Page 3 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘Fine.’ She closed the lid over the remaining sushi and shoved it in her bag. I ached with regret that the evening had taken such a turn. ‘I hoped you’d support me. I guess deep down, I knew you’d be like this. So closed. All you think about is work. Your career, my career. But you know what? There’s more to life than work.’

‘Wow.’ My hackles rose. ‘That’s easy for you to say, but growing up with no financial security wasn’t easy. Neither was having a mother whose responsibilities didn’t even stretch to making sure there was food in the cupboards. I’ve thought about work to make sure you never have to feel that way, to make sure you know the value of being independent, to give you the opportunities I never had.’

Brontë began to stack the used crockery. ‘And yet as soon as I make an independent decision you throw it back in my face.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I snapped. I was offering my opinion. That was all.

‘Nothing’s fair, Mum,’ she snapped back, jerking to her feet. ‘It’s not fair that you didn’t get to graduate from university, and it’s not fair that you had to look after Auntie Kat while you were a kid, or that you had to work two jobs to put a roof over our heads. But I can’t be the one to right those wrongs for you. You’ve got to stop expecting me to follow in your footsteps. Or at least the footsteps you never got to take. Independence means me going my way. Doing what I want without being pressured to live the life you should have had.’

‘I see.’ I stood up too fast, panic making my legs feel heavy and my head light. My vision blurred with tears, and there were already tears streaking Brontë’s face. ‘I had no idea you felt like that. I’m sorry I wanted so many good things for you.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry that I’ve done all this work, put so much into this travel itinerary because I wanted to impress you, so you could see what this trip meant for me. But you won’t even look. Thanks a lot.’

I shook my head. ‘You’ve already contacted Saatchi before speaking to me, so I hardly think my opinion matters.’

‘Of course it matters.’ She glowered at me, putting on her jacket. ‘I want to do this, Mum. And I’d hoped … well, I’d hoped maybe you could join me at the end. You never take your annual leave from work. How about it? Fancy a holiday on the other side of the world?’

My stomach twisted at the idea of her being on the flip side of the globe. I’d only been on a long-haul holiday once. I hadn’t done much travelling since.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to calm down. She and I never quarrelled. We were best friends, and this felt horrible and alien. I wanted to make things right between us. I glanced at the book and took in the words Brontë’s Gap Year again. I had to salvage the situation; I didn’t want us to part on bad terms.

‘Will you do something for me?’ I asked, catching hold of her hand. ‘Will you think about it for one more week? Make sure that this is definitely what you want.’

Brontë groaned. ‘I’ve already thought about it.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘And it’ll give me a chance to get used to the idea too.’

She chewed the inside of her cheek, weighing up my proposal. ‘And if I do that, and still want to go, do you promise you’ll give me your blessing?’

‘I promise,’ I said, although the words stuck in my throat. ‘Let’s have dinner again next week, and if you’re determined to go, we’ll look through Brontë’s Gap Year together. What do you say?’

‘Fine, then. It’s a deal.’ She sighed again, but this time a small smile lit her face, and with it, my heart.

But for Brontë next week never came.

Chapter 1

I ran the tap, holding my hands under the stream of hot water, my thoughts a million miles away. January had rolled around and Brontë would have been heading off on her trip. I could visualise her, dashing around at the last second, stuffing phone chargers and toothpaste and one more book into her rucksack. I’d have been following behind, her shadow, blurting out random things such as reminding her not to eat the ice, or to always tell someone in the hostel where she was going, and asking if she had taken a photo of her passport in case of emergency. And she’d have been laughing and rolling her eyes and pointing out that we’d had this conversation many times, that she knew what she was doing, and I should stop worrying and trust her.

I’d have driven her to the airport and hugged her for the longest time and tried to focus not on my fears, but on my pride, on the fact that my daughter was heading off to the other side of the world, alone, full of confidence and excitement and that this was exactly what I wanted for her.

A hot tear tracked down my face and I brushed it away as Anna, my boss, emerged from the toilet cubicle.

‘I bloody hate that man,’ she said with a scowl.

The man in question was Kevin Armstrong with whom we were having a business lunch. He was so awful that this was our second trip to the ladies, both of us needing a breather from his self-obsessed twaddle. He was the procurement manager for Vap-A-Rise, a chain of e-cigarette stores which had sprung up on the high street like weeds over the past few years. We were the lucky people tasked with persuading him to sign on the dotted line for a three-year e-commerce management and training package with our company ShopSwift.

‘Hate is a strong word,’ I replied, pulling towels from the dispenser to dry my hands. A whisper of a remembered conversation made my breath catch.

‘I hate PE,’ Brontë grumbled as I handed over her sports bag one school morning.

‘Hate’s a strong word, darling.’ I kissed her forehead, realising that I barely had to stoop to do so anymore. ‘Think of it as not your favourite.’

‘Physics is not my favourite; PE is actual torture.’ She pulled a face. ‘But I’ll try.’

And she would, I thought; my girl gives everything her best shot.

I blinked away the memory and made room for Anna at the sink.