Page 12 of Take Me Away

‘Yeah. Before I met your mum, I knew Isla.’ I clear my throat. ‘Long time ago. Doubt she even remembers me.’

‘She’s really pretty,’ Maisie says, her eyes suddenly shining like it means something. ‘In her movies, I mean. She’s … perfect.’

I grunt.

‘How well did you know her, then?’

It’s a simple question. But the answer’s a mess I don’t want to get into. How do I explain Isla Quinn to an eight-year-old? That we were kids, summer-sweet and reckless, stealing kisses in sun-warmed sandbanks? That we were nearly something real, until her dreams stretched further than I could reach? That I watched her leave and then from the sidelines, through headlines and chat shows, watched her meteoric rise. And all the while I thought she’d come back. She’d call. The phone would ring one day, and I would answer, and she’d be all breathless and Isla, like when she used to call from boarding school, and she’d say, Christopher Harding, how I miss you. Then I’d count down the months to July.

She never called.

Not once.

Maggie went to her premiere, the one for the film she auditioned for that last summer. There was never a ticket for me.

Then Jess sat down next to me on a night out in Newquay, and it was like having a veil lifted from across my vision. Suddenly there was light again, laughter. Fun. A future.

And now… I breathe in deep. The pressure across my sternum could almost make me see dots – except I can’t pass out now, I’ve got a daughter to look after.

‘We grew up together,’ I say, short and clean, when I realise Maisie is still waiting for a response while I’ve been meandering down memory lane.

‘Were you friends?’

‘Once.’

Maisie tilts her head, frowning. She’s quiet for a beat, piecing it together in that sharp little brain of hers. ‘But not anymore?’

‘People change.’ I don’t sugarcoat it. ‘They grow up. Move away. Become someone else.’

She’s quiet again, but then says, ‘Is that why she’s on TV and you’re not?’

A surprised huff leaves my lungs. ‘Something like that.’

‘Is she nice?’

That one stings. Because Isla was nice – when she wanted to be. Kind, wild, full of this restless fire that made you want to follow her off cliffs. But nice isn’t the right word. Not anymore.

‘She was,’ I say carefully. ‘But that was a long time ago.’

Maisie nods like she’s taking notes. Serious. Thoughtful. Very Harding.

But then she asks, ‘Can I meet her?’ With bright eyes and a devilish smile, and she’s so much like Jessica it hurts.

‘No.’ It comes out hard, and she flinches.

I rein it in. ‘No, sweetheart. She’s probably busy. We don’t need to bother her.’

‘But—’

‘Maisie.’ I fix her with the look. The one that says this isn’t up for debate. ‘We’re all right. Just us. Yeah?’

She nods, but her eyes don’t match. They’re too soft. Too hopeful. That stubborn Harding blood in her, even if she doesn’t know it.

Later, after she’s asleep, cosy in pink pyjamas with little rainbows, I stand in the hall outside her door, arms crossed over my chest like it’ll hold me together. I do this more than I should. Watch her breathe. Count the seconds between. Because life’s proved it can gut you with no warning, and I’m not letting anything take her from me. Never.

Jessie’s face swims behind my eyes. Her laugh. Her hand in mine at the end. That final squeeze of her fingers that I’ll never be sure if I imagined.

Cancer didn’t care what we built. It just took.