Page 19 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Not sure. I’ll read the next page while you’re on.’

I tugged Brontë’s Gap Year from my backpack.

She was there in every drawing, every stroke of the pen and I took a moment to drink it in.

‘Her intention was to end Day One with a good night’s sleep,’ I told her, ‘and you’ll get no arguments from me there. I’m thinking a comforting audiobook and a long lie-in tomorrow.’

‘And tomorrow brings …?’ My sister did a drumroll with fingertips on her table.

I turned the page and read the headline. A cold shiver ran down my back. ‘Oh no.’

‘What is it?’ Kat leaned closer.

‘Rise and shine!’ I read out loud. ‘This is the big day. Register with the Everest Base Camp Guys at eight a.m.’

Below was a collage of images of snow-covered mountains, wooden huts, people whose smiles beamed out from inside furry hoods. At the centre was a paragraph which looked as it if had been printed off a website:

Join us for a two-week adventure of a lifetime! Immerse yourself in the natural beauty of the world’s highest mountain, let us take you higher than the clouds and discover endurance levels and strength within you that you never even dreamed of. Experience the thrill of suspension bridges across chasms, the charm of Sherpa villages and a warm Nepalese welcome in tea houses as we climb to the Everest Base Camp.

‘Bloody hell, Mags! You can’t go there.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth.

‘I can,’ I said automatically. My heart was pounding but I didn’t want Kat to sense my fear. ‘I can do anything I put my mind to.’

‘Please don’t do anything foolish. People die going up Everest.’

‘I think that’s climbing to the summit,’ I corrected her. ‘Base Camp is not as treacherous.’

But it would be tough going, and I was far from fit. I had been so weighed down with sadness since losing Brontë that I’d probably only done 10,000 steps in the whole of December.

‘But still really dangerous,’ Kat squeaked.

‘I’ve committed to this trip; I can’t fall at the first hurdle,’ I told her.

‘But do you want to do it?’

‘This isn’t about me,’ I tried to explain. ‘It’s about Brontë. Okay, I haven’t trained for it, and I don’t have the right clothes, but I can buy what I need.’

‘Brontë wouldn’t expect you to start flinging yourself around mountains. This was her dream trip,’ Kat said firmly. ‘Hers. There might be lots of things that you don’t want to do on those pages. Are you going to do them all regardless of how miserable or scared they make you feel?’

‘Yes!’ I shot back, adding more quietly, ‘Probably.’

‘Of course you’re not!’ she retorted. ‘You’re going to make this trip work for you. If Brontë had designed it with you in mind, it would have been kaftans instead of crampons. Am I right or am I right?’

I conceded a smile. ‘You’re a bit right.’

Kat shook her head fondly. ‘You idiot. Look, promise me you won’t rush into anything. Take a breath and think it through.’

‘I promise.’ Although I might go back and buy that puffa jacket I’d seen.

‘Mam?’ The waiter slid a plate between me and the phone and bowed as he walked away.

‘I’d better go. My food has arrived.’

‘What is it?’

I looked at my dinner: a pile of wafer-thin poppadoms, two bowls, one of rice and one containing something brown, and a tiny pot of something fragrant. ‘Not sure. Curried lentils by the look of it.’

‘Sounds absolutely delicious and good for your digestion.’ She gave a snort. ‘Glad I’m not your roommate tonight.’