Page 13 of One Summer

‘I remember a time when you’d be messaging me excitedly with book recommendations. What happened to that girl? You lived for stories. You said it made you a time traveller. You could go anywhere you wanted, experience everything the world had to offer. Not only just this world, either. Do you remember that year you read nothing but sci-fi? I’ve never seen you so energised. You wanted to be an astronaut and go to Mars.’

‘I was nine.’

‘Even so, you were very mature for your age. You had passion. You had a very rich inner life.’

‘And now I have a very busy outer life. There’s been a lot going on. It’s not like I have endless hours to fill by hiding away in my room and avoiding talking to people.’

‘You could listen to audiobooks on the commute back from the office. It would take your mind off Scotty.’

She’s still not asked me about Max. She always asks about Max. Does she somehow know we’ve split up? He wouldn’t have texted her, would he? Could Henny know already? Has she texted my mother? Is that what’s happening here? Is my mother trying to soothe me by pretending she doesn’t know anything while simultaneously trying to get me to move to Cornwall?

Of course that’s what’s happening.

‘I could listen to audiobooks, but I don’t want to,’ I say.

Because that would feel like work. For the past three years, all my waking hours have been dominated by books, their agents, editors, publicists and crucially, their authors. The lucky authors who get to see the stories of their imaginations come to life, instead of daydreaming over a concept that will never see the light of day.

‘Then write your own book,’ she says. ‘Write your book during the day and make your jewellery in the evenings.’

I have so many empty notebooks, given to me by friends who know how much I’ve always dreamed of writing my own stories. But I could never get past the sense that I was doing it all wrong. Could never even get past the first page before the fright set in.

The truth is that I’ve come to dislike books. In those same dark hours of the night, I’ve started to wonder if I’ve come to hate books. And most of all, I resent the little girl who sincerely believed that books were at the root of all happiness. Who thought she could dream her way to a better life.

‘Are you listening to me, Lindy? You’ve gone quiet. You’re worrying me.’

‘I lost my earbuds, but I’ll buy some new ones and listen to an audiobook. I promise.’

‘Try Jane Eyre. It’s free, you know, because it’s out of copyright.’

‘I know it’s out of copyright, Mum. Charlotte Brontë died over a hundred and fifty years ago. And no thanks. Rochester sets off my creep-o-meter and I can’t stand the school scenes – they’re like how Enid Blyton would’ve written her boarding-school books if she hadn’t had an editor badgering her to make them more upbeat and aspirational. How’s Dad?’

‘He’s fine. Busy in the garden. He sends his love. How are you and Max?’ she asks, at last. Her voice is airy, and I can’t tell if the airiness is genuine or manufactured.

‘Well, we’re not getting married, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’

Since, as of just a few minutes ago, Max and I are apparently no longer even together.

I can’t talk about this with her. If I try, I’ll get choked up and Mum will get on the next train to Paddington and then I’ll have to put her up on a camp-bed in my room until she deems me sufficiently soothed. Plus, the thought of saying the words ‘Gothic Girl Greta’ to my own mother makes me want to stick my head in an ice-fishing hole. She has a smart phone now. She’ll look her up. She’ll see the glamour shots. All the baroque buttons.

‘When will you next come down to visit us, do you think? You know you’re always welcome.’

‘I’ll come and visit as soon as I can.’

This should placate her. I haven’t given her a time frame, but it’ll buy me some time until I figure out what I’m going to do.

‘You won’t mind if I send you the job application for the island bookshop?’ she says. ‘I took a photo of the advert. I know how to send photos now. Your dad thinks he might even know the owner of the bookshop from his school days. He’s not sure, but he might have an “in” for you.’

‘Mum, I do not want to work in a bloody bookshop. I’ve done it before, and I cannot think of anything I’d like to do less at this precise juncture of my life. Please drop it.’

‘It was just an idea… How do you feel about petsitting?’

‘What?’ I say, thoroughly exasperated now and wishing the call was over.

‘It’s just… there was another advert in there about someone who wants a responsible sitter to watch their pets and water their plants for six months. You’re responsible.’

‘Am I, Mum?’

‘Very. The pay’s probably rubbish, but you’d have no rent to worry about and the house has a sea view. It would give you time to concentrate on your jewellery making. I think it’s a jolly good opportunity for someone at your stage of life.’

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