Page 14 of One Summer

‘Okay, Mum. I’ll be a petsitter on Loor.’

‘Just give it a ponder. You could follow your passions.’

‘I have to go now.’

She sighs, sounding defeated. ‘Send our best to Max.’

I pause. This would be the time to come clean. ‘Will do.’

‘We love you, Lindy. You know that, right? Whatever happens, we love you and are so proud of you.’

She loves me and is so proud of me? She never says stuff like this.

She knows. Somehow, she knows.

Twelve

Smell

I end the call and turn my face to the river. It has that smell today. Not the one where there’s been a sewage release due to heavy rainfall and the Thames pongs like a septic tank. Today, it smells like the ocean. I feel a pang in my heart. I grew up by the sea. Beach every day, whatever the weather. It was so normal that I never appreciated it and the lure of the city drew me away the first chance I got. I wanted the buzz of great nightlife, fabulous restaurants and a thousand sexy strangers, not the same old faces who all knew my name, my family and every megabyte of my business.

But after three years, I’m starting to yearn for the sight of the sea, for the crashing waves of the Cornish coast. London is great and I still love the buzz, but living here, trying to eke out a living on low wages with debatable career prospects does not feel the same as it did when I was a starry-eyed graduate dreaming of a high-flying career as an editor at a multinational publishing company. I thought I’d have a tight-knit circle of friends by now, who met for Sunday brunch and mid-week cocktails. Instead, what I have is groaning credit card debt, a boss who hates me and a welly-wearing ex-boyfriend who holds hands with a woman he found on YouTube.

I sit down on a bench and put my head in my hands.

This is bad. In one day, I’ve been dumped by my boyfriend and given a final warning by my boss. My life here is hanging by a thread. Is this a sign? Is this the universe trying to point me in a certain direction? Due west?

The job my mum mentioned flickers in my head. Not the bookshop, obviously. That would be dire, but it would be something special to live on Loor. Petsitting would give me time to think. I’d get fresh air and exercise. I’d be inspired and creative. And there would be nobody looking over my shoulder, checking up on me. That had to be better than working in an office for a nepo-baby narcissist who doesn’t trust me with anything beyond the most basic office admin tasks.

But this is just daydreaming. If the petsitting position hasn’t already been filled, it soon will be. It’ll be like the warden job on Lundy Island. People will be only too keen to leave behind their normal lives and run away to a rock in the middle of the sea. I’m living proof of that. Just the sniff of Loor Island, and I’m already mentally arranging my suitcase.

It would be a poke in the eye to Max, though, if I got a job there. I could just pick up and leave. I wouldn’t even have to tell him. Perhaps I’d leave a box of his possessions outside his flat. Why aim for some big emotional closure scene? I already have closure. He’s moved on and that’s all I need to know.

It’s stupid to be so upset. I loved him, but was I ever in love with him? Maybe a little bit. I don’t know. He was fine, but deep down, I think I always knew it wasn’t going anywhere. We were similar in temperament, which made it easy, but it was also lazy. We didn’t challenge each other. We didn’t have to tolerate the ‘other’ in each other. Our differences didn’t have to be overcome because they weren’t any, not really. With the exception of his mudlarking hobby, we liked to do the same things, in the same ways, on the same days. Good coffee at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning. A run in the park on Sunday afternoon. Nice mini breaks to European destinations that didn’t require too much effort on our part and certainly no jet lag. Soothing, calming blandness was the main vibe of our relationship.

No emotional stretching. No drama. No passion.

It wasn’t the great love that my parents so obviously share. The way they look at each other, even after all these years, is unmistakeable. They still adore each other. Still fancy each other. Still take a rubbish day and make it better by blasting their favourite songs and dancing around the kitchen as they put the dishes away.

People talk about how growing up in the shadow of a toxic parental relationship can mess you up for life, but nobody talks about what it’s like to grow up with parents who worship each other. You’re supposed to be blessed with a ‘secure attachment style’ but what happens when all you feel is inadequate because you know that you will never find a love like that?

My mum’s right, though. As a girl, I’d loved novels. I’d believed in the power of the imagination much more than I’d believed in dry facts to get to the truth of things. I thought classic novels gave me an insight into human nature. I was so mature, I thought, reading the sages of the nineteenth century. Immersing myself in a fictional past seemed so much more appealing than dealing with the twenty-first-century present of climate change, plastic pollution and ecological disaster.

Something changed, because now I’m sick at the sight of bestselling novels. Despite once feeling that books were everything to me, I can’t seem to finish one of my own. When it comes to setting down words on the page, my brain freezes up with the pressure of all those amazing novels bearing down on my head.

I work every day with modern masterpieces: literary fiction tomes that win prizes and rave reviews in prestigious publications, and commercial bestsellers, brilliant in their grasp of human nature and their ability to get readers turning the pages.

Instead of fostering a deeper need to create my own stories, all it’s fostered is a sense of inadequacy. I joined writing groups and was advised to never compare my first draft with the polished final drafts of professionally edited authors, but how do you not do that?

At least in jewellery making, I can be creative without having to tie myself in knots about plot holes.

My phone beeps again. It’s from Max.

I need to tell you something that’s going to be difficult for you to hear.

Thirteen

Grenade

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