Page 17 of Play On

Jordan Banfield, 2 September 1957

Ooh, it is a Banfield thing! Fantastic!

I’m going to start doing this straightaway, with the very next book I get.

I go through a few more, and then I find one that appears to be very old. I run my fingers over the tan cloth-covered book and study the faded gold imprint on the spine:

Classical Mythology.

My heart tumbles into my stomach.

Suddenly I’m back on the beach, recalling the wonderful conversation Noah and I had about this. Feeling his hands on my skin. Remembering the amazing way playing football had chiselled the muscles in his thighs and calves. I can smell the sea air and sun cream and hear his low voice over the sound of the waves as we shared our favourite stories with each other, hardly believing we found someone who was as intrigued with mythology as we each were.

I slide the book out, thinking of how much Noah would love to see this. I flip open the page, and to my shock, it’s also signed:

Lady Lily,

Because you love mythology as much as I do, I hope you will enjoy this book.

Your devoted love,

Lord George Winsbrook, 17 June 1834

There’s another inscription below it, in a different handwriting:

Lord George,

I’m so grateful you love me exactly the way I am—a bluestocking. I look forward to filling a library with books weboth love when I am your wife.

Your devoted love,

Lady Lily Banfield, 18 June 1834

Lady Lily.

I turn on the ladder, looking at the portrait I studied earlier—Lady Lily, the other redhead in the Banfield line, before she married Lord George. Then I zero in on the book she’s holding.

It’s a tan book just like the one in my hand.

I gasp and drop the book, sending it tumbling to the floor.

A sick feeling washes over me. My whole body feels like ice, and I have to grip the handles of the ladder for support or else I might tumble off.

George loved Lily the way she was.

Maybe Noah could have loved me the same way.

I shift my gaze to the book, flipped open and lying on the floor, the sun streaming over its yellowed pages. I found that book today for a reason.

You’ve made a massive mistake, Violet,my heart whispers.

I bite down hard on my lower lip. My mind flips through the past weekend with Noah. It’s like I’m going through a stack of Polaroid pictures, one after the other. I see the tattoos on his arms and his espresso-coloured eyes, which rarely strayed from mine as we talked.

In the last memory, I see myself sitting on the windowsill in my room, reading his text about how much he wanted to give me the first date I deserved on Friday night.

Understood.

I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the pain in my chest as I see his reply to my text message. But it doesn’t move.

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