Page 178 of When We Were Young

‘Where exactly did Mary say they scattered the ashes?’ Mum asks.

‘Here, at the top.’

She nods.

‘I’m going down to check out the stage,’ I say, to give her privacy.

Once at the bottom, I take photos of the view back up the steps from the stage. Lowering my phone, I scan the rows for Mum. When I finally spot her, she’s on her hands and knees on the top row where I left her.Shit. Is she okay? I push past the exercise freaks and run to her, but I only get halfway before my lungs are screaming and have to stop. Mum is sitting on the step now, her head in her hands. She seems more composed, so I take a moment to catch my breath before continuing the climb. As I get closer, I can see her body shaking – she’s crying. I monitor her from a few rows down, sweat trickling down my face.

After a while, she lifts her head and wipes her eyes with the heels of her hands. Her shoulders rise and fall. She turns her head to take in the stunning view.

She gives a slight nod of her head and stands up.

And I’m so glad she got the chance to say goodbye.

Chapter 85

Eight Years Later

May 2024

Liv

I delete the last two paragraphs I’ve written and stare at the blinking cursor. What shall I do with this final chapter? This isn’t fiction, it’s a biography. I can’t make stuff up. Will’s family will want to know what the hell I’m going on about.

So, now I have to type the truth. No mention of the word ‘otosclerosis’. Just second-album syndrome, crippling writer’s block, the overdose of a good friend, and a devastating break-up.

I type the full stop on the last sentence. It’s finished. I should pop a bottle of champagne, celebrate the colossal achievement of writing a book. All the months – years – of hard work.

But I don’t feel a sense of achievement. I’ve betrayed my mother.

My phone buzzes on the desk beside me. The screen lights up with the picture I’ve assigned to calls from Mum. My seventeen-year-old self, Mum’s arm draped over my shoulders, standing in the atrium of an Amsterdam hotel. We’re grinning ear-to-ear with her beautiful artwork snaking up the wall behind us, reaching so high Dad couldn’t fit it all in.

I can’t talk to her now.

The buzzing stops, the picture disappears: Missed call: Mum.

I rest my elbows on the desk and bury my face in my hands, then flinch as a hand rests on my shoulder. Ben places a mug of coffee on the desk.

‘Did you make a decision?’ he asks.

‘Yeah,’ I sigh. ‘But I’m not sure it’s the right one.’

Fresh from the shower, his hair is wet and hanging in his eyes. When we first met, I couldn’t keep my eyes off that Mr Whippy hairstyle as he showed me around the magazine building all those years ago.

After I leftLuminaire, I didn’t think I’d see him again, but I bumped into him in the café on the top floor during my summer internship. He said, ‘You went for coffee and never came back. Was it something I said?’

Back then, I was drowning under the pressure of theFragmentsanniversary feature and he was a welcome distraction. On the way down in the lift, he invited me for a drink after work. I told him I was sixteen, but undeterred, he offered to buy me coffee instead. He was nineteen. I remember thinking that was ancient and that my mum would kill me.

We moved in together last month.

He massages my shoulders. ‘You’ll feel it in your gut, if it’s right or not.’

He’s right – I do. I get up, grab my phone, and head for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ he asks.

I snatch my keys from the table in the hall. ‘Research.’