Page 2 of Before You Say Goodbye

“Yes,” she said, a little stupidly.

“Good, can I sit beside you?” Bluebell asked. “I have to warn you, I’m a talker.”

“Sure,” Autumn said. Like most writers, Autumn loitered in cafés, but not usually this one. She was alone in New York and she liked it that way. Her quest for solitude was the reason she’d moved as far away from home as she could get. She hardly ever haunted the same place for long because she was afraid people would try to get to know her. She had a whole day of writing planned and rarely broke away from her routine. But there was something about Bluebell. She looked like a dream and felt like an answer. Autumn wanted to be near her. She’d never felt like this about a woman before. There was something there she could not explain. A pull. Some sort of draw.

“I hate it when men do that.” Bluebell pulled Autumn from her reverie. “He seemed like such a top bloke at first, giving you that drink when he knew your purse story was bullshit.”

Autumn frowned in confusion.

“He winked at me when you finally admitted you didn’t have it. I thought the whole thing was sweet. Then he called me ‘sugar’, and I just . . . ugh! It’s one step too close to patronisation station and it makes my skin crawl.”

Autumn laughed at her phraseology, making a mental note to use it in a book one day. Bluebell smiled.

“You don’t think I’m being a prick, do you?” she asked. “Overreacting or some shit?”

“Absolutely not,” Autumn replied reassuringly. Bluebell looked relieved.

“I like your shirt,” she said, gesturing to Autumn’s plain white blouse. “I wish I was the type of woman who could wear stuff like that, but anything white I wear always ends up covered in coffee or food.”

Autumn wishedshewas the type of woman who could approach strangers in cafés and strike up a conversation, but she didn’t say that aloud. She wanted Bluebell to think she was friendly and inquisitive. That wouldn’t happen if she was her usual self, right away. Autumn had a talent for speaking to men, but not to women. She always felt as though they were judging her. If she wanted Bluebell to like her, she really needed to concentrate.

“I don’t eat a lot,” she said, admiring the bright white of her favourite piece of clothing. “But I do drink a lot of brown drinks.”

“Ah.” Bluebell nodded her understanding and Autumn thought she saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. “I get it. I used to ‘not eat a lot’, too.”

Autumn tensed, but then Bluebell smiled, flashing dimples so flawlessly formed they were almost a cliché. Autumn was relieved. She’d expected her new acquaintance to launch into some sort of recovery speech. That had happened to her before and Autumn hated it. It was the reason she’d learned to hide her issues so expertly.

A few moments passed, just long enough that Autumn was starting to panic about what they would discuss next. She opened her mouth to say something — anything — but before she had a chance to say something stupid, Bluebell mercifully heaved herself into conversation.

“I noticed you ordered almond milk.” She nodded at Autumn’s drink. It sounded like a question, so Autumn answered.

“I’m vegan.” she said, bracing herself for an onslaught of irritated questioning. Bluebell grinned.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “I was raised vegan.”

“How cool,” Autumn said. “I don’t think my mum knows what a vegan is.”

“My parents are as liberal as they come.” Bluebell shook her head as though she was embarrassed. Autumn could tell somehow that she was not. “They’re opinionated and unafraid. Strange and unashamed.They forced us to think about the serious stuff. My siblings and I are all crammed full of verdicts because of it. Like not-so-mini-anymore versions of our parents. Still, we never have uninteresting dinner conversations.”

“It must be nice to have people to talk to about the things you care about,” Autumn said, slightly jealous. “There’s not a single person in my life I want to be anything like.” She’d discovered a long time ago that her opinions on sexism, racism, homophobia and other social-justice issues often invited an argument, so she’d learned to keep them mainly to herself.

“And I bet you’re not.” Bluebell raised her cup to Autumn, who was thrilled by the gesture. She hadn’t felt this comfortable in the presence of a stranger for a long time. She hadn’t given a great deal away — she tried not to because she worried people might judge her based on her family and their behaviour — but Autumn felt like Bluebell knew her. She felt seen.

“I’m really lucky.” Bluebell was sounding a little sheepish. “I was raised in a house full of love.”

Autumn nodded through her jealousy. Her experience of youth had been entirely different. Her mother barely bothered with her kids, her sister loved her but didn’t understand her, and Autumn was quite sure that her father could not possibly care any less about her. That was fine. She didn’t like him either. She’d had a stepfather once. He’d cared about her a littletoomuch. Autumn shuddered at the memory of his perverted glances, wandering hands and fag-ash breath. She distracted herself from her painful musings by paying closer attention to Bluebell, who was watching her, concern spreading slowly across her features. Autumn didn’t like that. She didn’t want — or need — any pity from anyone. Desperate to change the subject, she blurted out the next thing that came into her head.

“I’m a writer.”

“Cool,” Bluebell said. She looked relieved, like she’d been avidly searching for something else to talk about too.

“I’m from the north-east of England,” Autumn continued. She knew she was babbling irrelevant facts, but she was terrified they’d slip back into silence.

“Hertfordshire.” Bluebell pointed to herself.

“Why are you here in New York?” Autumn asked.

“I live here. With my brothers. Bowie works here.”

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