Page 92 of Somewhere Only We Know

‘No. I’m not ready,’ I told him firmly. ‘I don’t want to leave yet, Brontë’s journey can’t be over. Not while I know she still had pages left for me to read.’

Harry remained silent on the other end of the line. I wondered what was going through his mind. It was different for him, I thought. He could travel for as long as he liked, should he so wish. I had responsibilities to get back to. This was my one chance, possibly the longest break from the rat race I’d ever get until I retired. I had to make the most of my sabbatical; and more than that, I had to keep following in Brontë’s footsteps and take the journey that she’d been so determined to take for herself.

‘But let’s say you don’t find her book,’ Harry said finally. ‘You won’t have much choice.’

He had a point. Except … I had a sudden flash of inspiration. Hadn’t Harry said he’d helped Brontë with her research?

‘You know!’ I said. ‘You know where she was going next.’

‘Um. I … Well, I guess …’ Harry’s voice faltered down the line. ‘I’m not sure I’ve got the details.’

‘Can’t you look on your laptop?’ I pleaded. ‘You must have some idea.’

He let out a long sigh. ‘Honestly, Maggie, I’d rather not.’

‘But why?’ I cried, frustrated. ‘Come on, Harry, you know how important this is to me, why don’t you want me to know?’

‘Okay, okay,’ he retorted. ‘Hold on. Let me think.’

I chewed my lip, not really understanding why he was so reluctant.

‘I do know the next destination,’ he said gently. ‘It’s actually her last one, but—’

‘Yes! Fantastic! I could kiss you,’ I gasped. ‘Where is it?’

‘It’s somewhere she was always fascinated with,’ he began.

I racked my brains. ‘She was obsessed with the giant turtles in the Galapagos Islands for a while. Is that it? Or Los Angeles? She wanted to see for herself if every waiter really was an actor waiting to be discovered.’

‘Neither of those,’ said Harry.

I detected a smile in his voice; he must have heard her talk about both those places too.

‘So?’ I prompted. ‘Where is it?’

‘Bali,’ he replied simply. ‘She planned to go to Bali.’

I stared at the phone, speechless. Of course she’d want to go to Bali. I pressed a hand to my chest as emotion hit me in waves. ‘I want my Bali moment,’ she’d told me. And quite literally, she had planned to have it. My life had changed beyond recognition since I’d last been there – I was a different person now and I couldn’t imagine how I’d feel to be there again. But it looked as if I’d be finding out very soon because, courtesy of my daughter, I was going back to Bali where it had all begun.

Chapter 33

Bali

The hotel porter glided along the corridor ahead of me, showed me into my room and bowed.

‘We hope you enjoy your stay, Miss Maggie,’ he said, handing me the key.

‘Thank you. I’m sure I will.’ I shut the door behind me and sank onto my bed, relieved that my long journey was over. I closed my eyes for a moment, allowing the softness of the bed to work its magic on my weary body.

I had travelled to Bali without Brontë’s book, and this part of my trip already felt lonelier because I didn’t have her to guide me.

I’d landed in Bali a couple of hours ago and had taken a taxi from the airport to the town of Ubud. We’d driven around the outskirts of Denpasar, Bali’s biggest city, through villages populated by houses so ornate that they could have been mistaken for temples, past roadside stalls piled high with watermelons and papaya, and kiosks selling roasted cobs of corn. As we travelled further inland, the landscape gave way to tropical forest, green fields and neatly sculpted rice terraces. There were signs for waterfalls and temples and monkey sanctuaries, with the summit of Mount Batur ever present on the skyline. The country had changed in the two decades since my last visit. There was more traffic, more people, more development. But its beauty was as dazzling as ever.

Subconsciously, I knew I was fortunate to be here. Some people would never get the chance to experience such an incredible place. But I was so angry with myself. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I careless I’d been with Brontë’s precious book. I’d been torturing myself with trying to remember where I’d last seen it and at what point in the day I could have mislaid it.

It had been so much more than an itinerary. It had become a talisman, a piece of her, every page imprinted with her DNA. It was my last link to her, a way of staying connected. Her presence in book form had cast a golden light over my time in Nepal and Australia, and without her some of the joy of my trip had slipped away.

Now I was here in the last destination. Bali. The place where Jackson and I had met and fallen in love. Where Brontë was conceived. I wanted her with me more than I’d ever done before, and it felt like I had lost her for a second time.