“I don’t know,” Dee says, looking genuinely perplexed.
“Well, I have some non-man-themed news,” Vanya says, pausing until she has our full attention. “I got my mortgage approved.” She bites her lip and then squeals with excitement.
“That’s wonderful,” says Dee.
“Wow,” I say, clapping my hands, but feeling my stomach churn. That means she’s really moving out. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thank you. And don’t worry, Laura, I won’t be going anywhere until at least December, you’ll have loads of time to find the new me.”
Four months. Dee will be married and living in Surrey, and Vanya will own a flat in Hackney. Everyone is moving on, without me.
“Oh, and I have a present for your trip,” Vanya says, handing me a paperback with an orange-and-black-striped cover. “Tiger Woman by Bee Bee Graceful” is written in bold gold lettering across the front. “We’re reading it for my book club. It’s going to change your life.”
She is always recommending me books that are going to “change my life.”
“What kind of a name is ‘Bee Bee Graceful’?” I ask.
“It must be a pseudonym. I don’t think anyone knows who Tiger Woman really is, it’s the biggest literary mystery since Elena Ferrante. Honestly, you need to read, it will help you re-harness your inner tigress, take control of your destiny.”
Dee shakes her head but doesn’t comment.
* * *
* * *
When we finally pull into departures at Gatwick, I feel a bit sick after Dee’s swervy driving and all the Haribos I’ve eaten. Vanya and Dee both get out of the car to hug me good-bye.
“Don’t forget to feed the fish,” I tell Vanya, as I pull my black carry-on from the trunk. We don’t have fish, it’s just something we say to each other. “And thank you for driving me, Dee, I really appreciate it.”
Dee takes hold of my hand and looks me straight in the eyes before saying, “I love you. Call me whenever you need to. I know this trip might be emotional for you.”
I feel my throat tighten, but give her a grateful smile, then turn to walk toward the airport doors.
“And, Laura! Laura!” Vanya calls my name until I turn around. Then she presses a hand across her heart and yells, “Keep the faith. He’s out there—you just haven’t met him yet.”
Chapter 4
Looking up at the departures board, I scan the place names and find my flight to Jersey. The word alone has so many connotations for me. I can’t hear it without thinking of my parents’ story, the prologue to my existence. Is it strange to feel nostalgia for a place I’ve never been? Mum used to say we’d go together one day, but she was always juggling so much and there was never a good time.
Now that I’m undistracted by my friends, I begin to worry how unprepared I am for this weekend. Suki insisted I go straightaway, so we could get the travel article up on the site next week. The sponsor liked the idea of promoting a “September sun getaway.” I don’t have a firm angle yet, though, and I haven’t managed to map out what I need to make the coin story work, to make it “feel contemporary.”
With everything being so rushed, I also haven’t had time to dwell on how I feel about going on this trip. Will stepping into the footprint of my parents’ story bring me closer to them, or am I just going to find it upsetting?
My mother is still so tangible to me. We shared a lifetime of memories, and my grief for her is still so ragged it gives her solid edges—I can conjure her voice in a quiet room. I can picture the way she would open her arms to hug me when I walked through the front door. When I pass the rooibos tea at the supermarket, I see her slim frame standing by the kettle, jiggling a tea bag up and down by the string.
With Dad it’s different. He died when I was three, so I don’t remember him. I only have a few things left that link him to me: the coin, of course, then there are several photos, his old watch that I never take off, a library of his favorite books, and his treasured LP collection. When I was sixteen, I spent all my pocket money on a record player so I could listen to his music just as he had. I’m probably the only twenty-nine-year-old in the world today whose favorite bands are Genesis and Dire Straits.
There is too much of Mum to ever be condensed into a box full of things, but all I have of Dad are secondhand memories and these objects he left me. If I let go of what he treasured, I worry his blurred edges will fade until there is nothing left of him at all.
A woman bumps into me, her apology breaks my reverie, and I realize I’ve been standing, staring at the departures board for a good ten minutes. Now I must run so as not to be late.
* * *
* * *
It is less than an hour-long flight to the small island off the north coast of France. I’m traveling with hand luggage, but at the gate a man tells me, “Madam, we’re going to have to ask that you put your bag in the hold.” I feel myself bristle. When had I become Madam rather than Miss?
“It’s definitely regulation size,” I protest. “I actually bought this case specifically because it adheres to the dimensions on your website . . .”
“I know, ma’am, but we have a very full flight today, so we’re asking people to check wheeled cases into the hold. There’s no charge; you’ll get it back as soon as you land.”
The man gives me an insincere grin that puckers his smooth, perma-tanned skin. Obediently, I shuffle out of the queue to open my case and extract what I need for the flight. I take out my mother’s Jersey photo album—too precious to stow in the hold—and Tiger Woman, so I have something to read on the plane. Just as I’m trying to close my case, someone bumps me from behind, and my open toiletries bag flies into the air. A value pack of fifty non-applicator tampons hits the ground and explodes across the lounge in a spray of white bullets. My cheeks burn as I fall to my hands and knees to retrieve them. The man who bumped me bends down to help. Why did I bring so many tampons with me for one weekend away? I’m on my fourth day; I should have just decanted the amount I was going to need. Always decant, woman!
“I’m sorry, that was my fault,” says the man.
I turn to look at him, glance away, and then look back, as I realize I’m looking at the most handsome man I think I’ve ever seen in real life. He has soft brown hair; green eyes; a tall, broad-shouldered physique; and the kind of well-sculpted face that commands attention. He is wearing blue suit trousers and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. Our eyes meet, and he holds my gaze. His easy smile suggests someone who thinks the world a wonderful place, which no doubt it is when you look like him.