Page 7 of The Book Swap

“It’s the least I can do,” I say, and Dad frowns. Fixes his light brown eyes on me. Opens his mouth to speak.

“Last call for anyone to enter the talent contest,” a voice announces, booming across the speakers.

“How about it, J.J.?” he says. “You could read that chapter of yours?” His eyes won’t leave my face, so I try not to show my genuine reaction. I roll my eyes, laughing, but my chest tightens at the mention of my chapter. It’s the one thing I wish I’d never told Dad, because he’s the only person who won’t let me forget it. The creative writing course in London I did a few years ago, where I got shortlisted in a “best first chapter” competition. I’ve left it to sit there in an unopened document on my laptop ever since. Better to keep it as one perfect chunk than try to finish it and fuck up the whole thing.

“I’ll do that if you sing that Christmas single that never got released,” I say, raising an eyebrow at him.

Dad wraps an arm around Mum and raises an eyebrow of his own, turning to talk loudly out of the corner of his mouth. “Think I touched a nerve there.”

3

ERIN

I squeeze through the double doors of the Cheese & Grain, trying to avoid damaging my already fragile cardboard book pages. I swallowed my pride and called my sister, Georgia, asking for help with my costume. She obliged, with the minimal effort I stated was required. If anyone sneezes, the whole piece will fall apart. On the front, in felt tip, she’s written “One Night in Erin.”

Georgia has come as a Barbie, complete with a neon pink boob tube and a long brown wig covering her usual short bob of the same color. The outfit is so unlike anything she’d ever wear that it feels like I’m hanging out with someone else.

“You do know Erin sounds nothing like heaven?” I say, following her to the bar.

“Bad puns are even funnier than good ones.” She spins around and winks at me, her pink lips glowing under the lights.

The conversation stops because ahead of me is the photo wall of Bonnie, all the pictures blown up so big it’s like she’s here in this room. The largest is her proudest photo. The headshot that was taken when, at twenty-six, she became the youngest ever editor of Voice Magazine. She was in the job for less than a year.

Leaving Georgia at the bar, I walk toward the wall, running my eyes across Bonnie through the ages. As a baby, big bouncing curls on top of her head. As a stroppy teen, arms folded, always in the same combat trousers. There’s the one of me and Bonnie in the Frome pub she loved the most, The Griffin. I didn’t know they had that picture. It was taken the night she asked to go out one last time, the way we used to. She wasn’t well enough but she insisted it was possible, and somehow she made it happen. Within two weeks she was in hospice. Within a month she was dead.

That night she put on sequins. She wanted to talk about boys and life, like we always did, except there was one big difference in the conversation. We could only talk about my life in the future, or hers in the past. I found it hard to be myself. How could she expect me to act the way we always did, when everything had changed?

“I’ve got a question for you,” she said. My least favorite of her sentences. “What makes you happy? Truly happy.”

“You,” I said without hesitation, and she rolled her eyes.

“I was about to say it can’t be a person.”

I looked at her. Black curly wig, pretty similar to what her hair used to look like, before she lost it. Her head tilted to one side. The sparkle still firmly in her warm brown eyes. That was the last thing she lost. They were wide, like they always were when she was really listening. She’s the only person who’s ever looked at me like that.

“Fine,” I said, taking her hand across the table. “If it can’t be you, then it would be making you proud. That’s what makes me happy.”

We locked eyes then, so much unsaid. We both knew I wasn’t just telling the truth, I was saying it because there were times when I hadn’t done that. When maybe I’d done the opposite.

“Bonnie, I—”

She shook her head. “I know.” She smiled across at me. “You don’t need to say it, Erin. Just promise me you’ll live a good life. A happy one. You’re not just living it for you now, you know? You’re living it for me too.”

My eyes flooded with tears, as I bit my lip and nodded.

“In case you ever need a reminder,” she said, pushing an envelope across the table. “Open it now and I’ll kill you. I’ll tell everyone about the time you kissed Darren Whitcroft behind the science block when you were meant to be dating his brother.”

My mouth fell open, allowing me to feel some happiness through my tears. She always came up with a different threat when she wanted to get her way. Who would do that when she was gone?

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

I opened the envelope when I got home. Inside was a card with an A. A. Milne drawing and a quote. On the back, in Bonnie’s bold, neat writing, she had just written the words: Don’t forget to make all your dreams come true!

It’s my most prized possession.

Georgia joins me, quietly placing a large glass of white wine in my hand.

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