But she felt even worse when after knocking three times she got no answer. Since the scandal broke in Australia, Faye knew what it was like to be hounded, and so in the end she walked away.
Bonnie might not be there, or she might just want to be left alone. And to Bonnie she was nothing but a stranger after all.
15
BONNIE
Bonnie had been sitting in front of her easel for well over an hour. But she still hadn’t managed to do anything with the canvas. She was waiting for inspiration to strike, but it seemed as though that was akin to waiting for a miracle.
Was this the way it was going to be from now on? No passion for the things she’d once loved, no desire for company, holed up in the cottage that should’ve been for two not one?
She’d cried a lot when Howard first died, then she’d got through the cremation, the return home, the many days that had passed since. And yet she still couldn’t get herself back to functioning normally. Most days, with today being no exception, she felt as though she was going backwards rather than forwards. She felt stuck and unable to do anything about it.
She pulled out a big photograph book she’d had put together with all the pictures of her travel adventures with Howard. It was the sort where you sent your pictures online and a magic process turned those memories into a book. She’d thought she’d miss the traditional way with an album, but this really was quite beautiful.
She sat down in Howard’s chair and flipped through the pages. The picture of the two of them at the front of their lodge in Africa beside a campfire gave her comfort, as did the rest of the photographs, which all helped her relive those precious moments. She’d never regret doing what they’d done. Everyone’s retirement looked different – some wanted to potter in the garden, others revelled in looking after grandchildren, a few of their friends had downsized and got into renovations of their homes, but apart from retiring beside the sea, travel had been the main thing Bonnie and Howard had talked about doing together. He would’ve foregone the idea if she wasn’t so adamant, being a bit of a homebody, but he’d had the time of his life in all those far-flung places, as had she.
When Bonnie heard a scratching at the front door, she put the book down and went to investigate. It sounded like some sort of animal trying to gain access but when she opened up it wasn’t an animal; it wasn’t anyone. It was the soon-to-be-completely-bare branches of the wisteria, which was dropping its leaves now summer had come to an end. Its woody framework structured around the front door of the cottage would need cutting back as winter came and it entered its dormant phase, and there wouldn’t be a return of colour until spring.
No animal. No visitor. No Howard. No anybody. Just her. And as much as it irritated her when people came to check up on her, this time she felt the loneliness more than ever when she closed the door. She wondered who might have knocked the day before, because she hadn’t answered it then.
She went back to looking at the photo book, moving on to the stunning photographs taken of the Norwegian Fjords. Howard and her, their arms around each other outside a store in one of the tiny towns they’d visited, which she couldn’t quite remember the name of now. Perhaps it was Bergen as the next picture was of her standing outside one of the townhouses she remembered from there. She turned the page to see more shots of the narrow valleys in Norway, more of the jaw-dropping scenery and the ever-impressive Tvindefossen waterfall that had had her mesmerised. But most of all she remembered how lucky she’d felt to be with Howard and share those moments together.
Oh, this wouldn’t do. She closed the book and went back to her easel, sure that something would unlock inside her and she’d put her paintbrush to work to produce something worthwhile. She knew part of the mental block was that it was the bookshop starring in the would-be painting, but it wasn’t like setting foot inside there. Seeing it in a picture wasn’t nearly as painful as doing that and in some ways she felt like she had to get it onto canvas if she was ever to move forwards.
She was overthinking everything these days. She shook her head, started to mix the colour on her palette to get the right shade of brown for the bookshop’s frontage, which was all dark wood outside and matched the cosy interior’s shelving. In the picture she’d taken, the shop was bathed with golden light coming from inside, and people milled on the street in front – a woman in a baby pink cardigan, a man wearing a flat cap, two children both wearing shorts were laughing at something or other.
But no matter how many times she dipped the brush into the paint and it hovered in her hand in front of the stretched canvas, she couldn’t quite get going.
When she heard the door again, she felt relieved at the interruption. Maybe that was a good sign?
She was already at the door when she noticed she still had a paintbrush in her hand. Too late now.
She flung open the door to find a young woman standing on the other side. She was pretty, blonde, and Bonnie suspected, an out-of-season tourist. She was probably looking for directions. Being at the top of the hill this sometimes happened as tourists arrived wanting to know where Lulworth Cove was – open your eyes! – or how to get to the coastal path or Durdle Door.
‘Hello. Are you Bonnie?’ The woman had sun-kissed skin and beamed a smile Bonnie imagined she’d never be able to replicate.
‘Yes, I’m Bonnie.’ She looked down when she realised she’d managed to get brown paint on the doorjamb. ‘Damn it. Hang on.’
She brought a wet cloth back from the kitchen, and wiped off the paint, which hadn’t been given a chance to make its mark.
‘I’m sorry, dear, but I’m very busy. What can I do for you?’ What was wrong with her? A moment ago she’d thought she might actually want some company, been excited about it even.
‘I’m Faye.’
‘Faye?’ she asked with a depleted sigh. The woman definitely wasn’t local or British by the sound of her accent.
‘I’ve come a long way. I just wanted to… well, I wanted to say, I’m very sorry, about Howard.’
It took a moment before it dawned. ‘Are you Faye from the Midnight Book Club?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘But you live thousands of miles away.’ She was confused.
‘I’m here visiting family. Well, kind of. I’m staying nearby.’ She smiled. ‘And now I’m waffling.’ She turned, as if looking down the hill and her awkwardness made Bonnie glad she hadn’t closed the door in her face. ‘You know it’s as beautiful here as Howard always said it was. I grew up nearby but had forgotten what it was really like. He always talked about Driftwick Bay with such passion.’
Bonnie knew Howard was well liked; that much was obvious at his cremation, which some of the locals from Driftwick Bay had gone to – although most of the day had been a blur to her. What she hadn’t realised, however, was how much he’d touched other people’s lives, people who didn’t see him day to day. She should’ve known really. He had that special quality.
