Page 7 of The Likelihood Of You

She was awake when I went in, her face lit up by the T.V. screen beside her bed as she caught up on the soap opera episode she’d missedduring her post-dinner nap. I wished she was asleep when I got there, though, because I broke down the second my eyes landed on hers. I doubled over and sobbed more than I had when I walked in on my fiancé and sister doing it.

Naturally, she panicked, but after a few cuddles and an explanation of why I was there so late, she joined me in the sob fest. Calling them both a few choice words that we promised never to repeat.

She loved Hugo. He could be a real charmer when he wanted to be. And Sydney was her first granddaughter; they had a different bond than she and I did, but loved her all the same. She felt as betrayed as I did, so we cried together.

After drying our eyes and chatting for a while, me confessing that I was leaving and her suggesting that perhaps I give New York a whirl, she went into her safe that she kept hidden under her bed and slipped me a hefty wad of £50 notes. I immediately shoved them back into her hand, to which she responded by unzipping my bag and stuffing the cash in there instead, before holding my face with both of her warm hands.

“Don’t protest me on this, Florence. And don’t feel like you have to pretend you aren’t excited about this. Heartbroken, yes, but I can see in your eyes that you know this is what you need to do. So please, take it. I have no use for it here. It’s yours now. Go walk that path you know your life is meant to lead you down. Be a stupid, gullible, hopeless romantic, single, twenty-four-year-old woman, for crying out loud. You owe yourself that much.”

Three hours later, I was being served a cup of PG Tips at thirty thousand feet.

I wasn’t anxious about what I was going to do once I landed. I don’t think I was feeling anything. I was numb to everything around me. Even the turbulence that caused the oxygen masks to be released, I simply blinked at them. It was only when I noticed the orange and lavender sunrise as we flew into JFK that reality hit me, and I realised I wasn’t home anymore.

The first thing I did was jump in a taxi. A big yellow one like you see in every movie set here and asked the driver to drop me off at a hotel I’d Googled that wasn’t too pricey. I stayed and cried there for a week, using some of the money Nanna Dorothy gave me to pay for it. In the intervals where my tears warmed up backstage, I managed to get my bearings and also find a place to live, but because I didn’t have proof of income, I had to pay six months upfront. I still had some of the money Nanna gave me left over to live and explore, so I wasn’t totally screwed…yet.

But I needed a job. One to keep me afloat. That wad of fifties was thinning out, and I needed to figure out something quick. All that time I’d spent away in my apartment wasn’t just about me mending my heart; it also gave me room to think about what I was going to do with my life. And it made me realise something.

What if this was what I was always supposed to do? Be in New York at this very moment. What if this was the escape route I didn’t know I needed to make my dream a reality? The dream I was told I’d never accomplish, the one I’d held so close to my heart all these years, the dream I’d wanted ever since baking my first batch of fairy cakes when I was six.

I want to own a bakery.

A cute one. One with lavender tiles and marble tables where I could sell scones and cream horns and the pear and rhubarb crumble Nanna Dorothy taught me to make. Perhaps this city was just the place to pursue it.

This was the city of chasing dreams, was it not?

It feels strange to admit that that’s what I want to do. For so long, it’s been shoved down my throat that I was silly for wanting to own a bakery. It was a fantasy job. One you think you want as a child, only to grow up and learn about taxes and rent and saving for a house deposit, and before you know it, that dream becomes forgotten.

I’d never forgotten it, though. I’d known it was my purpose since my fairy cakes got a rave review at my Primary School summer fair, and all my friends’ parents tried to haggle my parents for the recipe. My recipe.

There was no way I was giving up on it.

For now, though, I can hold off on job hunting and bakery manifesting for a couple of minutes, because all my mind could focus on was a certainman.

Jacob Emerson.

As I patiently wait for the server to call my name, I can’t help but stand there and relive every millisecond of the last six minutes, trying my hardest to make whatever that was make sense. But I’m confident that no matter how many times I run his words through my brain, they’ll still all jumble into one big ball of question marks.

The only thing I was sure of was how he made me feel: drawn to him.

That was why I didn’t hesitate to tell him my name when he asked.

I hadn’t become friendly enough with anyone in the city yet, so introductions were something I hadn’t worried about. And I only worry about that inevitable ‘sorry, and you are?’ because I physically cringe whenever I have to tell someone my name.

Florence (wait for it) Elora Frances Dayes.

Did my parents just flick through the big book of baby names and smush together their top four because they couldn’t narrow it down? They might as well have added ‘The Third’ at the end of it to give it another dose of ridiculousness.

At least when I was back home, I had Sydney to share the name shame with. Sydney Harper (or Harbour, as I called her) Effie Dayes was another product of our parents' somewhat hippie minds.

They told us that they’d named us after their favourite travel destinations, Sydney, where they met, and Florence, where they fell in love. Although they probably should have bought fridge magnets like everyone else in the world does when they want to remember their travels, the story made me resent my name that tiny bit less.

It was a beyond cute story. Unfortunately, it wasn’t cute enough to erase my facial cringe whenever I said or read it.

“Florence Dayes?”

And hear it.

I think the American accent makes me hate it even more.

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