Chapter 2
Helena eyed her backpack. It leaned with jaunty arrogance against her front door, blocking her exit.
Buckles and straps strained against the bulk of its contents.
She’d cut the price tag from it this morning, nicking her thumb with the nail scissors.
A single bead of blood had dripped onto the front of the pack, leaving a tiny dark stain.
If Maggie noticed it, she’d believe it was a bad omen.
But Helena didn’t believe in omens. She believed she needed to be more careful with scissors.
She sipped her coffee, luxuriating in the deep, velvety flavor, knowing it would be her last AeroPressed coffee for a while.
Four sachets of instant coffee were sealed in a pocket of her backpack—one for each morning of the hike.
She’d Googled travel-size coffee makers, picturing the romance of one perched on a hissing camp stove, framed by a beautiful Norwegian backdrop.
She’d liked the image enough to press Buy, but once the coffee maker had arrived and she’d laid it out on the spare bed alongside the other packages that landed almost daily—dry bags, waterproof over-trousers, merino wool socks, two-man tent, down sleeping bag, lightweight roll mat, camping stove, gas canister—she knew she couldn’t justify the extra weight.
She moved cautiously toward the backpack, the way you might approach a wary horse, slowly placing a palm to its flank. Was she really going to lug this through the wilderness for four days?
She laughed at the absurdity of it. Her, Helena Hall, going wild camping in Norway!
Bloody Liz. It was her year to choose the destination.
When it had been Helena’s turn three years earlier, she’d picked Ibiza.
Even Joni had shown up, flying in for two nights in the middle of her tour schedule, hooking them up with VIP club passes.
The four of them had spent a week lazing in the sunshine, swimming in rocky coves, and partying until sundown. That was a holiday.
Hiking in Norway? It’ll be an adventure, Liz had assured them, her lips working a bit too hard to stretch into a smile.
Still. She wasn’t going to stick here alone in her flat while the others went off together.
When you’re single in your thirties, you jump at the chance to go anywhere with your girlfriends.
Earlier in the week she’d messaged Liz at midnight: Toilets! Where do I go for a crap? And Liz had sent back an emoji of a poo and a forest—and then sent a link to a trowel.
Fine. It was going to be absolutely fine.
She finished her coffee, rinsed and dried the mug, then returned it to the cupboard, handle pointing outward. She smoothed her hands against her thighs. Looked around. The granite surfaces were empty. The downlights switched off.
She glanced at her watch. Liz would be here in fifteen minutes.
Moving into her bedroom, she looked wistfully through the open window onto the city.
Outside, the early September light held a golden warmth to it—the last breath of summer.
Her city—Bristol—smelled of diesel and concrete and warm trash.
She filled her lungs with it. Oh, the beauty of pavements, and buildings, and traffic, and the clip of heeled footwear.
Not a hiking boot or fleece in sight. She pulled the window closed reluctantly.
She caught sight of a package resting on her dressing table, still in a carrier bag. She eyed it for a moment, lips pressed together, heart rate picking up speed, deliberating. Then she snatched it up, tore free the bag, and stared at the pregnancy test.
A hot flush of dread swam through her. She didn’t want to take the test. She didn’t want to even look at it. But she needed to get it done. Then she could put it behind her and enjoy the trip. It would be a good anecdote for the plane. Liz and Maggie could poke fun at her feckless single lifestyle.
She ripped open the box and scanned the instructions without reading a word. She knew the drill. Pee on a stick. Wait for three minutes, sweating.
She carried it to the en suite, irked to notice her hands were trembling.
Do I even need a wee? she wondered, slipping down her knickers and crouching over the toilet.
She held the pregnancy test between her legs. Closed her eyes. Tried to concentrate on relaxing.
She’d been poised for only a moment when the door buzzer blared. “Christ!” she cried, leaping from the seat.
She snapped up her knickers, then strode into the hallway, zipping up her trousers.
“It’s me!” Liz’s voice beamed through the intercom. “I’m outside.”
Course Liz would be early.
“You ready?” she trilled.
Glancing at the unused pregnancy test, she felt a bolt of irritation at Liz for arriving early—but, beneath that, Helena felt a sense of reprieve, of a bullet dodged.
She pressed her mouth to the speaker. “Ready.”