Page 22 of When We Were Young

‘You’re nothing but a bully, and it’s about time someone stood up to you.’ I whip around and stride to the door.

‘You’re fired!’ she calls after me.

I hesitate in the doorway, then turn back. ‘Too late,’ I tell her. ‘Weren’t you listening? I already quit.’

I slam the door behind me.

As soon as I get in the house, I kick off my shoes and head straight for the fridge. The soft glug of wine from bottle to glass soothes my raw nerves, and when the first gulp hits my stomach, my shoulders sag.

‘Fuck,’ I say aloud, knowing Liv is at Chloe’s.

I sit at the kitchen table and cover my face with my hands. I stare into the darkness of my palms, replaying the entire conversation in my mind, wincing at every embarrassing detail.

How the hell am I going to pay the mortgage?

It’ll be okay. I’ll get another job. People get new jobs all the time.

By the time I’ve drained the second glass of wine, my thoughts become blurry at the edges. Who stays in the same job for ten years? That’s not normal. It’s time for a change.

My phone pings.

Kay:Where did you go? What happened?

I don’t know how to even begin to explain.

Then I spot the unread message Florence Harding’s dad left earlier:Whenever you’re ready.

He signed it with a coffee cup emoji.

I groan.

My neck is killing me. It’s been bothering me since the crash, but now it’s throbbing, and it keeps locking up. It must be from holding my shoulders tense the whole way home.

I pop the heat pad in the microwave and set the timer. Liv’s laptop is charging on the counter. We had an online safety workshop at school the other day; the speaker said to check your child’s search history regularly. Now’s the time to check it, while she’s not around. As I wait for the laptop to fire up, the microwave pings. I retrieve the heat pad, drape it around my shoulders, and settle at the table with the laptop and another glass of wine. I navigate to the browser history and scroll through the list.

All the homework-related searches are interspersed with questions about bands or song lyrics. I knew it – she can’t focus on her studies if she’s listening to music. She says it helps her concentrate, but clearly, it’s a distraction. Scrolling further, I find searches on ‘how to do a messy bun’ and ‘how to use tightliner’ – whatever that is. I’m intrigued. Liv’s not a girly girl. Is this because Nathan Hall’s on the scene?

I’m finishing up when at the bottom of the list I spot ‘Will Bailey – Rare Radio Interview 1997’.

Seeing his name sets my heart pounding. Liv asked so many questions after the crash I should have known she wouldn’t drop the subject.

My finger hovers over the track pad. I have an overwhelming twisted desire to hear his voice. Even as I click, I’m willing myself not to. An image flashes up on the screen, and it’s so loaded with memories I screw my eyes shut to block it out. But it’s no good. It hangs in my mind as though burned into my retinas. I know every part of that picture: the relaxed pose, the dark of the room, and the light on his face.

I know because I took that photograph.

I remember that day; I remember the weather; I remember what I was wearing. It seems like yesterday and a lifetime ago all at once. Tears come despite my tightly closed eyes. When I finally open them, blinking, all that’s in focus through the tears is the play button. I don’t know why, but Ihaveto press it. I brace myself as a female voice says, ‘Now I’m joined by Will Bailey ahead of his gig at the Roundhouse tonight.’ There’s a smattering of applause and she continues. ‘Hi Will, thanks for joining us.’

He says one word, ‘Hello––’

I slam the laptop shut and shatter into a million pieces.

Chapter 12

March 2016

Liv

Mum calls from downstairs, ‘Liv! Package for you!’