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CHAPTERONE
AVA
As I wakemy mind tries to grab on to the sound that stirred me from a dream I’ve already forgotten. I scramble to recall the notes of the melodic voice, my eyes closed as I mentally reach towards the tantalising echo. For a split second, I think I have something to latch on to but it slips from my grasp.
With a frustrated sigh, I shove at the duvet and readjust my position, hoping that if I drift off I might find the clarion call again.
Quieting my mind is not easy. My brain continues to hunt after the haunting voice, desperate to memorise the soulful notes, but I can’trememberit. Defeat washes through me, this gutting feeling that I’m never going to remember. That I’m never going to rememberanyof it.
Giving up on my quest, I lie under the warm covers. My thoughts drift, mentally tallying how many times I’ve been woken this way over the past few weeks. Is this the fourth time? The fifth? Either way, I’m still none the wiser why this song finds me in my dreams, or what it means.
Nothing about it is familiar to me. Not the voice, nor the series of notes that combine into some kind of melody I can’t place. Is it a refrain from a song? A TV or film soundtrack?
Sighing, I open my eyes. Daylight frames my window, the alarm clock reading 08:43. I wait until the alarm kicks in, the DJ introducing Tiësto’s latest song that’s been playing non-stop for weeks now. I think about my day: the work I need to finish; the appointment I need to keep; the packing I need to complete.
Another song comes and goes as I check my mobile for messages. There are several relating toJosie’s Hen Do!!
Tabi reminds us to bring swim or wet suits. Jen adds that we shouldremember flip-flops. Josie reminds me to pack my black glitter shorts for when we hit the club, followed by a multitude of emojis. Jen asks me if I’m bringing my make-up toolbox.
My make-up bag is as big as a plumber’s toolbox, and about as heavy, too, with all the samples and products in there. Many have been gifted from Mum, make-up artist extraordinaire. She travels the world from one fashion week to the next, fixing the complexions of hundreds of runway models at a time. When she’s not busy jetting to Milan or Paris or New York, she’s on film sets, working with A-listers. It’s not all perfect Hollywood beauty that she’s responsible for though. Over the years, she’s worked on some big horror flicks, and sometimes she sends me pictures of the gory, bloody results. And while I used to be able to admire her craft and the artistic detailing that looks wholly realistic, I delete any photos relating to that side of her work now.
I have little taste for violence; I’ve stopped reading the online news, and I can’t stomach thrillers or horror films anymore—they stress me out.
Despite objecting to the glitter hot pants several times already, I send a thumbs up to the group chat, addingWill do!
Tabi replies:Did we say 6 bottles of champers or 12?
Jen:Do you need to ask!?
Josie:If we don’t drink it you can save it for Xmas/NYE
Jen:Er, have you met Tabi before? Lol
Tabi:I’ll bring some vodka. Who’s bringing the wine and beer?
MeI send, mildly frustrated at all these last-minute panics.Check the list I circulated.
As maid of honour, I spent a long time trying to be the best assistant to the bride I could be, detailing everything we needed for our weekend away. And it turned out that planning for Josie’s wedding was a good distraction from events earlier on in the year when my life stood still for what felt like an eternity.
Checking out places to stay for our get-together was time-consuming, but I’m really pleased with the booking. The wooden cabin looks amazing, plus there’s a hot tub, four double bedrooms, and a huge modern living space with an open fire. There’s countryside for miles around, with an abundance of scenic walks. I cannot wait to arrive and spend four nights chilling with my besties. It feels like there’s been very little fun stuff lately.
Dragging myself to the kitchen, I make myself a mug of tea. Unusually, the house is quiet. Tilly must be out with Isla at the playground already, and my brother-in-law, Nate will be at work in London.
The quiet house magnifies all the difficulties I’m battling, so a short while later, I head off for my run, admiring the ancient colleges and institutions of Cambridge. Once again I dwell on what to do going forwards; do I return to the research lab, continue with my current work, or give proper consideration to a PhD?
The air is crisp as I continue along the river path, my breath fogging in front of me. Keeping a steady pace, I steal glances at the old orchards and pastures of The Backs, a green space that meets the River Cam. The path is popular with tourists and regulars, some of whom I’ve seen multiple times since I started running again. As usual, I pass the elderly couple with the white and liver springer spaniel. We always share a smile, often a greeting too. I see the two mums deep in conversation, swaddled babies sleeping inside their hip-looking prams. There’s an older man with a walking stick, and then, recently, there’s been a younger guy, a man who looks around thirty-years-old. He runs with his beautiful, shiny-coated golden retriever at his side.
The first time I saw him he was without the dog. I’d spotted him up ahead, running towards me whilst concentrating on the path. Handsome and tall, he was kind of hard to ignore, and our eyes caught briefly before I looked away, my heart in my throat. But then he started running with the retriever at his heels, and, wanting to take a closer look at the owner, our eyes connected for what felt like a lifetime. When we crossed paths two days ago, he nodded his chin at me. I want to start saying hello like I do for the old couple. I want to stop and make a fuss of his dog as he approaches. But I don’t. I don’t because I’m suspicious of men I don’t know. And while I don’t want to feel this way, letting negativity and doubt influence me, I’m unable to stop my caution.
I cross Silver Street Bridge and rejoin the river path, heading towards the Fen Causeway. It’s grassy here, the river still, reflecting the weak, late November sun. Despite the late night, the run feels good, my legs projecting me forwards, my breathing not overly taxed. Getting back into running feels good. Being in charge of my body, feeling empowered again is important to me. For too long I’ve let anxiety and depression grip me; I’m done feeling crappy.
Looping back towards home, I realise I haven’t passed the guy with the golden retriever along the usual stretch of riverbank. I push it from my mind. He’s probably busy at work—not everyone can run mid-morning. For me, falling asleep around 2.00 AM tends to make you a late riser.
I’m almost back at Queen’s Road when I see my favourite dog up ahead, his long, pink tongue lolling out of the side of his happy, panting mouth. Dressed in black shorts and a white running top, the owner’s warm, brown eyes find mine.
His voice is deep and smooth when he greets me. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I return instinctively, my pulse spiking.
