Chapter 1
Liz knotted the laces of her hiking boots, then eyed herself in the hallway mirror.
Her friends would tease her for wearing them to the airport, but there was no space in her backpack.
She’d been scrupulous with her packing. She enjoyed the efficiency of it, the paring back, whittling down, every gram counting.
It was pleasing to be able to step out with everything she needed on her back.
There was an autonomy about it that she liked—maybe a little too much.
She checked her watch. If she left now, she’d arrive at Helena’s fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Her backpack was waiting in the car. The tank was filled with petrol. Her checklist was ticked. There was nothing left for her to do except say good-bye.
Hard to believe that, by this evening, she, Helena, and Maggie would be in Norway.
It had been her turn to choose the holiday destination.
In previous years she’d picked Corfu, Madeira, the South of France.
She’d loved those beach holidays—the kiss of the sun, the buzz of being with girlfriends, the languid days poolside—but recently she’d been thirsting for something different.
She was thirty-three, a wife, a mother, a doctor.
Her everyday life was organized, buttoned-down, scheduled. What she needed was an adventure.
“You’re serious?” Helena had balked when Liz pitched the idea of four days wild hiking and camping in Norway.
Liz was. “I’ve always wanted to see the fjords and mountains.”
“So book a cruise.”
A few months earlier, thanks to a broken fan belt that the garage took an age to repair, Liz had been forced to walk to the clinic.
As she’d walked, something magical had seemed to happen; with each step, it was as if she were shaking off the chaos of lost homework, packed lunches, and missing uniform items. She noticed birdsong, learned the names of the trees she passed, took the time to wave good morning to neighbors.
By the time she arrived at work, her thoughts felt more spacious, her body grateful for the movement.
She had been out in the weather and felt the day.
The action of moving her feet, step after step, meant she arrived fresh and energized.
Liz being Liz, she wanted to understand the physiological benefits of walking, so she’d dived into the research.
She discovered that regular walking improved the immune system, lowered cholesterol, and strengthened feelings of well-being.
She shared these findings with her patients.
“I’m prescribing you a daily walk.” It was simple, free, doable for most. Life-changing in some cases.
Right now, Liz needed life-changing.
She glanced toward the kitchen. She could hear the morning symphony of breakfast: the clink of bowls set on the table, the gush of the tap, the scrape of a stool, Evie’s voice pitched above Daniel’s, the calming tone of Patrick mellowing them both.
She moved toward the noise and warmth of her family.
The thick-soled tread of her boots made her gait feel unfamiliar.
She found herself standing in the kitchen doorway unnoticed, and—for a few disconcerting moments—it was as if she were watching someone else’s life.
How much would they miss her? she wondered.
Patrick knew the routines of family life so well: he was the one who made the packed lunches, did the school run, and helped with homework.
Evie, hair mussed from sleep, was the first to spot her. “Mummy! Are you leaving now?”
“Yes,” she said, feeling tears lodged at the back of her throat. She’d never liked protracted good-byes. Out the door and get on with it. That was best.
Patrick turned, warm brown eyes sliding over her face but not meeting her gaze. “So, you’re picking up Helena first? Then Maggie?”
“Then Norway here we come.” She tried for upbeat, but her tone fell flat.
“Please get a photo of Helena in hiking gear!” He grinned.
Liz moved toward her son, who was sitting at the breakfast bar, shoveling cornflakes into his mouth. She pressed a kiss on his cheek, feeling the machinations of his jaw.
Evie put down her spoon to wobble a front tooth, asking, “Will this have fallen out by the time you’re back?”
Liz nodded. She would probably return to find her daughter with a new gap in her perfect line of baby teeth. She would miss that sweet moment of slipping into a dark room to swap a tissue-wrapped tooth for a shiny pound coin.
She was used to missing things: Evie’s first word (Dan-dan); Daniel’s first steps across the lounge floor—caught in Patrick’s arms; watching the twins in their first swimming lesson.
But there were many more things that she had been there for, and Liz knew that tallying up the misses and the been-there-fors only led to a scorecard etched in guilt.
“Look after each other while I’m away,” she said, breathing them in. She kissed their heads, told them she loved them.
She followed Patrick to the front door. He opened it onto a sun-bright September morning, and there was something about the gesture that made Liz feel like a guest.
“Excited?” he asked.
She forced a smile, nodding. “I’ll see you when—” She faltered.
She wouldn’t see him when she got back. The arrangement was a month apart.
A trial separation, taking it in turns to be out of the house so it wouldn’t affect the children: a week in Norway for her, then a week for him visiting his brother, and then more switching and organizing on her return.
A month apart to give them time to decide what they wanted.
What do you want? she wondered, looking briefly at Patrick.
“Bye, Liz,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss against her cheek. He smelled of toast and coffee and the fabric of their home.
She had a strange vertiginous feeling—as if she needed to reach out, grip on to his solidity, as the rest of the world spun away from her.
She blinked quickly, looking down at her neatly laced hiking boots. She took a deep breath, then turned and stepped out of her life.