Page 2 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Listen, Mum, I’ve decided to go travelling in January,’ she blurted out. ‘Take a gap year. Before I start work – my graduate job, I mean. Obviously, I’ll need to work in a bar or something to save up. I’m going by myself initially and then I’ll meet Harry midway through – he’s got an internship first. I should have enough cash by January. The flights are the main problem. I need to book them now and I was wondering if you could lend me the money. I’ll pay you back.’

‘Whoah, slow down,’ I cried. ‘A gap year?’

She nodded, willing me with her eyes to support this crazy idea. I had not expected this; I was staggered.

‘What?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

‘Where’s this come from? Harry? Has he put this into your head?’

I’d always liked her boyfriend until now. He was a lovely lad, and they were well suited, and had been together for three years all through university.

‘Mum!’ Brontë looked appalled by the suggestion.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ I pressed my hands on the table and took a deep breath. I never spoke to her like that. Ever. ‘It’s a surprise, that’s all.’

‘To answer your question, Harry has nothing to do with it. This is something I’ve wanted to do.’ She glanced at me then looked away. ‘Ever since I read your diary from 2000.’

‘My …?’ A rush of heat flamed my face.

Her eyes widened in panic. ‘You said I could have it.’

‘I remember.’ I’d only ever kept a diary once, and it was too full of memories to throw away. She’d found it amongst my things when she was looking for photos for an art project a couple of years ago. I’d let her keep it. The things I’d written about were as important for her as they were for me. The last thing I’d expected was that it would trigger a desire for a gap year.

She pulled two books from her bag and pushed them across the table. One was my old diary, the other was a notebook covered in her illustrations. A map of the world with dotted lines leading away from the UK. Aeroplanes, backpacks, turtles, flowers, beach towels and palm trees … She referred to them as doodles, but her drawings were much more than that. Brontë’s Gap Year was written across the front, each letter of each word in a different colour. The cover alone was a work of art; I could only imagine how detailed the inside would be. The pages had that tell-tale waviness to them which told me that she’d painted on them. This book – this plan – must have been weeks, possibly months in the making.

‘I’m confused,’ I said, attempting to stay calm. ‘This is the first I’ve heard about you wanting a gap year.’

‘Because you’ve always told me to put details into my plans, otherwise they’re just dreams. So I wanted to get everything lined up, my itinerary finalised first. Can I show you …?’

‘Finalised?’ I launched into her before she ended her sentence. ‘Darling, you’ve accepted a job, you can’t walk out before you’ve even started.’

‘Actually, I haven’t accepted,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘They gave me a week to respond.’

‘I’m speechless.’ I dropped my head into my hands.

‘So I have responded.’ Brontë’s voice cracked, and she paused to sip her water. ‘And I’ve asked them to let me defer for a few months. Possibly a year.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘They’re one of the biggest creative agencies in the world, with their pick of young hopefuls. I doubt very much they’ll be willing to make a concession for someone who has apparently changed her mind about joining them.’

‘Perhaps they’ll think that I’ll come back a more rounded person with a new perspective on the world.’ Brontë fingered the cover of the notebook. ‘I’ve got some cool places on my list; would you like to see?’

‘Or they might think that once you’ve had a taste of travelling, you’ll struggle to settle into work,’ I said, deliberately ignoring her question.

She gave a sigh so full of sadness that I almost backed down. But this was a mistake. She’d had her sights set on this company for so long. I wondered whether it was a case of cold feet.

‘You did it,’ she countered. ‘You had your trip to Bali. And don’t you dare tell me that you regret it because your diary tells me otherwise. Look.’

She flicked through the pages of my old diary until she came to a photograph of me. My heart stuttered in my chest; it had been years since I’d seen this. I was in a bikini on white sand at the edge of turquoise water. I looked tanned and beautiful, and although you couldn’t tell from the picture, I was posing for Jackson, my arms reaching up to the sky, one foot kicking up behind me. But the most striking thing was the smile lighting up my face. This was a girl having the time of her life. Even without knowing anything about her, you could see she was in love.

Brontë was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

‘Of course I don’t regret it! But this isn’t about me.’

The photograph had unnerved me. My words came out sharper than I’d intended and Brontë flinched.

‘All I want is the opportunity to look as happy and free as you do there. A break between education and my working life, that’s all. I want my Bali moment.’

‘And you can have it, I’m sure,’ I said, tempering my tone. ‘But you don’t need to take a gap year to do it.’