Page 52 of The Key to My Heart

I leave out the fact his name is on it, and I haven’t had a chance to mark it off yet. ‘God, barely anyone now. Maxwell was on it for a while. Jodie thinks I should add Rob and Teddy, Russ’s brothers, which I hadn’t considered. I think Edie’s the only name on there, at the moment. Which feels like shitting in my own cornflakes, because she’s who I really don’t want it to be.’

Tom chews, thinks. The boiler on the wall clicks twice, then rumbles, like something igniting. ‘Well, maybe stop shitting in your own cornflakes,’ he says with a smile. ‘Plus, it probably isn’t Edie. It could be anyone. I mean, you play music to thousands of people every week, and if you think about it, you make a difference all the time to people you don’t even know. Strangers.’

‘I wouldn’t say I make a difference, Tom,’ I scoff a laugh, cut a corner from my scrambled eggs on toast. The toast is as hard as plaster. I could probably tile the bathroom with it. ‘Honestly, nobody really listens to me at the station. That’s why I think it must be someone I know.’

‘Natalie, you play to loads of people every day—’

‘Who have no idea who I am, who have places to go, jobs to get to, countries to visit—’

‘But they listen.’

‘Well,yeah,but they listen because they have no excuse but to listen. I’m literally playing in the middle of a public place. In a train station, where people a lot of the time have no choice but to be. I’m ramming it down their throats really.’ I laugh.‘I know you’re trying to get to a job you despise grumpy man in a suit, but here, listen to me! Oh, you don’t want to? Tough titties!’

Tom laughs and puts down his fork. ‘You seriously think nobody likes your playing, that nobody’s day is made by hearing you …’

I give a shrug. ‘Nobody’s really taking any notice. Honestly.’

‘Surethey’re not.’ Tom shakes his head, a wordless ‘I give up’, and says, ‘you’re wrong by the way,’ and picks up his fork again. ‘So. Come on. How was Notebook Joe?’

‘Oh. He was …’ And I grin. I can’t help it. It over-takes my face like a rash. ‘He was lovely. Honestly, we had such a nice afternoon. We chatted and laughed and – he gets it. He gets the music and creativeblockand not feeling like who you used to be and – he even helped me. With ideas for the cottage.’

‘Ideas?’

‘Just how maybe it might help, if I think about what Russ wanted. For the house. He decorated this amazing beach hut for his brother. Sort of – in his honour? He said it helped.’

‘I see,’ says Tom. ‘And are you going to do that here?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I reply, ‘but it’s given me something to think about, you know? Anyway, we’ve arranged to goto some food festival together next week. He booked tickets.Me,Thomas. A food festival. When scrambled eggs is right up there as one of my greatest culinary accomplishments. I reckon I’ll set fire to a few food tents just being present.’

Tom gives a slight smile. ‘Wow. That’s … So an actual date, eh, Foxes?’

‘No,’ I jump in. ‘No, I don’t think it’s a date. Well, it doesn’t feel datey anyway, to me. At least not yet. But it’s nice, don’t get me wrong. Meeting someone new.A guy.And having him just totally understand what I’m going through, not expecting me to be a certain way. He totally got the guilt stuff …’

‘I’m glad,’ says Tom sincerely. And I’m surprised, because I expected, like always from Tom, the teasing, the ribbing. ‘And – did you find out?’ he asks now. ‘What’s in the notebook? Please say you know what’s in the notebook.’

‘Oh my God, Tom, Idid.’

‘Say it.’

‘Poems!’

Tom makes a sound like someone just stabbed him in the heart with a stake. ‘Poems? Holy shit, I knew it. I would have laid my entire life on it. My kidneys. Mysoul.’

‘Yep. You nailed it.’

‘Please tell me he’s not like those men on Instagram though. You know, who try to write poems on toilet paper with their own cigarette ash and remnants of their irritable bowels …’

I burst out laughing. ‘No! No, no, honestly. I mean, I don’t actually know. He’s got writer’s block, not written in ages, but – no. I would guess not. Thank God. I didn’t get any cigarette ash, bowel-y feelings anyway …’

‘Ofcoursehe’s a poet,’ says Tom.

‘And a surfer. Well, he used to surf. On the beach. With his brother.’

Tom meets my gaze across the counter and shakes his head slowly, like someone disappointed in the news. ‘You’re gonna be toast,’ he says.

‘What?!’

‘A risk-taking, surfing poet. EvenIfancy him.’

---