The Note: An uplifting, life-affirming romance about finding love in an unexpected place

by Zoë Folbigg

  Maya takes a bite of honeyed toast with a dry mouth and thirst consumes her. She looks around the kitchen. The water glass she forgot to take to bed last night sits by the sink. A wire rack on the opposite counter displays the offcuts of macaron failure. Dented, blistered, cracked. Maya looks at the broken pistachio shells on the kitchen worktop, but, smiles to herself as she remembers the perfect ones she ended the year making, before going for a meal out, sitting in the freezer now.

  I think I’ve nailed it.

  Maya takes a final bite of toast before leaving the rest for her return and carefully slopes, eyes not yet fully ready for this New Year, down the longest flight of stairs to her trainers on the black and white checked floor by a stained-glass front door. As she laces up her trainers Maya knows she will feel so much better after her run.

  When Maya’s hair turned wavy and Jacob and Florian brought her back to the place she was born, their father Herbert Flowers inspired her to run, citing it as a cure for all ills, but mostly a great opportunity to write haiku. Maya hated those first months of fatigue and thumping. Lump, sweat, wheeze. But on seeing her dad’s upbeat silhouette through the glass in the front door of Jacob’s house, and hearing his chuckles of glee as their feet hit the pavement in unison, she didn’t have the heart to let him know she wasn’t enjoying it. Besides, Maya couldn’t give up; she is one of four children, running was rare time spent alone with her father. As the pair began to run more fluidly, Herbert started to suggest a haiku theme for each run and the two would plod silently side by side. Father hearing the sound of one hand clapping, daughter trying not to let him see her counting syllables on her fingers. Hours later, with tired but satisfied limbs, they would text each other a poem they had created. Maya would always press send self-consciously, worried that Herbert would think it was prose rather than poetry, or that she might have miscounted the syllables. She needn’t have. She couldn’t see it but Herbert always loved them, kicking one leg in the air in delight as he read Maya’s haikus out loud to Dolores from his armchair.

  Running worked. Her father was right about its curative powers. As Herbert pencilled more and more haikus into his lined A5 notebook, Maya ran stronger, seasons changed, and she soon forgot she was ever broken.

  At times, father and daughter would run side by side under an inky sky, not saying a word but breathing in the same Flowers rhythm and puff. Other times Maya would struggle, running behind her father so she could visualise him giving her a piggyback. He’d carry her home while she looked at the criss-cross lines on the back of his pineapple neck, although the comfort he brought made her feel like she was already there. Same short legs under a long lean and muscular back. Same funny flat feet that slightly opened outwards. Same wavy hair, although Maya’s flowed behind her while Herbert’s bounced above.

  Those runs with her father were precious, but as Herbert’s knees weakened and Maya’s life became busier with work and teaching, they stopped running together as much. Herbert’s silhouette doesn’t wait through the stained glass of her new front door now and Maya doesn’t run up to the symmetrical house on the hill. The house that still has the dusty bookshelf in the bedroom, although the wooden figures have disappeared to no-one-knows-where. Father and daughter don’t run to the common where the Flowers children used to climb trees, past the tennis courts and rose fields and down the hill to Hazelworth’s market square and back. Herbert Flowers doesn’t hold out his finger for Maya to squeeze in farewell as she peels off down the road back to Jacob’s house, seeing her future ahead of her. She occasionally creates haikus, but mostly forgets to send them.

  Strong and alone now, Maya runs her street, her route. She runs, turning right out of the road lined with spiky bare hazel trees, onto the zebra crossing by the roundabout and left down the thoroughfare that takes you into the centre of Hazelworth and the market square. The spire of the church looks down disapprovingly at bottles and pint glasses strewn on pavements from last night’s revelry. Maya runs more carefully across the cobbles and down a winding street where sparkling blue bunting crosses overhead, past the florist with slate love hearts in the window; the bridal shop with dresses that look like edible confections; the antiquated barber’s shop; the French-style bakery whose metal shelves are void of rosemary bread and cinnamon swirls today.

  Those first few minutes of a run are always the hardest, but Maya finds her stride as she turns left past the puddings parlour onto a road that runs along a river. Tudor buildings house solicitors’ offices and hair salons and Maya passes a road sweeper heading in the other direction. Maya sees the path to a hill that overlooks the centre of the town and decides to start the year on a positive note and conquer it. Legs have awoken and funny feet feel unstoppable.

  One of Herbert Flowers’ many mantras flashes in her mind as she leans into the hill and up towards the site of the long-since burned-down windmill at the top.

  Imagine a hand at the base of your spine, encouraging you along.

  Breathing becomes more difficult at the summit as Maya winds along a path between two rolling expanses of damp grass, silent and lifeless apart from a squirrel to the left and two lovers kissing frantically on a bench in front of her. The town is behind her. Maya glances back. She wishes she could pinpoint Train Man. He turns right out of the station, she turns left. Where is he sleeping? Who might he love?

  *

  The New Year view from Primrose Hill is more resplendent, more full of hope. London’s skyline looks postcard perfect, even under the grey sky there is an autumnal feel about this chilly midwinter morning and trees still show orange flare in the last dying months of winter. A little boy tries to whizz through the grass on a shiny new scooter, shades of orange and purple stalling under chubby little legs. He looks up at his dad with pleading eyes and a snotty nose.

  ‘You need to go on the path with it, Arlimoo,’ says a loud and loving voice.

  ‘You come with meeee,’ asks the boy, although it’s more of an instruction.

  ‘I’ll go,’ says Nena, jumping up from the bench as she twists her hair in a bun. Black hareem pants and bright trainers dart across the grass to guide the scooter with the boy surfing on it back onto the path.

  Tom observes, long arms outstretched, resting on the top of the bench, huge smile on his face.

  ‘OK, put this foot on the flat bit and your other foot on the floor…’ Nena’s small muscular legs provide a back support for Arlo as she surrounds him to help position him on his favourite Christmas present.

  Tom watches Nena move around his son, mesmerised by the way she arches and leans. Nena moves in front of the scooter facing Arlo and crouches down, nose to nose.

  ‘OK, ready? When I count to three you will start using this lovely strong leg to power yourself forward, OK?’

  ‘Yeth,’ nods Arlo, as enchanted as his daddy.

  ‘One… two… three!’ Nena tugs the handlebars as she glides backwards, pulling Arlo towards her, who starts to scoot as she runs even faster.

  ‘Careful Arlimoo!’ shouts Tom from the bench.

  A shiny brown bowl cut becomes ruffled in the wind, as a beaming face, with a gap between two top teeth, advances towards Nena. Proud, cold, rosy.

  ‘Arghhhh, you’re so good I don’t think I can keep up…’ Nena laughs, still running backwards, bent down to eye level with Arlo, who is scooting with all the strength he has in his little right leg.

  Arlo tires and puts both feet on the board while Nena slows him down. As he draws to a stop, she pretends to fall backwards and rolls acrobatically three times on her black leather biker jacket.

  ‘Ouchy! You sent me spinning!’

  Arlo giggles the delightful gurgles of a boy whose father’s happiness is rubbing off on him.

  Nena looks at his round, contended face and marvels at how she can be up and out at 9 a.m. on New Year’s Day and feel so alive. ‘Arghhhhh you’re so fast you knocked me over!’

  Tom runs over and wraps warming arms around them both. His flat cap blows o
ff in the wind to roars of laughter.

  ‘Come on, let’s get hot chocolate and marshmallows.’

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Maya, can I have a word?’ Lucy stands up from the other side of the desk. Emma darts a diagonal look over to Maya from her seat by the window.

  ‘Yes of course, Lucy.’

  As senior as she is, Lucy doesn’t have her own office yet, but given that she’s already walking off to look for a meeting room, Maya knows this is private and not one of Lucy’s usual chats or instructions from the other side of the Apple divide.

  Emma watches them walk off. Alex turns around to Emma and raises an immaculately arched eyebrow over round horn-rimmed spectacles. No one says a word.

  Clunk. The meeting-room door shuts.

  ‘Maya, I didn’t want to say this in front of the team because I don’t want to put any noses out of joint, but…’

  Maya’s face feels hot.

  ‘…your FASHmas Fairies campaign exceeded all expectations and sales are through the roof year-on-year – and we thought FASHmas Wonderland couldn’t be beaten.’

  Maya lets out a gasp of relief. ‘Wow, that’s great news, Lucy.’

  Maya casts her mind back to the campaign, which featured a team of four high-fashion fairies darting around the home page granting customers’ wishes with inspiration, personal styling advice, gift ideas and discounts.

  ‘Again you totally nailed Christmas and the tone of it for FASH: you communicated all of our key messages so expertly, I wanted to give you this by way of a thank you.’

  Maya looks at the envelope in Lucy’s Barbados tanned hands. It says Cypress Manor Hotel & Spa. She’s never heard of it, but coming from Lucy she imagines it’s very chic.

  ‘I don’t want to shout about it because staff aren’t getting bonuses this year.’

  Lucy casually drops the bombshell as if Maya was in the boardroom when that particular decision was made.

  ‘Staff aren’t getting bonuses? Even though we made a gazillion pounds last year?’ Maya is confused. ‘Rich’s weekly emails always say how profits are up…’

  Lucy nods but cuts Maya off.

  ‘We’re expanding so fast – outgoings are so high – soon FASH will be the world’s number-one fashion brand. No bonus this year is a small price to pay when next year the rewards could be massive.’

  ‘Yeah but for who?’

  Maya has that uncomfortable sensation of a knitting needle being inserted into her stomach and feels sick for all the staff who will be relying on their annual bonus pay packet at the end of the month.

  This isn’t going to go down well.

  Lucy frowns.

  Maya realises she has to measure her face, to not look ungracious when an envelope containing the gift of a luxury getaway is being proffered in front of her by her boss.

  ‘Well I did pull strings, Maya. I spoke to Rich and Rich about this – about you – and they agreed that the Christmas campaign outshone the competition and helped drive sales. So they’ve endorsed this as an exception bonus,’ Lucy says, waving the envelope still in her hands as she gesticulates. ‘No one else will be getting this, Maya.’

  Suddenly Maya feels ungrateful, so she smiles and takes the envelope.

  ‘And look, while we’re here, I’m trying to get sign-off for an editor on the team. I’m far too busy with executive board stuff now and I need someone at the helm of editorial every single hour of every day. Someone I can trust.’

  Her eyes widen encouragingly.

  ‘Wow, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Well just hold that thought because it’s not going to be for a few months, but when I do have the green light, and the budget for the role, I want you to put your hat in.’

  This all feels somewhat overwhelming. Editor? But Maya is flattered.

  Lucy smiles and looks at her Cartier watch, signalling that Maya’s time is up, and heads towards the door and opens it with a smile. Maya walks through, clutching the white envelope, keen to head back to her desk and Google Cypress Manor Hotel & Spa, wondering what she will say to her friends who will be devastated when they hear the news about the bonuses.

  *

  Maya removes her pink cocoon coat and throws it over her lap as she slumps into one of the last remaining seats on this Superior Train. Happy day. A gold star at work and a seat on the train home, when there must only be a couple left in the carriage. Doors beep furiously and a tall figure slides through just before they shut. Maya looks up. Double luck. It’s a double luck day. It happens so rarely, but given that Maya seems to be blessed today, she ought to have expected this. Train Man stands strong, looking up and down the carriage.

  There’s one just there!

  As if he could read Maya’s mind, Train Man cranes his neck and sees the one remaining seat tucked in the corner. Facing each other. On opposite sides of an aisle. Three rows away. Maya most definitely doesn’t mind going backwards. This is a bonus. If she didn’t have a class to teach tonight she could perhaps walk his way home, see where it takes him – a safe distance behind of course, she wouldn’t want him to think she was a stalker.

  Maya smooths down her floral top and co-ord pencil skirt, so beautiful is the print it looks like she stood still while Seurat painted on her blank clothing canvas. Maya wriggles in her seat as she composes herself for the benefit of someone who hasn’t noticed. Heart beating faster.

  Train Man wears a navy peacoat and is wrapped up warm in a lighter blue cable-knit scarf. He pushes his black rectangular glasses up his nose. He looks so cosy Maya wishes she were in his pocket.

  Train Man takes out this morning’s free paper he hasn’t got around to reading yet. Old news. Maya wants to tell him she did really well at work today and has a voucher for a romantic getaway at a luxury hotel and spa in her bag, to be taken next month if he’d like to accompany her. New news. She wants to share all the ridiculousness of her life with him. She wants to get off the train with him because this never happens, go home together, show him her new flat, sack off class, cook him something nurturing and do things to each other that two people who are meant to be together do to each other.

  He folds the paper away and takes out a copy of National Geographic. He locks eyes with a little boy on the cover from an Amazonian tribe and wants to know all about him. He looks up. Olive cheeks turned slightly pink. Overheating in this heated carriage. Hot air blasting at his ankles. He rises slightly out of his seat to take his coat and scarf off. Train Man doesn’t look up for long. Back to his magazine. Back to his train of thought.

  Maya doesn’t know Train Man is thinking about how he can earn money as a photographer. What would Dominic say if he left their partnership? Why didn’t Kitty ask him what his hopes and dreams were for this year?

  The steely noise of electric wheels gliding along track punctuates the silent carriage on the dark evening.

  ‘Tickets please,’ bellows a thuggish-looking man with a square head and stained trousers.

  *

  ‘Bueno clase, es todo por hoy, gracias por venir. Hasta la semana que viene.’

  Even though not all the class understand what Maya just said, the fact that the clock above the poster that says POLISH SWEDISH FOR BEGINNERS is ticking on 9.30 p.m. and she’s shuffling her papers means they know this week’s class is coming to an end.

  Doug helps Jan out of her chair, a chivalrous arm held out is something so normal to them they don’t know how lovely they look to Maya. Glyn packs his beige notebook away into his beige manbag and stands tall in his perfectly pressed – long – beige slacks. Nathaniel stands up, bows and says, ‘Enchanté’ as he backs out of the classroom.

  ‘Ponce,’ Gareth mumbles to his daughter.

  Velma shuffles to the front of the class and presses a piece of paper into Maya’s hand. Maya blushes, confused, then goes to open it.

  ‘Not now, honey,’ Velma waves knowingly as she turns to Ed, but Maya doesn’t understand what just happened.

  ‘Now
tell me, Ed, did you book your flight already?’

  Eager eyes light up as Ed tells Velma that on Good Friday he will fly out to Buenos Aires to be reunited with his girlfriend, Valeria, and meet her family for the first time. Velma once lived in Buenos Aires for a spell and the two have struck up a bond based on a shared love of all things Argentine.

  As Velma and Ed head out of the door at the back of the classroom, Maya puts her bottle of water and phone in her bag. Curiosity gets the better of her and she unfolds the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. An elegant scrawl fills it: 1a Market Place. Whenever you fancy tea and sympathy. Velma x

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘I’m so glad you came!’ Spotted, happy hands clap together as Velma opens the door wider.

  Maya smiles nervously.

  ‘Well I didn’t know if you meant it,’ she says, as Velma beckons her into a treasure trove of clutter, where a seat isn’t adorned without at least three mismatched velvet cushions and you can’t see the walls for books.

  Velma looks puzzled. ‘Why would I say something I didn’t mean?’

  New York attitude meets British reserve.

  ‘Oh, sorry.’

  Maya feels bad. Firstly for imposing on a Sunday afternoon, and secondly for trying to second-guess someone who was just being nice. But something made Maya visit today, although she’s not sure what. As she walks sheepishly into the apartment, she worries she might be breaking a teacher/pupil code that doesn’t apply to volunteers or their septuagenarian students. Especially not two who warmed to each other so naturally.

  Velma takes Maya’s pink cocoon coat and throws it onto a threadbare chair piled with three plump cushions at a console table under an open window. On the other side of it window boxes tell tales of frost and neglect. Gardeners’ Question Time blasts from the radio in the kitchen just off the living area where two mismatched camelback sofas reveal elegant wooden ankles below colourful tasselled throws and more velvet cushions.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ Velma says with affected British propriety.