Page 8 of The Edge of Always

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you to the station?’

‘There’s no need.’

I don’t trust myself not to cry saying goodbye to Mae at the bus stop, and I won’t do that, I’ve promised myself. I don’t cry in public anymore.

‘Just be careful,’ she tells me.

‘I will, I promise.’

‘Good, now go and take Paris by storm.’

I was around five when we bought the holiday cottage in Northumberland. Dad had a particular interest in puffins, and Mum wanted to spend the summers on a beach, which is, I think, how they’d arrived at Bamburgh, on the coast, as the perfect place to buy a holiday cottage. To me, though, this part of the world has always been so much more than lovely beaches (or puffins for that matter). It’s the place I’ve always felt hopeful. Even right back to that first time we visited, it wasn’t the castles that impressed me (though they seemed especially huge back then), or tales from an impossibly distant history. It wasn’t even the sea, which seemed to me to stretch right out to the end of the world. It wasn’t any of those things that made me feel hopeful. It was, I suppose, a sense that here, things could be different. That here, in this place that was so different from home, things could be okay.

I’ve been disavowed of my hope so many times over the years, stripped of it by a series of disappointments, some micro, some massive. Each time, when I’ve struggled, battled, to find it again, it’s come back smaller, with less potency than before. Like a fire that once roared and is now reduced to smouldering embers. Now, my hope is nothing but ashes. I think that’s why I stopped creating. You need to feel some hope to create, and I feel so little. I’m nothing. Numb and neutral.

Or that’s how it felt before I saw that painting.

I have my head down as I walk through Bamburgh. These days, I never leave my house without headphones, so music, any music, beats away in my ears.

‘You have a good time in Paris, Luna pet. Take care of yourself.’ Mrs Gimley from the corner shop stands in front of me and waits until I’ve taken my headphones off to talk. It’s the end of tourist season, the final fling of summer.

‘I will, thanks, Mrs Gimley.’

‘Eat a croissant for me, Luna.’ Tony, who sells the Big Issue in the market square, calls so loudly that I don’t need to pause the song.

‘I will, Tony.’

I’ve no idea why it’s easier to talk to strangers online than it is to actual people, but I’m out of breath and looking directly at the ground as I wheel my little case over the cobbles towards the bus stop. The blue and yellow coach that’ll take me to London is already waiting.

It looks so out of place. Everything in Bamburgh is old. Old streets, old houses, old everything. Here, more than anywhere else, there’s a sense that we’re all just tiny dots, part of a much bigger story.

I’m fully panting by the time I make it to my seat. It’s only mildly warm outside, but I’m still sweating, and it takes a while for my breathing to return to normal.

I shrug off my jacket – my navy blue velvet shacket, and fold it on my lap.

I check my phone. Three messages.

Mae: Did you get there okay?

And another mere seconds after.

Mae: I should have come with you.

Me: I’m fine. On the bus now, just waiting for it to leave.

I add three celebrating face emojis because I don’t want Mae to know how absolutely terrified I am.

She replies immediately.

Mae: I’m SO excited for you! Send so many pictures. Love you!!!

I reply with a line of hearts and check the other message.

Mum: Mae seems to be operating under the illusion that you’re going on a mini-break to Paris. Call me, Luna.

I don’t reply. I don’t have the capacity to deal with Mum right now.

Instead, I take out my book, Ahmed’s latest, as the bus pulls away from the station, and I think that for the first time in a very long time, that maybe there’s still time for the feeling to come back.