The Turning Point: A gripping love story, keep the tissues close.... Freya NorthЧитать онлайн книгу.
as if it wasn’t good for them. Just then, in the choke of human gridlock, Frankie couldn’t disagree more. She didn’t hate London, she’d been born and bred there. But for the first time she felt truly confident in her decision to leave.
And that’s why, when Scott touched her arm and said excuse me – can you help – I guess I’m a little lost, Frankie turned to him and, with some pride, said sorry, I’m not from around here either.
The publishers had cake and compliments laid out and called her Frankie Darling all afternoon. She lied through mouthfuls of gateaux and brushed away the reality of her Writer’s Block as though it was just cookie crumbs. Oh yes, the new book is coming on just fine – you’re going to love it – I think it may even be my best yet.
‘Alice,’ Frankie told everyone, ‘is on top form. She’s having a blast.’
The Alice books had been the company’s biggest children’s seller in the age range last year and Frankie had been twice nominated for the Guardian Children’s Fiction Prize. She was truly their golden girl but oh, the frustration of this particular author refusing to divulge the teeniest clue about the new book. Come on Frankie Darling – give us a snippet.
In between meetings, Frankie sat in her editor’s office and the two of them swivelled rhythmic half-circles on the office chairs.
‘You seem a little – out of sorts – darling. And you keep ignoring my calls.’
Frankie looked up sharply, off her guard and on the defensive. Though she was aware that she had a duty to reveal just how acute her Writer’s Block was, suddenly she felt ill prepared and reluctant.
‘I’m fine! Honestly!’
‘I think I know what’s wrong,’ Michael told her. ‘I think I know. We’ve known each other many years, Frankie. I can see you so clearly sitting at your kitchen table, or gazing out of windows for hours on end wondering what you’re going to do, how to tell people, worrying about what everyone will say. I’ve guessed. I know.’
‘She’s lost,’ Frankie mumbled. ‘I haven’t seen her – for weeks.’
There was a pause. ‘Sorry?’
‘I can’t find her. It’s like she’s run away.’
‘Run away? Who?’ Michael was used to his authors darting off at tangents only to reappear halfway through internalized conversations. He’d found it was usually best to carry on regardless. ‘Do you remember when I split up with Gerry and moved to Surrey? All my high hopes that Chobham was the centre of the universe and the answer to all my problems? Pretty quickly I hated it, yearned for London. And Frankie – Norfolk’s far more remote.’ He looked at her kindly. ‘No one will think any less of you if you come back to town.’
It wasn’t about Alice.
This wasn’t about Alice at all.
And she thought, Alice – that’s one lucky escape we’ve just had.
‘And Frankie,’ Michael said, ‘about Alice – I really do want to see something soon. We don’t even have a title.’
* * *
Michael’s words reverberated in Frankie’s ears as she elbowed her way into the underground, trying not to breathe in the swarm of the rush hour as the train lurched and rumbled on its way. Stop start stop start; more people oozing into a carriage now devoid of personal space. God this journey was far more stressful than belting to school late again. Mr Mawby loped slowly into Frankie’s mind’s eye and the image soothed her. Mr Mawby and his tractor; a man whose working day was long and constant but somehow conducted at a pace that was as dignified as it was productive. He didn’t strike her as the type of worker who missed deadlines, unlike most of the stressheads in this carriage. He called her children Brocky and Emma Belle and he’d extended them his gruff welcome from the start, letting them sit in his tractor and swing on the creaky gate and climb the straw bales that surrounded his precious sugar-beet heaps in the autumn. She ought to make more of an effort, really; find the time to pass the time with a little chat now and then. She’d only ever seen Mrs Mawby from a distance, a rather lonely sight standing on the doorstep of their somewhat plain farmhouse surrounded by barns and outbuildings in harsh corrugated steel. What would Mr Mawby make of the rush hour? And Frankie thought he’d probably just laugh and denounce it as a load of old squit.
Thoughts of Norfolk provided a surprising and welcome steadiness to the rest of the journey and now here’s the hotel, a stunning exposition of expensively understated design. They’ve upgraded her to a junior suite and all is suddenly very good with the world. She can have a bath free of soap-scum tidal marks and swathe herself in cloud-soft towels.
And in the foyer, reading his book over a coffee, Scott thought: that’s the woman I saw earlier, who didn’t know her way either. Well what do you know – this town isn’t so big after all.
He watched as she left the front desk, her head tipped back to take in the soaring triple-height atrium, almost tripping over her feet in the process. He saw how she was grinning at everything. It made him smile and, just for a moment, Scott felt something intense and forgotten, a sensation that flipped his stomach and dried his mouth. He couldn’t remember if the feeling was welcome or a warning. And then he thought, for Chrissake, just quit the contemplation and go walk up an appetite instead.
As lovely as her room was, there was only so much daydreaming Frankie could do out over gracious buildings to the Thames in its timeless flow beyond. She’d assessed all the dinky little miniatures bejewelling the interior of the minibar, eaten half a jar of caramelized nuts, put a selection of the toiletries into her bag for Annabel and flicked through all the TV channels finding nothing to watch. There wasn’t anything on the room-service menu she fancied and, though she contemplated the snowy towelling robe and complimentary slippers, it wasn’t even six o’clock and she couldn’t possibly get ready for bed. It would be slightly pathetic. Maybe she’d go for a stroll and find somewhere for sushi. Maybe. And on her way, she’d go and have a cocktail, a grown-up drink at the bar downstairs, that’s what she’d do.
But there was an art to sitting nonchalantly at a bar on one’s own. She’d seen other women do it, admired and envied them, but whenever she tried it, she hated it. She’d simply felt awkward and conspicuous, sensing she was being stared at and then realizing no one was remotely interested at all. A clash of feeling exposed and feeling invisible, neither of which was good for the self-esteem. But the Cosmopolitan she’d hastily ordered arrived before she could cancel it so she drank it down as if it was Ribena and then walked over to the vast console table loaded with magazines and newspapers, for something to take up to her room. And coming back into the hotel having walked up an appetite, Scott thought, she’s there again – that girl from before, and from before that. He thought to himself, once upon a long time ago, I knew how to do this because I used to do it a lot. I went up to women in hotels and bars. The antidote to boredom and aloneness. I knew all the steps of the mating dance; the perfunctory drink and small talk – the predictable prelude to sex and then dumb sleep.
Scott stopped. He looked at the bar area, noted a couple of women sitting alone exuding the telltale signs of confident expectation. Then he looked over to the lost girl from before, currently scratching the back of one leg with the foot of her other. That sensation accosted him again, like a zip being pulled sharply from inside. It was easy enough to walk past the bar with those slightly predatory sure-things because he just wasn’t interested. But the girl who intrigued him still standing like a flamingo? There were hot coals underfoot if he wanted to go that distance. Why should it make him smile that she appeared to be rearranging the hotel’s magazines? And now that he was so close, what actually was he going to do? He couldn’t even figure out what he was thinking about, let alone what it was he wanted to happen.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to the back of her head, ‘I think I’m a little lost.’
Frankie turned. She thought – I know you, don’t I? Perhaps I don’t.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hello?’