CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
They say true love comes when you’re least expecting it. Like a thunderbolt from the sky.
Some feel the effects of that thunderbolt more than once during their lifetime.
Others wait forever and still never find that one person who makes their heart sing . . . who makes them feel truly alive . . .
For some, the thunderbolt hits once, and only once.
I was sixteen when I met the only boy for me.
And that has been my blessing and my curse.
My whole life path – everything that had happened to me – could be traced back to that one shining moment: meeting Joel at the art class when I was just sixteen.
But I wasn’t thinking about that as I drove like the wind, away from Bogg House, desperate to put some distance between myself and Ellie, and the crushing and humiliating scene back there.
All I could see in my mind’s eye as I hurtled along the dark country lanes to the main road was Ellie’s expression of growing disgust and anger at me, and I hated myself for having destroyed our friendship.
It was all because of a promise I’d made myself a year earlier, when my great-aunt died.
*****
At the age of sixteen, I was painfully shy and I’d never kissed a boy. The opposite of Claire, who was outgoing and popular, a natural blonde with Scandinavian heritage and the wonderful cheekbones to prove it.
I was happy to be Claire’s best friend. My interests were solitary: I loved reading, drawing and painting. Claire liked dancing, performing on stage in school shows and playing netball. She was on the school team. Mum used to say we complemented each other. Claire was a great talker while I was a good listener.
Claire always had boys making fools of themselves over her, but while she enjoyed the attention, it was never more than flirty banter – until the summer I went to Spain on holiday and everything changed. I came back to the news that Claire was dating.
She was a member of a local amateur dramatics company and this particular boy had arrived one day. They’d started talking and at the end of the night, he’d asked her if she’d like to go for a drink with him sometime. She’d said yes and that was that.
Claire was in love.
I couldn’t believe it had all happened while I was away for my fortnight’s summer holiday. But I was really pleased for Claire. She sounded happy and her face lit up when she talked about him.
He was a few years older than her and he was studying engineering at college.
‘You’ve got something in common,’ I remember her telling me. ‘He paints pictures. Like you. He’s really good.’
I liked the sound of him. It was always a good thing if you liked your friend’s boyfriend. It made life easier. So when she suggested I join the art class he went to, I decided to be brave for once in my life and go along.
I was nervous, though, and Claire knew that, so she arranged for us to meet up with him outside the building so we could go in together.
They were standing there when I arrived – her blonde head nestled into his shoulder – and I remember Claire reached up and pushed a cheeky hand through his dark hair and made a Picasso joke about making sure we didn’t cut our ears off.
He laughed and turned to me, his hazel eyes dancing with amusement. He held out his hand and I took it.
‘Hi. I’m Joel,’ he said.