Somewhere Only We Know

Prologue

‘Mum!’ Bronte waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Stop grinning at me.’

‘Never.’ I helped myself to another California roll from the box. ‘It’s such a nice surprise to see you. I’ll fall asleep with this smile on my face.’

Tonight I was supposed to be at book club. This month’s choice had gripped me to the last page. The story was a warning to slow down your life and pay attention to the people you love. But then Bronte had invited herself over and I chose to heed the book’s lesson and put her first.

My daughter snorted softly. ‘Nutter. I’m happy to see you too, and be home.’

I knew that one day another house would be her home and her visits would be less often. I didn’t want to think about that yet.

We were sitting at my kitchen table with the doors open to the garden. It was a summer’s evening in the Cotswolds and we’d started off outside, but a breeze had blown us back inside.

I sneaked another look at her while we took turns to spear sliced ginger onto chopsticks and plunge them into wasabi. Our taste buds were similar; we both adored strong flavours, the hotter the better.

Her face held the gifts of youth which we take for granted until they begin to elude us: smooth skin, bursting with collagen, a scattering of freckles highlighting her cheekbones, teeth sparkling white.

When she smiled, I saw my younger self reflected in her features, but her liquid brown eyes and dark curls she owed to her father.

I delighted in her vivaciousness, and I knew that even when she was older, a mother herself maybe, I’d never tire of looking at this girl of mine.

‘So.’ Bronte looked at me from under her lashes, cheeks flushed. ‘I have news.’

I put down my chopsticks, heart already fizzing with pride.

‘I knew it.’

She laughed. ‘You always know it.’

‘The spontaneous dinner date, the sushi, you paying for the sushi.’ I listed the clues. ‘I learned the language of Bronte Jones a long time ago. I’d say I’m fluent.’

Sushi had been her go-to celebratory food since her tenth birthday when instead of a party, she’d opted for a trip to Tate Modern for the two of us, followed by sushi for lunch. Never one to follow the crowd, my daughter.

Normally I paid for our takeaways. Bronte had recently graduated and was saving every penny for her move to London. This time when she’d offered, I let her pay. There was a feeling of self-worth that came from being able to treat someone. I understood that.

‘I think I can still surprise you,’ she replied, tilting her chin with a touch of defiance I recognised as my own.

She swallowed hard, her fingers reaching for the Tiffany pendant that I’d bought her for her twenty-third birthday in April.

Her obvious nervousness at whatever she’d come to tell me made me want to squeeze her tight.

I loved that she shared so much with me, that I was the first person she called with news.

She’d achieved so much, knocked it out of the park on every challenge she’d set herself.

School, art college, uni and, last week, she’d landed her dream job.

‘Let me guess,’ I said, topping up our soda glasses. ‘Saatchi my relationship with my own mother was the opposite of the bond Bronte and I shared.

‘So here’s the thing.’ She sat, plonking the bag on her lap. ‘I’m going to be working until I’m an old woman. Like, I don’t know, seventy or something.’

I nodded. ‘You and me both, kiddo. And that’s all right.’

I liked working, being busy and useful and knowing that I would be able to support Bronte financially until she could support herself.

When she left home for uni I immersed myself even deeper into my career, filling the aching gap she’d left behind.

I was in my mid-forties now and couldn’t imagine feeling different any time soon.

‘Yeah, I know.’ Bronte frowned. ‘But there’s so much world to see. And if I don’t go and explore now, I might never get the chance.’

‘Of course you will!’ I argued. ‘You’re so young! You’ll have time off, holidays … and you’ll get used to making the most of weekends.’

‘Listen, Mum, I’ve decided to go travelling in January,’ she blurted out.

‘Take a gap year. Before I start work – my graduate job, I mean. Obviously, I’ll need to work in a bar or something to save up.

I’m going by myself initially and then I’ll meet Harry midway through – he’s got an internship first. I should have enough cash by January.

The flights are the main problem. I need to book them now and I was wondering if you could lend me the money. I’ll pay you back.’

‘Whoah, slow down,’ I cried. ‘A gap year?’

She nodded, willing me with her eyes to support this crazy idea. I had not expected this; I was staggered.

‘What?’ I couldn’t believe my ears.

‘Where’s this come from? Harry? Has he put this into your head?’

I’d always liked her boyfriend until now. He was a lovely lad, and they were well suited, and had been together for three years all through university.

‘Mum!’ Bronte looked appalled by the suggestion.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ I pressed my hands on the table and took a deep breath. I never spoke to her like that. Ever. ‘It’s a surprise, that’s all.’

‘To answer your question, Harry has nothing to do with it. This is something I’ve wanted to do.’ She glanced at me then looked away. ‘Ever since I read your diary from 2000.’

‘My …?’ A rush of heat flamed my face.

Her eyes widened in panic. ‘You said I could have it.’

‘I remember.’ I’d only ever kept a diary once, and it was too full of memories to throw away.

She’d found it amongst my things when she was looking for photos for an art project a couple of years ago.

I’d let her keep it. The things I’d written about were as important for her as they were for me.

The last thing I’d expected was that it would trigger a desire for a gap year.

She pulled two books from her bag and pushed them across the table.

One was my old diary, the other was a notebook covered in her illustrations.

A map of the world with dotted lines leading away from the UK.

Aeroplanes, backpacks, turtles, flowers, beach towels and palm trees …

She referred to them as doodles, but her drawings were much more than that.

Bronte’s Gap Year was written across the front, each letter of each word in a different colour.

The cover alone was a work of art; I could only imagine how detailed the inside would be.

The pages had that tell-tale waviness to them which told me that she’d painted on them.

This book – this plan – must have been weeks, possibly months in the making.

‘I’m confused,’ I said, attempting to stay calm. ‘This is the first I’ve heard about you wanting a gap year.’

‘Because you’ve always told me to put details into my plans, otherwise they’re just dreams. So I wanted to get everything lined up, my itinerary finalised first. Can I show you …?’

‘ Finalised ?’ I launched into her before she ended her sentence. ‘Darling, you’ve accepted a job, you can’t walk out before you’ve even started.’

‘Actually, I haven’t accepted,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders. ‘They gave me a week to respond.’

‘I’m speechless.’ I dropped my head into my hands.

‘So I have responded.’ Bronte’s voice cracked, and she paused to sip her water. ‘And I’ve asked them to let me defer for a few months. Possibly a year.’

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘They’re one of the biggest creative agencies in the world, with their pick of young hopefuls. I doubt very much they’ll be willing to make a concession for someone who has apparently changed her mind about joining them.’

‘Perhaps they’ll think that I’ll come back a more rounded person with a new perspective on the world.’ Bronte fingered the cover of the notebook. ‘I’ve got some cool places on my list; would you like to see?’

‘Or they might think that once you’ve had a taste of travelling, you’ll struggle to settle into work,’ I said, deliberately ignoring her question.

She gave a sigh so full of sadness that I almost backed down. But this was a mistake. She’d had her sights set on this company for so long. I wondered whether it was a case of cold feet.

‘ You did it,’ she countered. ‘You had your trip to Bali. And don’t you dare tell me that you regret it because your diary tells me otherwise. Look.’

She flicked through the pages of my old diary until she came to a photograph of me.

My heart stuttered in my chest; it had been years since I’d seen this.

I was in a bikini on white sand at the edge of turquoise water.

I looked tanned and beautiful, and although you couldn’t tell from the picture, I was posing for Jackson, my arms reaching up to the sky, one foot kicking up behind me.

But the most striking thing was the smile lighting up my face.

This was a girl having the time of her life.

Even without knowing anything about her, you could see she was in love.

Bronte was staring at me, waiting for an answer.

‘Of course I don’t regret it! But this isn’t about me.’

The photograph had unnerved me. My words came out sharper than I’d intended and Bronte flinched.

‘All I want is the opportunity to look as happy and free as you do there. A break between education and my working life, that’s all. I want my Bali moment.’

‘And you can have it, I’m sure,’ I said, tempering my tone. ‘But you don’t need to take a gap year to do it.’

‘Fine.’ She closed the lid over the remaining sushi and shoved it in her bag.

I ached with regret that the evening had taken such a turn.

‘I hoped you’d support me. I guess deep down, I knew you’d be like this.

So closed. All you think about is work. Your career, my career.

But you know what? There’s more to life than work. ’

‘Wow.’ My hackles rose. ‘That’s easy for you to say, but growing up with no financial security wasn’t easy.

Neither was having a mother whose responsibilities didn’t even stretch to making sure there was food in the cupboards.

I’ve thought about work to make sure you never have to feel that way, to make sure you know the value of being independent, to give you the opportunities I never had. ’

Bronte began to stack the used crockery. ‘And yet as soon as I make an independent decision you throw it back in my face.’

‘That’s not fair!’ I snapped. I was offering my opinion. That was all.

‘Nothing’s fair, Mum,’ she snapped back, jerking to her feet.

‘It’s not fair that you didn’t get to graduate from university, and it’s not fair that you had to look after Auntie Kat while you were a kid, or that you had to work two jobs to put a roof over our heads.

But I can’t be the one to right those wrongs for you.

You’ve got to stop expecting me to follow in your footsteps.

Or at least the footsteps you never got to take.

Independence means me going my way. Doing what I want without being pressured to live the life you should have had. ’

‘I see.’ I stood up too fast, panic making my legs feel heavy and my head light. My vision blurred with tears, and there were already tears streaking Bronte’s face. ‘I had no idea you felt like that. I’m sorry I wanted so many good things for you.’

‘I’m sorry too,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’m sorry that I’ve done all this work, put so much into this travel itinerary because I wanted to impress you, so you could see what this trip meant for me. But you won’t even look. Thanks a lot.’

I shook my head. ‘You’ve already contacted Saatchi before speaking to me, so I hardly think my opinion matters.’

‘Of course it matters.’ She glowered at me, putting on her jacket. ‘I want to do this, Mum. And I’d hoped … well, I’d hoped maybe you could join me at the end. You never take your annual leave from work. How about it? Fancy a holiday on the other side of the world?’

My stomach twisted at the idea of her being on the flip side of the globe. I’d only been on a long-haul holiday once. I hadn’t done much travelling since.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to calm down.

She and I never quarrelled. We were best friends, and this felt horrible and alien.

I wanted to make things right between us.

I glanced at the book and took in the words Bronte’s Gap Year again.

I had to salvage the situation; I didn’t want us to part on bad terms.

‘Will you do something for me?’ I asked, catching hold of her hand. ‘Will you think about it for one more week? Make sure that this is definitely what you want.’

Bronte groaned. ‘I’ve already thought about it.’

‘Please,’ I said. ‘And it’ll give me a chance to get used to the idea too.’

She chewed the inside of her cheek, weighing up my proposal. ‘And if I do that, and still want to go, do you promise you’ll give me your blessing?’

‘I promise,’ I said, although the words stuck in my throat. ‘Let’s have dinner again next week, and if you’re determined to go, we’ll look through Bronte’s Gap Year together. What do you say?’

‘Fine, then. It’s a deal.’ She sighed again, but this time a small smile lit her face, and with it, my heart.

But for Bronte next week never came.