went to, which university, which career. No doubt my father even had a list of prospective wives written down somewhere.”
“And now?”
“Let’s just say Daddy dearest doesn’t approve of my life choices.”
Emily recalled her grandmother telling her Tyler had lost his job. Something about an extramarital affair and recreational drug use. She remembered thinking it couldn’t have been easy for him to tell his parents and wondered what made him throw away his career, or in fact why he had decided to stay for years in a life that clearly didn’t make him happy.
She felt sorry for him, and this surprised her. For so long she had hated all those letters from his mother that told of how he had been chosen as head boy, become captain of the swim squad, won a place at Cambridge. Emily would scoff and pretend not to care when she heard of how he had traveled all over the world, climbed mountains, and swum with creatures of the sea. More than anything, she resented him for making her so incredibly envious of what she once thought could have been her life too.
“You hated it.”
Tyler nodded in reply. “All of it. The drugs, the affair, it wasn’t me, it was the lifestyle I pushed myself into, without actually wanting it. That’s what pisses him off more than anything, the fact I don’t want to be like him.”
His face was closed, shutting away the rest of his response behind a door. But there was a crack, a clue in the way he fiddled with his fork at the table, tapping it against his glass, letting the note sing out. Emily imagined bubbles of sound, inside of which were all his secrets, all his pain. Bubbles that floated through and over Paris until they burst amongst the clouds.
“The first time I heard Johnny Cash play,” he said as he called the waiter over to pay their bill.
“Sorry?”
“I remember it so clearly. We were driving back from my grandparents’ and ‘Ring of Fire’ came on the radio. It was a physical reaction. My entire body sat a little straighter and I asked my mum to turn it up.” He looked across at his guitar. “All at once I knew what it was I wanted to do.”
He had been given a guitar one Christmas. Emily remembered his excitement that year, perched on the end of his bed and asking her if she thought that even if you no longer believed in Father Christmas, would you get what you hoped for most of all? They were so young, so full of hope. It was the last Christmas Emily ever dared to wish for something, the last time she stil
l believed there was magic in the world.
“Have you ever felt that way about something?” He put some money on the table, pushed back his chair then came around to hold hers out as she stood.
Emily smiled as the cover of a favorite book floated into her mind.
“Matilda.”
“Who?”
“By Roald Dahl.” It was one of the first books she had ever read by herself, in her head, without help from anyone to decipher all the words. It had made her truly understand the power of those words, how they could transport you to another world. More than that, the sketches of that tiny, little girl had made her want to draw all the pictures she had carried around in her mind for as long as she could remember.
Tyler had been given a guitar that year, but what she had been given seemed to be so much more. A leather-bound sketchbook, embossed with her initials, and a wooden case filled with crayons, each wrapped up in cream paper with a number stamped on the side.
Crayons bought here, in Paris, by her parents, no doubt when she still sat at the top of the shop, gazing at each of those white squares in turn, wondering if she would ever be so lucky as to be able to recreate her imaginary worlds.
“What do you do for fun?” Tyler asked.
“Fun?” Emily replied with a frown.
Tyler looped his arm around her shoulders as they walked, and Emily could smell garlic on his breath.
“We’re in Paris, one of the most incredible cities in the world, and given what Aunt Cat was like, I’m sure she would have wanted you to at least try and have some fun while you were here.”
He was waiting for an answer, but she had no idea what to say, because “fun” wasn’t something she had exactly had her fill of ever since her life was ripped apart by one stupid mistake. One split second when everything became altogether dark and decidedly un-fun. Not just for Emily, but for her grandmother too, and they had simply had to carry on regardless, find joy in the simplest of things, such as a bird who learnt to trust her enough to come each morning and share her breakfast. Or getting lost in the world of imagination, trying to convince themselves that happiness could be created, as long as you didn’t allow yourself to remember the people you most wanted to share it with.
“I only have eight days.” Eight more days until she had absolutely nothing left.
Tyler waved her disdain away. “I know, I know, there’s a ticking bomb set to go off somewhere in the not too distant future, but Madeleine won’t be back until tomorrow morning, and some of the people from the bookshop asked if we wanted to meet up with them later?”
“We?”
“Let’s pretend, just for today, that we are in Paris for any other reason than finding a lost manuscript, or saving your inheritance, or simply doing what Catriona Robinson has demanded. What’s the worst that could happen?” The last part was said with a wide grin, one that Emily remembered from years ago. A grin that told her he was on her side, that he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her, at least on purpose.
11
LITTLE OWL
Athene noctua
It felt like being inside a storybook, as if she were momentarily living out the life of a character dreamt up in the mind of someone she did not know. An afternoon spent in the company of a half-stranger, who told her it was impossible to choose between all the galleries and museums Paris had to offer and so instead took her cycling along the Canal Saint-Martin and then walking the old railway line of the Promenade Plantée. They had explored artisan shops under the arches that housed glass blowers and violin makers, then snacked on coffee and macarons as they sat surrounded by greenery and simply watched the world go by.
All that time, Tyler hadn’t pushed her, hadn’t asked Emily questions about her choice of lifestyle, instead filling the moments with stories from their shared past. He had spoken about sandcastles, snowmen, and fireworks that you could still see when you closed your eyes, and Emily had been perfectly content to listen, to remember all the good bits, without ever allowing her mind to drift into the parts she had so carefully chosen not to ever think of.
Hours later, when her feet were throbbing and her mind was stuffed full with images of just one afternoon, Tyler convinced her that what she needed most of all, instead of a bubble bath back at the hotel, was a cocktail.
They came to a stop in front of a bar, outside of which people sat in bright yellow chairs next to palm trees in oversize planters, and there was a pink neon strip light above the entrance. Inside was just as trendy, just as intimidating, with parquet floors, recessed seating, and ivy trailing the full height of one wall. A bartender was flipping bottles over his shoulder, a long line of liquid pouring into a row of tall glasses, and every inch of the space was filled with young Parisians enjoying what, for them, was a night out like any other.
For Emily, it was altogether other, because this was the first time she had ever set foot in such a place. It made her feel like a tortoise without its shell, desperate to hide away, to retreat into a space that was small, quiet, and familiar.
“Come on.” Tyler eased her close to his side, slipping his arm around her waist and guiding her through the crowd to perch on a velvet chair at the bar.
Emily scanned the menu for something to focus on other than how completely out of place she felt.
“What do you want?” Tyler had to bend close in order to be heard, and Emily felt his breath on her cheek, found herself shaking her head as she leant away.
Tyler looked as if he was about to say something but then turned to the bartender and began a conversation Emily couldn’t have followed even if she had been able to hear it properly. A few minutes later two bottles of beer were slid across the bar, along with a couple of shot glasses containing luminescent blue liquid.
“What’s that?” Emily picked up one of the bottles and used it to push the shot glass away.
“Dutch courage,” Tyler shouted over the music, then picked up both glasses and handed one to Emily before swallowing his drink and screwing up his eyes as the alcohol hit the back of his throat. “Come on.” He gave her shoulder a gentle poke, and Emily surprised herself by raising her own glass to her lips, then pouring its contents down her gullet.
It was like fire and ice, all at once, along with a nose full of seawater that made her eyes sting. She blinked rapidly as a shiver ran right through her core, wiping at her eyes as she spied two more shots had somehow appeared in front of her.
“No,” she said, but the word didn’t quite ring true, and her fingers reached out to curl around the glass and bring it once again to her lips. When her eyes came back to the horizon, Emily noticed a young woman had appeared at Tyler’s side, with jet black hair cut in an asymmetric bob and a mouth painted a deep shade of red. She was curling herself around him like a cat, two dark eyes that swept over Emily then turned back to their prey.
“Emily,” Tyler said as he stepped away from the bar and took hold of Emily’s arm. “This is Agnes. She works at Shakespeare & Company.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Agnes said in heavily accented English, although her face seemed to be anything but pleased at discovering Tyler had not come to the bar alone. “What are you going to sing?”
“Sing?” Emily cursed herself for lisping the “s,” hated the small twitch of lips as Agnes looked a moment too long at her scar.
“Oui, why would you come to a karaoke bar if you do not sing?” Agnes collected a tray of drinks from the bar, the various glasses chattering together as she went to walk away, then turned back to Emily with a challenge. “Or perhaps you cannot?”
“Let’s just go and join the others, shall we?” Tyler handed Emily a beer, and she scratched one fingernail around its neck as she followed him to the back of the bar and down an industrial staircase that led to a corridor with three doors on both sides. Above each of them was a lightbulb, five of which were shining red, but Agnes stopped outside the one with a white bulb overhead and kicked the door with her shoe. A moment later it opened and ano
ther young woman stuck her head out, this one with long, peroxide-blond hair, whose gaze moved past Agnes to Tyler, then Emily. She said something to Agnes, then came forward to kiss Emily on both cheeks.
“Enchanté,” she said with a smile that reached all the way up to her eyes. “Je suis Clementine.” Emily liked her immediately, not least because she was wearing a tank top and jeans and had paint underneath her fingernails. It made Emily feel a little less self-conscious about her own khaki shorts and plain white T-shirt, a little less aware of how polished, how very French, Agnes was.
Clementine introduced herself to Tyler, then stepped aside to let them into the private karaoke box. Emily had been expecting some kind of padded cell, but the space inside was like a very small, windowless living room, with green seating wrapped around three of the walls, low-level lighting, and an enormous screen next to the door. There was a man fiddling with the control panel just below the screen, muttering to himself. He was wearing tight leather trousers and a shirt emblazoned with flowers, unbuttoned nearly to his navel and showing off the edge of a tattoo. He looked up as they entered, with a frown that turned to a smile as his attention fell on Emily.
“Agnes, tu ne m’as pas dit que tu m’apportais un cadeau,” he said with a bow as he took hold of Emily’s hand and kissed it slowly, then escorted her to the corner of the room and sat her down.
“I don’t…” Emily said, vaguely recalling that cadeau was French for “present.” She looked across to Tyler for an answer, only to find him glaring at them.
“Ignore Frederic,” Agnes said as she shut the door. “He flirts with everyone.”
The soft thud of wood, the decisive click of a lock and Emily’s heart jumped back and forth as she tried to breathe, tried not to panic.
You’re fine. Emily began to tap her fingers against her thigh. You’re fine, she repeated to herself as she stared at the door, at where a moment before there had been a line of sight to a staircase but now there was no window, no light other than the artificial glare coming from a TV screen.
The Book of Second Chances Page 11
