Chapter 28
‘Bridget you must,’ Sara says the next day. I’m in Nicki’s office and she’s called me to check on how it’s all going. I’ve just told her I can’t write about Beau. ‘You absolutely must,’ she repeats. ‘This is exactly the sort of chapter that will bring some grit to your book. It can’t all be light-hearted fluff.’
Er, pardon? ‘I didn’t think it was,’ I say narkily.
‘You know what I mean,’ she soothes. ‘There’s not a whole lot of depth to your chapters at the moment. They’re fun, but, if you really want people to care, I think you need to let them see your emotional side. It needs to be more heartfelt. You can’t possibly leave Beau out of it. I thought you’d already written about your time with him.’
I emailed her an update on where I was at with my blog only last week.
‘Yes, but—’
‘So it shouldn’t be too hard to write up yesterday.’
‘Well—’
‘Hard is the wrong word,’ she interrupts. ‘But remember, the best writers put themselves out there. They lay themselves bare,’ she says weightily. ‘The reason Nicki’s book was such a success is because she allowed the reader to see inside her heart. We felt everything Kit was feeling, every painful decision she makes, every butterfly that, I don’t know, flaps around her chest.’
Flutters, I think to myself distractedly.
‘I’m not the writer,’ she continues, ‘but you know what I’m saying.’
Unfortunately, I do.
I still don’t really understand how Nicki wrote so authentically about her heroine, Kit, being in love not just with one person, but with two. The love she speaks of is so deep, so passionate, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything on that scale before.
Well, not with anyone other than Elliot when we were sixteen. But that was first love. And first love, though ardent, is not necessarily long-lasting; the sort of love that endures.
I still can’t believe we found each other again. We’ve both matured, we’re both more experienced. Our relationship this time around really could go the distance.
I don’t know why I think about Charlie at that moment, but I do.
I firmly push him out of my mind and slam the door shut behind him.
Somehow Sara manages to convince me that I should write about Beau, but I can’t quite bring myself to tell Charlie. I have this horrible feeling he’d be disappointed in me.
On Monday afternoon, I return my attention to the second row of books on Nicki’s top shelf. They’re very dusty and I cough as I try to lift some of them down without falling off Nicki’s swivelling chair. Frustratingly, most of them are nothing more than old school textbooks.
I have a quick flick through her A-level English language study guide – if only for nostalgic reasons: I used to have the same book myself. A single sheet of paper falls out onto the carpet.
I bend over and scoop it up. It looks like a poem in Nicki’s handwriting:
I am not one thing
But many little pieces
Divided but allied
One of these I gave to you
Now part of it has died
Every time you hurt me
Every time you make me cry
That little piece of me you own
Withers up inside
For now it’s still alive
You haven’t lost me yet
But others have
Others have
And that’s something
You should not
Forget.
I sit down on the chair, shivers ricocheting up and down my spine. My pulse is racing. This is too strange. Too coincidental. When did Nicki write this?
I turn over the page, but there’s no date.
I am not one thing
But many little pieces
She felt the same way I did.
One of these I gave to you
Now part of it has died
Who is she talking about? Who did she give her heart to?
Did she write this poem while she was still at school? Is it about Isak?
Or Charlie?
I’m not sure I should show him – what if it hits him hard like the driftwood heart did? That was such an awful day, but, then, he did seem to feel better afterwards.
And this poem is relevant to my work. This is Nicki, writing from the heart, about her heart. I’d like to know when she wrote it. Charlie did say I could ask him anything. I’m hardly going to ring his mother about it.
April is still in the midst of her afternoon nap when I come out of my office, and I think twice about disturbing Charlie while he’s working. Eventually, I go downstairs to make a cup of tea and take the page with me, just in case he ventures indoors.
He does.
‘Hey,’ he says, wiping the sweat from his brow as he comes through the French doors. I notice he’s not wearing Nicki’s headband today. ‘God, it’s hot.’
‘Do you want a cuppa?’ I ask, turning on the radio and filling the kettle.
‘No, I need something cooler.’ He gets a glass out of the cupboard and opens the fridge, his eyes landing on the piece of paper on the worktop. ‘What’s this?’ he asks as I tense.
‘It fell out of one of Nicki’s books. Have you seen it before?’
I watch with trepidation as his eyes dart back and forth, reading down the lines of verse on the page.
‘No,’ he murmurs eventually, turning it over.
‘There’s no date,’ I tell him, relieved that he’s not freaking out.
‘It looks like her handwriting from when she was at school,’ he comments. ‘It’s pretty melodramatic, which also sounds like Nicki back then.’
‘Do you think it’s about you?’ I ask.
His lips turn down at the corners. ‘I don’t think so. This has Isak written all over it.’
He sounds on edge. I go and stand beside him, leaning against the counter as he reads the words again.
‘I guess I’m one of the “others”,’ he says drily. ‘Along with Samuel.’
‘Urgh, Samuel,’ I moan. ‘He sounded like a right little prick.’
Charlie flashes me a grin and some of his tension dissipates. ‘He was. Twat.’
I nod at the poem. ‘How do you feel about it?’
‘Not great,’ he admits, sobering. ‘It was a long time ago, but it brings it back a bit, to be honest.’
He pushes off from the worktop and places the sheet of paper face down on the counter, filling his glass with apple juice.
‘Sara wants me to publish my Beau account,’ I reveal, and then start with surprise because I thought I’d decided to keep that information to myself. For as long as I could, anyway.
‘Are you going to?’ he asks.
‘I think so. She put up a good argument.’
He doesn’t say anything, nor does he meet my eyes. After a few moments he says, ‘I’d better crack on,’ and there’s an edge to his voice that makes me feel a little queasy.
‘Sure,’ I reply.
His disappointment plagues me that night as I write about Beau at Hermie’s bright yellow table. I try to put Charlie out of my mind and focus on the job at hand, but it’s easier said than done.
I seem to be doing quite a bit of that at the moment where Charlie’s concerned.