Chapter 5
The invite arrives three days later. It lands on my mat with a thump, testament to Becca’s mother’s expensive stationery. A thick, cream envelope with the official estate logo on it, and the sort of velvety paper that must be a dream to write on. Calligraphic script in flowy ink:
You are cordially invited to Tarnmore House,
to celebrate the life of Genevieve Learmonth.
Join Becca Morrow, Leo Noble, Jameson Lawton and Alex Porter.
Formal dinner – black tie and cocktail attire.
(Partners welcome)
I already know the dates, having noted them on my phone after Alex’s last visit. I even went so far as to check my work calendar as though I had already decided to go.
Which I absolutely have not.
I put the invite back into the envelope and set it on the coffee table. Then, when it feels like it’s some sort of magnet drawing my attention, I tuck it underneath a textbook. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
Wrong.
I get out the big soup pot and start to chop vegetables. Cooking will distract me. When the soup is bubbling, and I’m not feeling sufficiently distracted, I decide to reorganise my bookshelves.
As I’m lining up some of my favourites – Interview with the Vampire, Dracula, The Historian – I dislodge a paperback which tumbles to the floor. I stoop to retrieve it, tucking back a piece of hair that escapes my bun, and glance at the cover.
And freeze.
In contradiction to my stillness, my heart starts to leap against my ribs. The spell breaks and I sink to the floor with the book in my hands, stroking the cover reverently. This doesn’t belong to me, though I own the book too: Looking for Alaska.
It’s Gen’s copy.
We were both reading it that June day, matching copies.
Only stopped to sip wine and put on make-up and twine flowers in our hair ready for the beach party.
Our book-club-of-two was Gen’s idea. We took turns to choose the titles, bought double copies and read our matching novels all over campus and town – in cafés, on benches in the quadrangle and on the beach.
Tucked between the pages, we’d pause to chat and check on each other’s progress.
We were low-key famous for it around campus.
I won’t deny I liked our reputation as book nerds.
With Gen at my side, it felt way cooler somehow.
This one was Gen’s choice – I always chose classical fiction or gothic horror.
Neither of us ever finished reading this – Gen, because she died before she had the opportunity, and me, because I couldn’t bear to.
The bookmark with its green tassel poking out from between the pages is testament to a life interrupted abruptly.
I touch the cover again, but can’t bring myself to open it.
I have never opened it.
When I found this among my belongings – boxed up by the university and sent back to the farm – I hid it among my own shelves as I tried to forget. It’s the only thing I have of Gen’s, my only memento.
I didn’t even go to her funeral: the grief was too raw and I was too broken.
All I have is this book and my memories of a friendship that was truly transformative.
The phone rings before I can decide what to do about Looking for Alaska – burn it ceremonially, finally finish reading it, make a shrine to her with this as the centrepiece? I snatch the phone up without looking at the screen, my nerves jangling from the sharp tug into the past.
My brother’s voice is never that welcome, but his timing sucks. ‘Hey, Mitch.’ I bring the book with me into my bedroom and lay it absently on the bedside table.
‘You sound tired,’ Mitch says.
I glance at the clock. I hadn’t realised how late it was, immersed in my cooking and reorganising. ‘Yeah, well, it’s nearly midnight, so …’ Suddenly panic bites. ‘Is something wrong? Is it Dad?’ Something must be wrong if he’s calling so late.
Mitch’s voice drags a bit and I think he’s been drinking. ‘Does something have to be wrong for me to want to talk to my sister?’
I don’t have the energy for this. I close my eyes, rub my aching head. ‘It’s just late, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, sorry, I didn’t realise the time.’
‘So …’ I prompt. No matter what he says, I don’t buy that he’s just calling for a catch-up. As always, the exchange feels spiky, undercut by tension.
‘I’m going home this weekend,’ Mitch blurts. ‘To visit Dad. I thought you might want to come with me.’ For all his brusqueness, there’s a vibrato of hope in my brother’s voice that makes him sound like a boy again.
Like the little brother I left behind when he needed me.
Bit of a theme there.
‘Mitch …’ I search for an excuse, a way to let him down gently. I have so much work to do this weekend, and my head is full of Tarnmore and West Sands and Genevieve. It’s not the time.
‘Never mind,’ he snaps, brittle again. ‘Stupid idea. Of course you don’t want to do that, what was I thinking?’
‘Don’t be like that, Mitch.’
‘Like what?’ he almost snarls. ‘Don’t wish my sister might show an interest in our family for once? Don’t suggest you might want to spend time with us? Yeah, I’m such a dick – how dare I?’
I don’t know how to respond. He’s unpredictable tonight and nothing I say will be right. Besides, he has a point.
‘You have no idea how much he misses you,’ Mitch continues, twisting the knife. ‘He loves you like crazy, and you barely bother to come home. Every time I go, he tries to hide the fact that he wishes you were there too … or instead – messed up as that is when it’s me that stayed.’
‘I have work …’
‘It’s always work, that’s an excuse. You’re selfish, you know that, Eilish? You ran away to uni after Mum died and left me with him and his fucking monstrous grief. That’s what you do, when things go wrong … isn’t it? You run away. You leave people behind.’
‘Mitch, I’m sorry.’ I’m near tears; exhaustion making my emotions swim close to the surface.
Old guilt surges: I left for St Andrews a few weeks after Mum’s accident, left my father alone on the farm with only Mitch for company and support – my brother was only fifteen; it can’t have been easy.
I told myself that pursuing my dreams was what Mum would have wanted for me, and maybe that’s true.
She wouldn’t have wanted me to postpone my hard-fought place. But that wasn’t the only reason.
He’s right. I was running away.
It’s my pattern. I ran away from home, from the grief, and I ran from St Andrews too.
I want to appease my brother, to cling to some last vestige of connection when suddenly I’m feeling all at sea, alone, adrift. I used to like my solitude, but it feels like Alex’s visit has wrecked that. ‘I’ll see what I can do, Mitch. Maybe I can come for a night—’
Anger thickens his voice. ‘Ach, don’t trouble yourself. We both know you’re not gonnae do it, even if you say you are. You live in the past, Eilish, some rose-tinted fucking version of it anyway. You bury yourself in work because you don’t want to face the fact that it’s all you’ve got.’