To Carla, her gran’s bungalow was the coziest place on the planet, with plants on every surface and lots of brightly colored rugs and knitted cushions. Good-luck trinkets and ornaments could be found everywhere. A model of Lord Ganesha, the elephant-headed Hindu god of beginnings, sat on the mantelpiece, and a lucky maneki-neko gold cat waved its paw on the windowsill of the living room. Lucinda claimed the acorns in a bowl on her coffee table represented the might of the oak tree and its ability to withstand lightning.
As a child, Carla had played hopscotch in her gran’s backyard, trying not to step on the gaps between the paving stones in case a bogeyman came to get her. If she grazed a pavement crack with her toe, she lay in bed at night with her covers pulled up to her eyes, half-expecting a strange figure to emerge from the shadows.
“Go on, off to bed with you,” Lucinda said, opening her front door. “You can sleep off the Singapore slings in your old room. Make sure you drink lots of water and I’ll bring you some toast and jam.”
Carla shook her head. “I really can’t eat anything, thanks.” She padded groggily along the hallway and into her old room, pleased there were still some of her old clothes and belongings in the wardrobe. Lucinda found it comforting to keep them around her home.
Carla switched on the bedside lamp and picked up a photo of her mum off the bedside table.
Suzette Carter wore a straw hat and had freckles on her nose. She’d been captured on film while spinning around in a raspberry-red dress, so the fabric was a blur. It was the kind of wholesome image used to advertise breakfast cereal.
She touched her mum’s face, hating that she could hardly remember her voice. She did have pockets of memories of her, like the sun shining through her strawberry blonde hair so it looked like a halo, and how they used to sit at the dining table together threading glass beads onto strips of leather. At least she still had these pictures in her head, unlike Jess, who was only two when their mother died.
Carla placed the photograph back and wondered if Myrtle might have seen it, or other ones Lucinda had on display. What information might she have gleaned? She yawned, too tired to contemplate this stuff.
She found one of her old T-shirts to wear in bed and crouched down to feel around for a pair of socks in the bottom of the wardrobe. When her fingers hit something hard and rectangular, she pulled it out and realized it was the travel journal she’d kept during her gap year. There was a photo of her on the cover, younger, laughing and carefree. “I look like Mum,” she whispered to herself, not that aware of the resemblance before. She shivered and sat down on the bed, then pulled the covers around herself.
Carla’s travels had taken place before the iPhone was invented, prior to YouTube, Twitter and Facebook. When you escaped, you really could escape. Each place she’d visited had been awarded a few pages in her journal, and she opened it up.
She’d added diary entries and pasted in concert tickets, menus, hand-drawn maps and a diving certificate. She’d recorded her travels on a pocket camera, developing her photos along the way. There were names and phone numbers written on beer coasters and scraps of paper. Some people she could remember and others she couldn’t.
She’d kept in touch with Gran and Jess via postcards and calls from pay phones on roadsides or in cafés, living in the moment without today’s expectation of sharing all your activity online. Friendships and relationships had been formed en route through chance meetings rather than via a database and algorithms. Carla had attempted to speak different languages, got lost in foreign towns, kissed strangers and ate food she’d never heard of. Things she’d never do now.
Flicking through the journal allowed smells and sounds to come alive in her memory, taking her back in time. She could almost taste olive oil on her tongue and hear the call of hawkers who sold fake designer handbags on street corners. She’d worn an ankle bracelet with tiny bells that tinkled when she walked and ate giant slices of watermelon for breakfast.
One photo showed her posing on the back of a motorbike, her arms wrapped around a charismatic English musician she’d met after his gig in Lisbon. “Adam Angelino,” she said aloud. He had been so cool.
She found a card for a hair salon in Barcelona, and saw she’d scrawled the name Pedro (Mr. Passionate) on the back. He’d insisted she go dancing with him, after he’d cut her hair.
As she turned the pages, other recollections filtered back, of Fidele, a warmhearted diving instructor in Sardinia who’d introduced her to a tiny purple octopus that lived in the shallows. She smiled ruefully as she pictured clinking beer bottles with him at sunset, thinking if it had been a different time, a different place, they could have been perfect together.
Then there had been Ruben, an intelligent teacher who’d showed her the sights of Amsterdam, taking her to many museums, writing poems for her and discussing Vincent van Gogh’s mental health until the early hours.
Daniel had been a penniless eco-warrior in Majorca who’d lived in a deserted farmhouse with fellow travelers, an abundance of chickens and no electricity. After a few weeks, Carla could no longer survive without running water and had decamped to a nearby hostel.
Her travels had allowed her to cast aside all her responsibilities at home for twelve months of freedom and possibility.
Carla rubbed the back of her neck, feeling guilty about revisiting romantic encounters from her past, if only in her thoughts. None of her exes from two decades ago compared to the wonderful relationship she had now with Tom.
Her eyes settled upon a photo of her standing next to a tan-colored horse in Spain. Its front legs were crossed and she adopted a similar pose. As she recalled Myrtle’s words about an accident, she sucked in a sharp breath.
More memories filtered back, of how she’d missed her footing while dismounting. She’d thudded down onto the sand, where she’d yowled in pain and clutched her elbow. Vacationers had gathered around her in the afternoon heat, peering down and asking if she was okay, where was she staying and was she with anyone? Someone had taken her to the hospital, where the nurses exchanged exasperated looks over the top of Carla’s head at having to deal with yet another tourist injured from a horse ride. A kindly doctor had taken pity on her and drove her back to her hotel afterward.
A few days later, Carla revisited the horse and had her photo taken alongside it to prove there were no hard feelings. It had been all her fault, after all.
She flipped through the rest of the journal and discovered several blank pages at the back where she’d added her own title, Adventures—to be continued...
Carla yawned and closed the book, letting it slip from her fingers to the floor, and she settled down into a woozy sleep. All the relationships and experiences she’d just revisited belonged firmly in her past. Tom was her Mr. Right, whatever Myrtle might say.
So, why couldn’t she stop wondering about the mysterious, important man she’d supposedly met twenty-one years ago? And how could he possibly be part of her future?
Five
Games
Carla woke the next morning and heard her gran singing in the kitchen, a homey sound she could listen to for hours. Her pillow was marshmallow-soft, and golden daylight flooded the room. She’d love to stay around for breakfast, but it was already past ten and Tom made brunch for her each Saturday. He’d probably be wondering where she’d ended up last night, so Carla forced herself out of bed. On her way out of the room, she stepped on the journal that lay splayed face down on the carpet.
Lucinda stood in the kitchen surrounded by various dishes, measuring spoons and glass jugs. She had a smudge of flour on her nose and was immersed in reading a letter. As soon as she heard Carla, she lowered it, placed it down on her countertop and promptly covered it with a place mat.
Carla spotted the hospital logo on the top before it disappeared. “Everything okay?” she asked cautiously.
Lucinda’s eyes lingered on the place mat for a second too long. “Absolutely fine, just a routine appointment.” She snatched up a spoon. “I’m making pancakes. Want one? Or are you feeling a little delicate?”
Carla closed one eye and winced. “I think there’s a rugby match going on in my head.”
“Tsk. Why not get back into bed and I’ll bring you coffee and a headache tablet instead? You haven’t said much about your reading. I want to know what—”
Carla’s nose tickled and she wrinkled it, not managing to stave off a sneeze. A further two loud ones followed and she was glad they’d interrupted her gran’s questioning.
Sneezing three times in a row was supposedly bad luck and Lucinda eyed her warily. She passed Carla a tissue and said, “Bless you.”
The saying originated from some cultures’ belief that your soul could escape your body through a sneeze, and Carla dismissed this silly thought as she washed and got dressed. In a rush to leave the bungalow, she stuffed the travel journal into her bag rather than put it back in the wardrobe.
A little later on, she wilted at the smell of cooked sausages outside Tom’s place.
He lived on the outskirts of Manchester in a compact one-bedroom terraced house. Apart from his much-loved compendium of board games, he was a minimalistic kind of guy, happy for his apartment to be all gray, white and chrome until he’d met Carla. As a bit of fun, and trying to inject some color into his house by stealth, she’d started to leave behind items whenever she stayed over, like a yellow glass vase, a pink plastic photo frame, or a fringed velvet cushion or two. She was pleased when Tom left them in place, proving she was welcome in his world.
They were going to rent a tiny new two-bedroom house after they married, a stopgap while they saved up and looked around for their forever home. Carla wasn’t sure where Tom would fit all his games, and there wasn’t enough space to invite friends over for drinks on the strip of paving stones that was supposed to be a garden.
