by Ali Berg
Dino: Bea, I think it would be best if you found somewhere else to host Next Chapter. Everything’s just too complicated, so I’m moving on from Bea Babbage.
‘Motherfucker!’
A couple of curious, bleary-eyed faces popped up from behind laptops.
Bea put up her hand in apology, then pointed to her phone and said, ‘Clients! Am I right?’
She fell back in her chair, swivelling away from prying eyes. She knew that they had left things on a weird note. But Bea and Dino were constantly on a weird note. She didn’t think he would let that get in the way of business. Of her dream. What the hell am I going to do? She racked her brain, a familiar tightness returning to her chest. Next Chapter was only a week and a half away, how would she find another suitable location in such a short amount of time? Not to mention what this would mean for the press the event had already received. If people rocked up to the wrong venue it would be a public relations nightmare! This was the absolute last thing she needed. Consumed by a bitter rage she had never known before, she shook her head and clicked her phone to life once more.
Bea: Thanks a lot, Dino. Thanks a heap for leaving me high and dry NINE DAYS BEFORE THE EVENT!!!!!!! If I didn’t think you were impossible and selfish before, I certainly do now!
Two minutes later, her phone lit up again. Bea had begun pacing awkwardly around her small desk and was dizzy with frustration.
Dino: I’m not being selfish. I’m giving us space.
Bea: Great. I’ll take all the space I can get. And you better not eat a single one of my jelly babies!!
Bea stared at her phone, willing it to stay quiet and light up all at the same time. When it remained mute, she let out a long, exaggerated sigh. What have I done? She shouldn’t have gone to see Dino last night. Why couldn’t she just let sleeping dogs lie?
Swinging her bag over her shoulder, she hobbled down the narrow corridor, cursing Dino all the way to the front door.
Bea: Liz? Tell me you’re almost here.
Lizzie: I’ve just finished my meeting. I’m five minutes away.
Bea: Good. Meet me at Borsch, Vodka and Tears in five.
Lizzie: Vodka? At this time of day?
Bea: Trust me. I need it.
‘He can’t just pull out of Next Chapter like that!,’ Lizzie said, sipping on her Diet Coke. They were seated in the corner of the dark empty bar that smelled like beetroots and alcohol.
‘It’s a disaster, Liz.’ Bea took a big gulp of her vodka soda, letting the bubbles pop on her tongue before swallowing down the bitter liquid.
‘Okay,’ Lizzie said, eyes down, now scrolling through her phone. ‘I have a plan.’
Bea nodded. She was eager to hear how Lizzie was going to solve this one.
‘I’m thinking a huge event,’ Lizzie said, still tapping away at her phone. ‘And we’ll make it more of a dating thing, you know? I went to this awesome Tinder launch party a few years back and it was epic. Hot, sexy, fun – just the sort of thing you want. No offence, but just books alone can be a bit drab, you know?’
Not this again. ‘Well, hot and sexy isn’t exactly our angle,’ Bea replied.
‘That’s just the thing, honey. It’s not “ours” anymore. It’s yours! No more Dino means you can make it your own. Less conservative, and a hell of a lot more saucy. We’ll dress you up really sexy too. Not slutty sexy, just elegant sexy. I’ve got this amazing dress in mind. Backless, black, tight. I’ll email the designer to see whether we can borrow one for the night. Usually he’d want me to be seen it, but you know, you’re family, so we can try. Emailing now!’ Lizzie typed quickly into her phone.
Bea watched Lizzie mumble under her breath as she quickly crafted an email, her thumbs dancing across her phone with spitfire precision. She could picture exactly what Lizzie had in mind: red velvet tablecloths, shots flowing, music pumping, a photobooth! The books would become inconsequential, it would just be another excuse to be seen and to maybe get somebody’s number. She knew Lizzie wanted Next Chapter to succeed, and she admired her flair, but this just wasn’t Bea. And Bea couldn’t let the integrity of Next Chapter be affected. She would not be a sellout! Not this time.
‘No,’ Bea said quietly.
‘Nonsense, Bea. It’ll be great.’ Lizzie continued to type.
‘Please, Liz. I said no.’
‘What’s gotten into you, Bea? I’m just trying to help.’ Lizzie’s brow was furrowed – well, as furrowed as you could get when your forehead was choked with Botox.
‘That’s exactly it, Lizzie. Maybe I don’t need your help. Not like this. Our whole life, you were always claiming to be helping me get a good boyfriend, a job, a body, a life, when really it’s just been you telling me what to do, not listening to who I am or what I want, and me going along with it. And Lizzie, I love you so much, I really do, but I’m not that person anymore. I have to make my own decisions now and do what I think is right,’ Bea said, surprising even herself with her honesty and directness.
‘I get that, honey. But I’m just looking out for you, you know that, right?’
‘I know you are, Liz. I know. But I’m not who you think I am any more. I’m no longer going to be defined by my connections to other people: Lizzie’s little sister, Martin’s daughter, Cassandra’s best friend.’ Bea flinched at the name. ‘So many women fall into that trap, and I don’t want to be like that anymore. I’m the new Bea.’ She pointed to her haircut. ‘Which is basically the same as old Bea, except she’s not afraid anymore.’ Bea half-laughed, relieved.
Lizzie looked at Bea for a moment, saying nothing (which was new for her). Her eyes seemed to grow wider, almost as if she was finally seeing her sister for the first time.
‘Okay. Okay. I like that. The new-old Bea.’
A new-old Bea that Bea felt more comfortable with.‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Lovely to meet you too,’ Lizzie replied. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like my sister?’
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Our books are one of the same
Dear Bea,
I came across your Wanted sign slapped to a tree outside The Little Brunswick Street Bookstore last night. And while I can’t help you find the owner, I do own one quite similar. It’s covered in the same lowercase annotations and underlines. But instead of Meeting Oliver Bennett, my scribbles belong to Norwegian Wood.
Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for the poignant thoughts that dot its pages, having acquired it in such a state from a little second-hand bookstore in Sassafras. Maybe enquire there?
Enjoy the power of your book and good luck finding its owner!
Regards,
Gerard
Helloisthisyourbook
On the hunt
So here’s an update for you. I’m dragging my sorry arse all the way to Sassafras because I’ve been sent a lead from the literary gods/a lovely gentleman who frequented a second-hand bookstore, and picked up a book WITH THE SAME SCRIBBLES AS MINE. Can you believe the odds? Please don’t judge me for trekking all the way out to the mountains. I’m desperate. And, as Veronica Roth wrote, ‘Desperation can make a person do surprising things.’
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Comments (32)
gossipqueen89: You go gurl!
Booksontherail: Wowee!! Keep us posted. And please send through a new Mystery Writer quote, I need more worldly wisdom in my life.
StephenPrince: @NoOffenceBut I agree with Veronica Roth! PS Meet me at our favourite Thai place this Sat night at 8pm?
NoOffenceBut: @StephenPrince, please stop publicising our relationship online.
Sexyboy98: You’re hot.
Botboy76: Like my page please.
‘Excuse me, have you seen this book before?’
Bea was standing in a small bookstore in Sassafras. Situated up in the mountains, it was even icier than in the city. She was wearing her puffer jacket, a red woollen scarf and matching beanie, and her heavy moon
boot, and still she found herself shivering.
The older woman standing behind the counter picked up Bea’s copy of Meeting Oliver Bennett and began flicking through the pages. A pair of purple reading glasses sat on her head, which bobbed up and down as she skimmed various pages; she eventually put them on, allowing her to inspect the inscriptions more carefully.
Bea looked around. The store had a wholesome, antique feel to it and smelled of the rich, woody scent of second-hand books. The shelves were so tightly crammed with a mix of new and old books that they appeared concave, as though they were in a constant state of exhaling.
‘I haven’t seen this book in a long while,’ the woman finally cooed.
Bea jumped, all ears. ‘You remember it?’
‘Of course. All those beautiful inscriptions, they’re a masterpiece in their own right.’ The woman smiled fondly. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘At The Little Brunswick Street Bookstore. Do you have any idea how it could have gotten there?’ Bea asked urgently.
The lady shook her head, ‘I wish I did, isn’t it amazing where books travel to? Almost like they have a mind of their own,’ she supposed, closing the book and gently placing it on the counter between them.
‘Do you remember who gave the book to you originally?’
‘Of course, she was a local.’
She? Bea’s heart raced.
‘She lived just up the road for years, used to pop by all the time. She was a ravenous reader and loved a good chat!’ The woman chuckled.
‘You said “lived”? She doesn’t live around here anymore? Do you know where she went?’
The woman returned her glasses to the top of her head, her energy fading. ‘She passed away not long ago now. It was a big loss for the community. She was a beautiful lady, somebody who really knew how to bring people together. ’
Bea was crestfallen, an unexpected grief thumping heavily against her chest. The person behind all of those beautiful thoughts and curiosities couldn’t be gone. ‘What was her name?’
‘Alena. Alena Loris. God, how she used to make me laugh! Not long before she passed, she donated a whole stack of books. There were a couple more that were filled with notes and highlights, just like this one. Exquisite commentary, each telling their own truth. Those ones didn’t last long, practically ran out the door when people discovered what was inside. I’m sure I kept one though. It should be here somewhere.’ The woman bent down, so all Bea could see were her glasses, balancing unsteadily on the top of her head. She rustled about under the counter. After a minute or so, she stood up, clasping a faded cover in her hand. ‘Here we go.’ The woman dusted off the book and handed Bea a copy of The Children Act.
Bea peeled it open, almost afraid to look. She shifted slightly, placing less weight on her injured ankle. When she saw what was inside, her chest tightened. Just like her copy of Meeting Oliver Bennett, the pages were accented by little annotations and frantic underlines in the same delicate handwriting that looped and coiled into each other. Bea’s throat felt thick, and her eyes began to well up.
‘What is it, dear?’ The woman placed her bony hand on Bea’s arm.
‘Oh, it’s stupid. It’s just … it probably sounds strange, but I’ve sort of fallen in love with these scribbles. And I just so desperately wanted to meet who wrote them.’ Bea realised that she probably sounded insane. ‘To me, they were always the main character of the book. And for some reason, that made me feel like an important character in the world too.’
‘That’s not silly, dear.’
Bea smiled, grateful for her validation, but her heart was slowly sinking. All this time she had spent searching for her Mystery Writer, for The One at the end of the ball-point pen, and now she was gone? What have I been wasting my time on? Bea closed her eyes and tried to imagine Alena Loris. She would have been kind, oh so kind. And she would have smelled like gingerbread. Definitely. The sort of inspirational woman who couldn’t care less about what other people thought. The sort of woman Bea aspired to be. Oh, how I wish I could’ve met her.
Opening her eyes and shifting through the pages of the new book again, she stared down at them blankly until realisation hit her. ‘Where did she live?’
‘Oh gosh, I think it was somewhere near the end of Kenneth Crescent. She once had me over for tea and baklava. If you think the quotes in these books are good, you should’ve tasted her cooking!’
Bea smiled, lightened by the knowledge that the Mystery Writer had charm. Not that she’d doubted they would. ‘Is that far from here?’
‘No, just a couple of streets away. You could probably walk it,’ the woman said slowly, looking sceptically at Bea’s hefty moon boot. ‘But I’m pretty sure the family sold the place. There’d be new tenants in there by now.’
Bea ignored the woman’s pragmatism. ‘What did the place look like?’
‘It was small, but something about it reminded me of a humbler version of Tara. You know, from—’
‘Gone with the Wind,’ Bea finished her sentence abruptly. She wasn’t usually one to pass up an opportunity to discuss Margaret Mitchell’s masterpiece, but she was on a mission. ‘Can I take this book? I’ll pay anything for it! I know it must mean a lot to you,’ Bea said in a rush.
The woman appraised Bea, registering her enthusiasm. ‘You know what? It’s all yours. I think you need it more than I do.’ When Bea tried to grab her wallet from her bag, the woman waved her off. ‘Consider it a gift from one bonafide bookworm to another.’ And she turned around, busying herself with the shelves behind her.
Bea smiled, repeated her thanks, and tried her best to get out of the bookstore as quickly as possible.
Bea perched herself against the trunk of an old jacaranda tree, panting heavily. She had walked as swiftly as her encumbered self could go to Kenneth Crescent, her moon boot dragging stoically behind her. Not believing her luck, she tried to compose herself, worried that any sudden movement would make it all disappear before her very eyes. She must have read Mystery Writer’s scribbles over a hundred times, analysing every word, every curve and slope. Looking for hidden meanings and insights into who they were. And now, Bea was so close to finding out more about the true Mystery Writer.
Spying the humble home that sat neatly in the crook of the dead-end street, Bea peeled herself away from the tree and limped towards the fence. Running her fingers along its stout edge, she tried to picture the old lady the woman at the bookshop had described, sitting on the little patio reading her novels and pouring her heart into them as though they were her children. If only these planks could talk!
‘Can I help you?’
Bea looked up to find an older gentleman staring at her from the property next door. He held a bulging brown paper bag and stared at her with the sort of expression that said, Do I call the police?
‘Sorry, I was just passing by.’ Bea fell over her words, feeling a little foolhardy.
The man continued to eye her suspiciously.
‘But I guess, while you’re here …’ Bea began, trying her luck.
He didn’t say anything.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Yes,’ clearly a man of few words.
‘Alena, the lady who lived next door to you, did you know her?’
‘You an old friend or something?’
‘You could say that,’ Bea said, patting her handbag, which now held both Meeting Oliver Bennett and The Children Act. ‘I found something that belonged to her, and I know she’s not around anymore, but I wondered if I might be able to track down a relative, and try and return it to the family.’
‘I knew her. But not well.’ His mouth twisted, as if he was remembering something unpleasant.
‘Oh? What was she like?’ Bea tried to sound calm, but she was losing it on the inside.
‘She mostly lived on her own. And I’m not much of a chatter. Obviously,’ he trailed off, rattling his keys and eyeing his front door.
‘You sure you don’t remember a
nything else? What about old mail? Anything ever get sent here accidentally?’
The man scratched his thick whiskers. ‘Even if I did have some of her mail, do you think I’d give it to you? You could be some loony for all I know,’ he said without a hint of humour. ‘Anyway, these beers won’t chill themselves.’ He gestured to the bag he was holding.
Bea smiled, trying to hide her frustration, and faked a knowing nod. What an anticlimax. She turned to go, then stopped. ‘Hey!’ she called. ‘Can I leave my number? In case you remember anything else?’
The man scrutinised her again, his wariness clear as day. After a couple of beats, he shrugged. ‘Fine. But don’t hold your breath.’
Bea muttered her gratitude and scribbled her number down on an old receipt she found in her wallet.
He took it from her and said, ‘Now get outta here, you’re giving me the creeps!’
Bea laughed nervously and made her way back down the street. ‘Call me, okay? If you remember anything. Anything at all!’
‘Nothing. I did a thorough online search, and I couldn’t find anybody called Alena Loris. Well, nobody who meets the description of the Sassafras lady,’ Bea called out to Zach as he made dinner in the other room. She was nestled in the corner of her couch, legs up, The Children Act propped open on her lap, laptop beside her. She had spent the whole afternoon combing each and every little jotting for clues. Zach’s five o’clock personal training client had cancelled, so he had taken the opportunity to get to Bea’s early and whip up a romantic dinner. ‘I’ve skimmed through the whole of The Children Act, and there’s nothing obvious jumping out at me. This one doesn’t seem to be quite as full of annotations, which surprises me.’
She opened to a page at random and inhaled the scribbles as if they were a drug she couldn’t get enough of. Words like mellifluous and hypnotise, and sentences like big ideas have small beginnings jumped off the pages. But she was still just as clueless as ever as to the true motivation and inner workings of the Mystery Writer.
