‘I’ll go,’ said Netta, pushing herself out of the couch. Saving the day for two of her favourite little people was just the distraction she needed.
Chapter Nine
MO
There was a blurry, blissful moment of peace when Mo woke early on Friday. The room was dark and comfortably warm despite the cold December morning waiting outside, its feeble light no match for the heavy drapes cascading from the ceiling into a puddle of velvet on the floor in front of the huge bay window.
Still under his blanket, Mo stretched his tattooed arms above his head, rotated his wrists and flexed his guitar-weary fingers as his brain switched back into action. The smoky edges of his dream were still drifting away as reality washed back in, dropping him to his knees like a ninja wave. He groaned. The fucking diary.The woman who’d found it, Netta, had emailed him back to say she couldn’t return it in person and now he felt hogtied, powerless against what the diary would do to his house of cards if she decided to sell it.
He pressed his hands into his face and dug his callused fingertips into his eyebrows, dragging them to his temples. In his mind’s eye, he warily examined the notebook: its worn cover, the red twine he’d wrapped around it, the hiding place he’d left it in once he’d realised his mum might’ve seen it. After she’d died, he and Mav had been wrenched from the only world they knew and sent against their will to the first of many foster homes, ages away from the house they’d shared with their mum. Mo had been so deep in shock when he’d packed that awful day that he’d forgotten to take it with him. When he was old enough to drive, he’d borrowed a mate’s car and gone back to the house, once, to get it, but the woman who’d lived there then wouldn’t let him in, which, in hindsight, was probably fair enough. Not long after that, he’d legged it to the UK with Mav in tow. Far, far away from all of it. He’d hoped the shitty old dump had been knocked down by now—the diary destroyed along with it—but clearly he’d had no such fucking luck.
Instead, the diary had stayed concealed under the loose floorboard, and inside it, among his childish song lyrics and drawings of his dream skateboard, there were awful truths about his mother’s descent into addiction that Mav knew nothing of, and one page in particular Mo had regretted writing for every minute of the thirty years it had lain hidden. Words that had sat like a permanent stone in his gut. Words he knew in his heart had been the catalyst for his mother’s suicide. He desperately tried to drag his thoughts back to the edges of his consciousness where things were softer, but it was too late. The memory thrashed around in his head, torturing him all over again, finding new places to burn him.
He had enough friends who’d done therapy to know that a professional would probably tell him it wasn’t his fault. That what she’d done was a choice of her own, and not his responsibility. But his heart knew the truth. It had known it then. It still knew it now. And the years in between had let that knowing leach into every cell of his body, into every breath he took, into every relationship he dodged. Now, it was just too late to tell the truth. It would ruin Mav, and Mav was all he had left. Mo had painted beautiful memories of their mum for his brother to hold, and he was willing to carry the ugly reality to his grave. But if the diary found its way into the hands of the media, the secret wouldn’t be his anymore.
Mo unclenched his fists, pushed the blanket down to his hips and closed his eyes, one hand on his heart and the other resting low on his stomach.Breathe in for four, hold for four and release for four.He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, his feet disappearing into the plush rug, and rubbed the heels of his hands up and down his thighs a few times. A run. A run would reset him. And then he had to pack this up for the day and focus on the new album.
He dressed quickly—shorts and a hoodie he’d stolen from Mav a decade ago—and pulled his runners and headphones on. The day was still waking as he pushed the back door open, the sky holding that secretive feeling it always did so early in the morning. He breathed the promise of it in, savouring the possibility that maybe he was the only person up to witness it exactly as it was, before life rushed in to disturb it.
The gravel of the long driveway crunched satisfyingly under his lengthening strides. He silently counted the trees flanking it to distract him from those first few minutes before his burning lungs realised that, actually, he wasn’t about to die, and instead just opened up and started enjoying the exertion. Mo turned up the volume on his headphones, keeping pace with the first song Spotify had selected from his list of favourites. Mav would have a field day if he ever found out it was usually Kylie’s voice that kept Mo company when he ran. But fuck it—her songs were the perfect escape from his head. They were up and vibey and the total opposite of his hard, driving style, and her voice was the antithesis of his gravelly baritone growl thatRolling Stonehad once described as ‘the sound of raw anguish and want’. Whatever the fuck that meant.
The sixth-last tree was his cue to hit the gate remote. A tree later and he’d have to pause for the gate to be open enough for him to get through, and once he was at pace he had to stay there, or that was the end of it. He pounded through the gate and started down the narrow lane that meandered between his house and the village, winding past a few more gates like his, guarding big homes hiding behind huge wooded grounds or expansive manicured gardens. As he neared the village, the homes became more modest, the cars in the driveways less showy, the people more open. He passed the entry to the main street that contained the tiny pub he and Mav loved and the café that served better coffee than he’d ever found anywhere in London, and skirted the edge of the village until he reached the start of the forest trail that would swoop around and take him back home. The dense canopy dimmed the path and he felt his body click into a new gear as he passed the halfway mark of his route.
His phone dinged an email alert through his headphones. He slowed his gait to a walk and fished it out of his pocket.
Netta Phillips
To: Morrison Maplestone
Hi Morrison,
Things have changed and if the offer is still there, I’d be available to return the diary in a week and a half.
Yours sincerely,
Netta Phillips
Mo’s sweat ran cold. A thousand words bounced around his brain like flies in a jar, but his response needed only two of them.
Thank you.
Chapter Ten
NETTA
The sun sparkled off the water at Williamstown Beach as Netta and Freya strolled side by side, Saturday morning takeaway coffees in hand, with Maisie and Kit scooting ahead, their faces smeared with ice cream. Netta had barely slept since the break-up and while four nights awake with only her thoughts for company had left her feeling like a deranged rat in a wheel, ithadgiven her a lot of time to weigh up her options.
Freya dipped her face to kiss the downy crown of baby Jed’s head as he snuggled against her chest in the carrier. ‘What made you change your mind?’ she asked.
‘I need the money for my mortgage,’ answered Netta flatly. ‘I can’t lose the apartment when I worked so hard for it. And if Iamever lucky enough to have a baby, I want them to have a stable home. I hated moving around so much as a kid. If I have to go to London to make that happen, then I will. And besides, if I sold it now, I’d never get back into the market.’
‘It’ll be nice to be back in your old place again.’ Freya gave Netta’s shoulder a reassuring pat. ‘I think you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Hope so.’ Netta squinted against the sun and took a sip of coffee. ‘I emailed the estate agent, asking them to give the tenants four weeks’ notice this morning. I feel bad about it, but what else can I do? And they’ll get Christmas and New Year’s there before they have to move.’
‘You shouldn’t feel bad. That’s just renting,’ said Freya. ‘They’ve had a good run there, and at the end of the day, it’s your place and you need it. They’ll be fine.’
Netta winced, guilt still gnawing at her. ‘I know, but—’
