Page 1 of Somewhere Only We Know

Prologue

‘Mum!’ Brontë waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Stop grinning at me.’

‘Never.’ I helped myself to another California roll from the box. ‘It’s such a nice surprise to see you. I’ll fall asleep with this smile on my face.’

Tonight I was supposed to be at book club. This month’s choice had gripped me to the last page. The story was a warning to slow down your life and pay attention to the people you love. But then Brontë had invited herself over and I chose to heed the book’s lesson and put her first.

My daughter snorted softly. ‘Nutter. I’m happy to see you too, and be home.’

I knew that one day another house would be her home and her visits would be less often. I didn’t want to think about that yet.

We were sitting at my kitchen table with the doors open to the garden. It was a summer’s evening in the Cotswolds and we’d started off outside, but a breeze had blown us back inside.

I sneaked another look at her while we took turns to spear sliced ginger onto chopsticks and plunge them into wasabi. Our taste buds were similar; we both adored strong flavours, the hotter the better.

Her face held the gifts of youth which we take for granted until they begin to elude us: smooth skin, bursting with collagen, a scattering of freckles highlighting her cheekbones, teeth sparkling white. When she smiled, I saw my younger self reflected in her features, but her liquid brown eyes and dark curls she owed to her father. I delighted in her vivaciousness, and I knew that even when she was older, a mother herself maybe, I’d never tire of looking at this girl of mine.

‘So.’ Brontë looked at me from under her lashes, cheeks flushed. ‘I have news.’

I put down my chopsticks, heart already fizzing with pride.

‘I knew it.’

She laughed. ‘You always know it.’

‘The spontaneous dinner date, the sushi, you paying for the sushi.’ I listed the clues. ‘I learned the language of Brontë Jones a long time ago. I’d say I’m fluent.’

Sushi had been her go-to celebratory food since her tenth birthday when instead of a party, she’d opted for a trip to Tate Modern for the two of us, followed by sushi for lunch. Never one to follow the crowd, my daughter.

Normally I paid for our takeaways. Brontë had recently graduated and was saving every penny for her move to London. This time when she’d offered, I let her pay. There was a feeling of self-worth that came from being able to treat someone. I understood that.

‘I think I can still surprise you,’ she replied, tilting her chin with a touch of defiance I recognised as my own.

She swallowed hard, her fingers reaching for the Tiffany pendant that I’d bought her for her twenty-third birthday in April.

Her obvious nervousness at whatever she’d come to tell me made me want to squeeze her tight. I loved that she shared so much with me, that I was the first person she called with news. She’d achieved so much, knocked it out of the park on every challenge she’d set herself. School, art college, uni and, last week, she’d landed her dream job.

‘Let me guess,’ I said, topping up our soda glasses. ‘Saatchi & Saatchi want you to start earlier?’

Bronte let out a shaky laugh. ‘Not exactly, but you’re in the right area.’

She’d set her heart on working in Saatchi’s art department since attending a guest lecture one of their directors had given at university. The selection process for their graduate scheme had been brutal, but her talent shone through and they’d offered her a junior position starting in September. I couldn’t have been prouder.

‘Okay.’ I raised an eyebrow, my mind racing through the possibilities. ‘Um … I give up.’

‘Wait there.’

She scrambled up from the kitchen table, darted out into the hall and returned carrying the hobo patchwork bag she’d picked up from a yard sale. It suited her style, but reminded me of something my mother had had in the eighties. I tried not to go back to those times if I could help it; my relationship with my own mother was the opposite of the bond Brontë and I shared.

‘So here’s the thing.’ She sat, plonking the bag on her lap. ‘I’m going to be working until I’m an old woman. Like, I don’t know, seventy or something.’

I nodded. ‘You and me both, kiddo. And that’s all right.’

I liked working, being busy and useful and knowing that I would be able to support Brontë financially until she could support herself. When she left home for uni I immersed myself even deeper into my career, filling the aching gap she’d left behind. I was in my mid-forties now and couldn’t imagine feeling different any time soon.

‘Yeah, I know.’ Brontë frowned. ‘But there’s so much world to see. And if I don’t go and explore now, I might never get the chance.’

‘Of course you will!’ I argued. ‘You’re so young! You’ll have time off, holidays … and you’ll get used to making the most of weekends.’