Chapter 42
Lesson 41: None of us has a crystal ball.
Bridget Jones Tally:
dates—2
surprise visits—1
July—three months later
We sat outside in the early evening under lush potted trees. Their gracefully arching limbs twinkled with glittering strings
of bistro lights. I didn’t usually order rosé, but it was rosé weather, and the crisp acidity mixed deliciously with the warm
breeze and the buzz of the city.
“You look so lovely tonight. I’d almost forgotten how lovely you are.”
“Aw. Thank you. Here’s to you! To your big move!” We locked eyes, clinked glasses, and sipped for good luck. “Very bold, moving
all the way across the Atlantic where there’s a decided deficit of Tunnock’s tea cakes and clotted cream.”
He flashed a blinding smile. “I think I’ll manage.”
We strolled home, chatting easily, and for a moment, speaking to him made all the memories from my trip to Britain swim to the surface, more alive than they had in weeks.
“It’s so good to see you, Alice. Thank you for a wonderful night. I haven’t laughed this much in months.”
“It was really great to see you too, Tristan. I’m glad that you’re here in Boston. I mean, it’s no Oxford, and you obviously
made a huge mistake. But you have a pretty face, no one expects you to be bright as well.”
We were outside my parents’ brownstone now. He smiled, blushed, and adjusted his glasses, then he leaned in to me slowly.
Our eyes met, softly stirring the butterflies in my stomach.
We shared a soft, sexy kiss. I breathed him in. My heart thudded, and my blood turned to honey. The butterflies fluttered.
Then dropped and died on the wing.
It had been quite an eventful three months since returning home. My broken heart, and homesickness for Britain and all my
newfound friends, was tantamount to sitting on a fire-ant hill in a pair of hot pants. I had set myself the goals to apply
for at least five jobs daily—weekdays only, I’m not an animal—to call my parents every Sunday and Wednesday like clockwork,
and to visit them once a month. I wanted more from them now. I wanted more from me.
I was building a life again, a home, and within two weeks of returning I had had four interviews lined up and was soon offered
an interesting position at a growing grassroots NGO, which I accepted gratefully. Things were going just as planned.
I worked hard to rebuild a social life, rekindling old friendships, joining a book club and a hiking group, and reaching out to new people. I had more to offer now, I felt. Now I had stories to tell and photos to show. I was learning to be more open, and was shocked at how a night with a pizza and a friend to chat to could talk most problems right out of existence. I cooked for people, I invited them to cocktail bars I wanted to try, I remembered the little details of their life. I wanted to be the type of friend that the ladies had taught me to be: warm, bold, and generous.
Contrary to all my fears, things had actually improved quite a bit since the forcible dismantling of my life. I had a job
that I preferred, and while I made a lower salary, there was more room for growth, travel, and opportunities to lead future
projects. I was free of Hunter and his salmon polo shirts, and wondered now why we hadn’t cut the cord sooner. It was honestly
a relief. I had independence. I could date again if I wanted to, and now I knew that there were men out there whose company
was fun, thrilling, passionate.
There was Tristan. We had been on two dates but hadn’t rushed into either feelings or bed. I had done what I could to help
him look for a new apartment in the fun parts of town and had emailed over some information about how to get around, good
places to eat and drink, and other logistics.
I wasn’t entirely sure what I was feeling for him. The predominant feeling was confusion. He had mentioned that he might like
to visit DC. I had said something ambiguous like That sounds fun but hadn’t attempted to solidify further. He hadn’t pushed me. He was so perfect. What was wrong with me? Was this because
I was not yet over Robbie, or was this because there was something innate missing between us? It was so new. I told myself
not to worry the unripened fruit right off the tree.
Robbie and I kept in touch mostly by way of long-winded, storylike emails. I would pore over them several times, spending
much of my week planning a worthy response. This was punctuated by brief WhatsApp messages and pictures of things we thought
the other might find funny—the best so far being a candid shot of a woman in a ruffled pantsuit that, if you squinted, was
not that unlike our saggy celibacy suit.
I also continued to encourage (see: pester) him about making his dream of a wheelchair accessible tour work. I sent him several websites for American tour companies who had done something similar for inspiration. And, because grant applications had always been one of my work responsibilities, I sent him info on UK grants he could apply for to help kit out a new bus with a lift, and other expensive logistics that might be holding him back.
We’d had a few video calls over the months, but though we talked long into the evening, and well past Robbie’s bedtime, it
left us feeling somehow lonelier and further apart afterward, as if we’d had to say goodbye all over again.
We briefly talked of visiting each other, but I certainly couldn’t leave the country with my new job, and wouldn’t yet be
able to ask for any time off. So he’d have to fly all the way over to see me for just a few hours in the evenings and maybe
a free Saturday and Sunday, if I was lucky. It would have been expensive and wouldn’t have made sense. We knew that a transatlantic
relationship wasn’t sustainable. It only would have made it harder for us to move on.
When he went on tour, it was basically impossible for us to schedule a call, and he didn’t have time for long emails, so things
grew distant. It felt beyond our control. I had decided maybe that was for the best. There was a Robbie-shaped hole in my
heart. But it would scab over soon. It had to, right?
I also kept in touch with the ladies. I had my photos printed, and I sent them all albums, each one specially curated for
the recipient. I hand-bound them with ribbon and the type of luxury recycled paper with the little flower pieces embedded
inside. The front covers were inscribed with a flourish: a most bodacious spring.
Doris and I had had a few telephone calls during teatime, which was a good time in the morning for me to also have a cuppa,
and we would pretend that we were having them together somewhere cozy.
Berrta sent me a weekly link for updates to her blog, which was in German and English and mostly about bird-spotting and the de velopment of her up-and-coming bird-watching tour company. She included a short, personal note for each email. I read posts with a cup of coffee on a Sunday, and she seemed to really love getting my notes in the comment section.
I had gone online and to the library to research the Spellbinding Sultan of Samarra and Mavis the Marvelous, and found some
images, a few glowing reviews, a beautiful photo of Flossie, and even a news story from Manchester on microfiche—an interview
with the sultan. When I sent Flossie and Agatha their photo album, I included a folder of printouts and suggested they share
them with Mr. Richie.
Not long after, I received a surprise parcel from Flossie and Agatha. It included a cookbook of British pastries, in which
Agatha had written a warning against the imminent threat of fat thighs, and a sheath of lovely pressed flowers from Flossie
that I arranged in a double-glass frame with the group photo from my birthday.
A month later, I got a postcard that said perfunctorily: “To Alice Cooper, from Flossie and Agatha Philipson.” The interesting
part of this was that the postcard was from Cawdor Castle. In Scotland. In the Highlands of Scotland, to be exact. And suspiciously
near, one might think, to the infamous Bonar Bridge.
I had the most contact with Lorna and Madge. I arranged a few Zoom calls for them with contacts of mine who were fundraising
big-hitters, and even one group who was very successfully running a similar art therapy project in the Bronx. They most often
messaged me in unison, sometimes with adorable bickering included.
Helena was never too busy to send WhatsApp messages, sometimes just a photo or an emoji, but other times texts full of family
stories and loaded with questions about my life, friends, new job—and of course, my love life. I tried to keep the last a
bit restrained, as Tristan would have featured on the list. Although, in fairness, the list would have looked like this:
Men in My Life:
Tristan—2 dates
That fried rice deliveryman who winked at me that one time—0 dates
Then one day, I got a text from Helena: Bored stiff. Booked a ticket to Boston. Fancy a night on the town?
I told her I’d be there with bells on. What I didn’t tell her was that I had a secret agenda.
I had barely slept. I arrived, wild-eyed and folder in hand, to Boston’s gorgeous Terra restaurant after a long night at my
computer. I could barely stand the anticipation.
The minute the doors swung open, I saw Helena’s silver hair gleaming in the stark slices of sun and shadow. If only I had
time to get my camera out.
She rushed over, and we crashed together into a big hug.
“Alice!”
“Helena!” I breathed in her familiar perfume, and she kissed the top of my head, just like my mom used to do.
“Oh, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you. Thank you for coming all this way.”
“I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if you were in the States and I couldn’t see your beautiful face in person.”
I gave her another squeeze and we rocked from side to side, because a regular hug wasn’t enough.
As Helena and I broke apart, Tristan came in for a kiss on the cheek. I waited for the blush to heat my face, for the crackle
of electricity to send little bolts of lightning to my fingertips, but they didn’t come.
We talked about my train journey and Helena’s flight, and or dered food. While we waited for it to arrive, she noticed me glancing nervously at the folder I’d brought.
“What have you got there?”
“Well. I’m glad you asked. So.” I took a moment. I hoped it would work. “This is a gift, but it’s also a... well, let’s
call it a challenge.” Helena lifted an eyebrow. “When I got back home from Britain, I spent the first few weeks going through
my photos. I had a lot of them. Almost two thousand.” They gasped. “I know. I was in heaven. Anyway, the more I looked, well... I hope you won’t
mind me taking the liberty. Here.”
I spun the folder around and opened it. A black-and-white close-up of Helena stared back at us. It was striking. Tristan picked
it up.
“Alice. This is gorgeous.”
“There’s more.” There were—about twenty of them, but it had been a tough choice to decide between a hundred or more that belonged
in a damn magazine.
Helena was silent. By the time Tristan had gotten to the fourth photo, her hand was at her mouth.
“These are remarkable. Mom, you’re so gorgeous. Did you know she was taking these?”
“No,” I interrupted. “I always like to get candid shots, because most people look uncomfortable as soon as they know their
picture is being taken. Although to be honest, had Helena posed, these may have been even more beautiful. She’s a pro.”
“Did you alter these?” Helena asked, finally breaking her silence.
“Of course not. Just the cropping and the focus. Changed those to black-and-white.” I looked at her. “I didn’t need to do
anything.”
Helena cleared her throat. “I... these are just... just so beautiful. I can’t believe you did this for me. It almost
feels like... well, it brings back memories.”
“What’s this?” Tristan had gotten to the printed page under the last photo.
“Well.” I looked nervously at Helena. “I did a little research. Those are the names of some modeling agencies in the UK who I think would be very interested to receive these.”
She gave me a look. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Oh yes you bloody well could,” said Tristan. “You have Jemima at the shop now, and you’ve an empty nest, and Dad’s always
busy with his golf and woodworking. You were just telling me how you’ve been feeling bored and restless.”
“Listen, it’s your decision, obviously, but I brought my camera, and we have a tour of Boston planned for tomorrow...”
I leaned in and whispered, “Why don’t we have a little photoshoot?”
Warring emotions collided across her face as she looked between me, Tristan, and the photos: one minute wry, as if she might
laugh us off; another teary and nostalgic. Finally it settled on excited.
“Oh, alright.” She grinned. “Why the devil not?”
We cheered and clinked our glasses, and I smiled hard and held on to the table lest I float away to the ceiling.
Helena and I visited the Public Garden and then made our way over to some stops on the Freedom Trail. She was like I’d never
seen her, fizzing with energy. Exhausted from all the walking, we finally gave in to our need for tea and refueling, and found
a hipster coffee house with so many pretty potted plants that it was nearly a jungle.
“Sooo?” I tilted my head. “What do you think?”
“Lovely place. However did you find it?”
“Don’t play coy with me, madam.” Her mouth curled into a sly grin as she brought a hand-thrown mug to her lips. “What do you
think about my idea?” I pushed her. “Don’t tell me you didn’t love it out there.”
“I won’t pretend. It was terrific fun! I haven’t felt this alive in years.”
“And? Do you think you’d like to send the shots out to some agencies?”
“Well. The demand for models my age is low, and it’s been several lifetimes since I was working in the business. It’s a long shot.” She dragged out the moment for suspense. “But there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
I gasped and grabbed her hand. “Really?”
“Yes! You win. I want back in.”
We made excited plans to go back to Tristan’s to take some headshots there. She smiled and gazed at me over our half-eaten
cinnamon buns, studying my face.
“Have I told you how wonderful you look?”
“Really? This?” I looked down at my faded shirt and regretted not making a bit more effort.
“That’s not what I mean, darling. You look happy. Your shoulders are back, your smile is easier, the shadows under your eyes
have disappeared. You don’t look like the same woman I met a few months ago.”
I wasn’t the same woman. Hearing her say so made me feel emotional but in a good way, a way that warmed me to my toes.
“You know, I am different.”
“The new job, the new friends, the new hobbies, promising men in your life. It sounds to me like you have everything you said
you wanted all those months ago.” She smiled and leaned back contentedly in her oversized armchair, but I thought perhaps
I’d heard a note of challenge in her voice.
“Well... I guess I do.” I hadn’t really seen it that way, but she wasn’t wrong.
She put down her tea and searched me for a moment. “And? Are you happy?”
I sipped and considered. It was a big word. Maybe I didn’t have quite everything I wanted yet, but this was the happiest I had been since I could remember.
“I am. At least, I think so.” Helena tilted her head, and somehow I surprised myself by what I said next. “I mean, I’m much happier than I was before.” She waited. “But maybe I still feel a little bit like there’s... I don’t know.”
“Something missing?”
“Something missing.” I had never really acknowledged it before. Not even to myself. I really was happy. I felt positive about my future for the first time in nearly a year. But somewhere in this new person that I was discovering
was a tiny, niggling something missing.
We stared at each other for a drawn-out moment, but not with any demands or pressure; more as if we wished our souls might
speak to each other and tease out the issue among themselves.
I spoke first. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“What do you think Flossie’s life would have been like if she hadn’t run away?”
Her brows drew. I could tell it wasn’t what Helena had expected, but she quietly mulled it over.
“I don’t think we can know that.” She took another sip of tea. “But knowing what we do of the rest of her life, I would speculate
that it may have been a more colorless and drab existence—taking care of that father of hers, perhaps never really getting
her chance.”
“And you? What if you had never left university?”
“Well, I daresay my poor sister would still be gone, and my trajectory would probably have been much the same in that regard.
However, I would have missed out on that time of stepping into myself. Perhaps I might have been a different woman, perhaps
not. But I would certainly have missed out on a whole world of experiences.”
“When we were in Scotland, it really struck me how important that was. I’ve missed out on having adventure in my life. Although now seems like the wrong time—I finally have a new job and I’m settled again, building something here. But maybe it’s something to plan for, you know? In a few years? What do you think?” I quieted the voice in my head that said I really should be having children within a year or two.
“These are big questions. Sounds like we need to stop drinking caffeine and switch to something a little more... philosophical.”
I laughed. “You know, you might just be right. Let’s go back to Tristan’s and talk this out over a boozy photoshoot.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.” We laughed and started to gather our things. But her gaze stopped me. It turned
into something a little more solid, tangible, and sinewy. She held me in it.
“Are you going to talk to Tristan?”
She knew. Somehow she knew before I did.
“I...” I didn’t know what to say. Pain lanced at my sides. It felt horrible. I felt guilty.
I looked at her and nodded. I felt the life where I had Tristan’s gorgeous children and Helena for a mother-in-law slip away
from me in that moment like a physical thing, even though it had never truly been mine, I knew.
She was right. I had everything I’d ever wanted, and it simply wasn’t what I wanted anymore. It stung a little. But this time
it didn’t feel like grief or loss. It felt more like a growing pain.
I hoped that Helena wouldn’t be angry or worse, disappointed with me. I wasn’t prepared to lose this new pillar of my life,
this new friend. “I’m so sorry.”
She let out a breath. “That’s alright, petal. We cannot captain our hearts. Quite the contrary is true, I’d say.”
My throat tightened. She collected her bags and I followed suit, but before we left, she came to stand next to me, wrapped
an arm around my shoulder, and pulled me into her side. “It’ll all be alright. You’ll see. Just, let him down easy, will you?”