I am not here
“Have you bought that rubbish again?” Geoffrey set the shopping bag on the table so something clinked inside. “I told you before: none of that Velour stuff. Its expensive and pointless.”
Nina stood at the window, gazing down into the courtyard. A neighbours daughter, perhaps seven years old, was chasing pigeons; they scattered in a flurry, then drifted back as if nothing had happened. Nina watched them and tried to remember the last time shed bought anything for herself simply because she fancied itnot for necessity or practicality, but just for the wanting.
“Its only hand cream, Geoff. Three pounds eighty.”
“Three pounds eighty is three pounds eighty. Have you forgotten how to count?”
She said nothing. Turning away, she took the bag, drew out a little jar with a golden lid and set it on the windowsill next to the geranium. The geranium hadnt bloomed for ages. Nina had been meaning to look into why, but never got round to it.
“Nina. Im talking to you.”
“I can hear you, Geoff.”
She walked off to the kitchen and opened the fridge, considering supper. She could hear his heavy footfalls behind her, then the soft thud of the study door. She exhaled.
She was fifty-eight. Shed lived in Manchester these many years, in a three-bedroom flat on Victoria Avenue, married to Geoffrey Lawrence for nearly thirty years. Their son, Anthony, was grown, lived in Birmingham, and managed to ring on Sundaysexcept when he forgot. There was a little cottage in the Peak District, a car that Geoffrey drove alone, and a job for Nina at the local library where shed served as senior librarian for eighteen years.
Her life was there. No one could take that away.
She pulled out a pack of chicken fillets, placed them on the chopping board, picked up the knife. Outside, the child had gone, pigeons flown. The courtyard was still, grey; last years grass struggled up through the cracks in the tarmac.
Nina realised she was simply standing there, knife in hand, doing nothing.
She set the knife aside, walked back to the window, and opened the cream. The scent was quiet, faintly floral. She rubbed a little onto the back of her hand. The skin drank it up, leaving the lingering sense of someone having held her hand for a moment.
Nina put the lid back and went to dice the chicken.
That evening was its usual kind. Geoffrey ate in silence, watched the news, and went off to bed. Nina lingered in the kitchen with a mug of long-cold tea, leafing through an old gardening magazine. She didnt read. She just sat.
The next morning at work, she found Linda Bensonstalwart of the library, three years her senior, who knew where every book was and never, as far as Nina knew, wepthiding by the periodicals, dabbing her eyes.
“Linda, whats the matter?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Linda sniffed, fumbling for her handkerchief. “Sorry, duck. Just personal.”
“Tell me, if you want.”
“Nothing to tell.” She blew her nose. “My daughter rang last night. Said, Mum, youre out of touch. Just like that. Out of touch.”
“In what way?”
“In every way, apparently. I offered her some advicejust as a person, from experienceand she says, Mum, your advice is from another century. You dont understand how people live now.” Linda carefully straightened a stack of magazines. “Maybe shes right.”
“Shes not,” said Nina.
“How do you know?”
Nina couldnt answer. They stood together in the hush that smelled of paper and old oak shelves, then drifted off to their own corners.
At lunch, Nina strolled to the little green where the sun gleamed, chill still in the April air. She sat on a bench and closed her eyes. Through her lids the light was a soft orange glow. She thought of Linda, her daughter, and that word: obsolete.
And herself.
Nina Lawrence, née Barker, born in Sheffield, 1966. Shed studied English literature, become a teacher, but then at twenty-nineunusually late in those daysshed married Geoffrey, an engineer, sensible, steadfast. Anthony had arrived a year later. Nina took maternity leave, returned part-time, then brought her mother to live with them till her mothers passing, then back to work once more. Life fell into its grooves, carefully, without fuss.
Yet in the folding and unfolding of these years, Nina knew something had been dropped, something she couldnt quite name. It had existed, she felt it once. But it had been gone a long while.
She opened her eyes. Opposite, the plum tree was clothed in blossom, white as snow, so delicate it seemed unreal. Nina watched, realising she probably hadnt drawn or painted for thirty years. At university shed sketched, pastels mostly, for herself. Then life had left no time; then she was embarrassed; then shed simply forgotten.
She took out her mobile and rang Anthony. He answered on the third ring, sounding busy.
“Mum! You all right?”
“Fine, love. Just calling for no reason.”
“Er, bit tied up right nowmeeting in a minute. Can I ring this evening?”
“Of course. Laters fine.”
He didnt ring. That too was nothing new.
Nina worked till six, bought a loaf at the bakery and walked home, thinking how shed paced this same path for eighteen years, every working day, knowing every uneven slab, every twist and turn.
Geoffrey was home before her, sitting at the computer, reading. She hung up her coat and headed to the kitchen.
“Dinner?”
“In a bit.”
She put on the kettle and unearthed some leftover soup. As she waited for it to warm, her eye landed on the hand cream still on the ledge. Such a tiny, pretty jar. Nina thought Geoffrey was right: three pounds eighty, for what?
Then she remembered the scent, and left it standing there.
A fortnight drifted past. Life muddled on unchanged. Then, one Tuesday, in walked a new face: Sarah.
Nina noticed her at oncea woman of about forty-five, in a cherry-red coat, cropped hair, upright as anything. She came to the desk saying shed like to join, and that she was especially interested in psychology booksand, if the library had them, books on watercolour painting.
“Watercolours?” Nina repeated.
“Yes. I dabbled as a girl and fancied taking it up again.”
Nina handed her a card and directed her towards the relevant shelves. Sarah wandered amongst the stacks with a confidence that caught Ninas attention. There was something about herhard to say exactly what. A self-possession, perhaps; as though her own company sufficed.
Half an hour later, Sarah returned with two books. She nodded at the psychology shelf.
“Do you read any of these yourself?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“And have you worked here long?”
“Eighteen years.”
Sarah studied her, not with judgement, but as one listening.
“Thats a long time.”
“It is.”
“Do you like it?”
Nina hesitatedit was a simple question with no simple answer.
“Yes I like the books. The people. Its allfamiliar.”
“Familiar,” Sarah repeated slowly, letting the word settle. “I see.”
She took her books and departed.
The following week she came again, returning one book and asking for more on watercolours. Nina found her a slim volume of reproductions. Sarah accepted it and suddenly asked:
“Would you like to try?”
“Try what?”
“Painting. I go to a watercolour workshop every Saturday. Just a handful of us. Why dont you come along?”
Nina was about to say noher mouth was open for ityet out came:
“Where is it?”
Sarah scribbled an address: Brightlight Art Studio, Highfield Road. Saturdays at eleven.
That evening, Nina kept the slip of paper in her apron pocket, then moved it to the ledge beside her cream. Geoffrey never asked about scraps like these; his questions ran only to money or housework.
On Friday night, over dinner, she said:
“Im off to an art class tomorrow morning. Painting.”
Geoffrey looked up from his plate.
“Where?”
“Highfield Road. Watercolours. Sarah from the librarynew memberinvited me.”
He chewed, swallowed, set his fork down.
“And how much does that cost?”
“I havent asked yet.”
He gave a dismissive snort, took some bread. “Go on then, if you cant think of anything better to do.”
Nina looked at him. He didnt meet her gazejust ate. She noted hed said it: if you cant think of anything better to do. Or variations: Again? Why? How much? Nothing better to do.
“All right,” she said. “Ill go.”
That Saturday she rose at eight, washed, dressed in a grey jumper and navy trousers. She looked carefully in the mirror for the first time in agesnot just a glance, but really looked. Her face was not young, but not without warmth. Grey eyes, lively. Hair flecked with silver, but thick still. She ran a hand over it, tried arranging it differently. Then she applied a touch of the cream to her hands and a little at her neck.
She left at nine, not wanting to rush.
Brightlight Studio was on the first floor of an old merchants houseplain outside, thoughtfully refurbished inside: white walls, wooden floors, tall windows. Nina climbed the stairs and entered.
Sarah was there, along with four other women of various ages and a stout man in a checked shirt, perhaps fiftyish. They all sat at a long table set with water glasses and blank sheets.
“Nina!” Sarah waved her over.
Nina sat beside her. The tutor, a young woman named Zoe, explained theyd be painting a branch of lilac today. Nina picked up a brush, hand slightly tremblingnot from nerves, but unfamiliarity.
“Dont worry about making it perfect,” Zoe said. “Think about water and colour. Let that be enough.”
Nina pulled the brush across the page. The purple bled into blue on damp paper. She tried again, and againwatching the paint drift where it wanted, not quite where she expected. Strangely interesting. Sarah painted in silence, frowning in concentration; the man daubed with a tiny brush, looking constantly dissatisfied.
An hour in, Nina inspected her work. It didnt look like lilac. It was a blurblue-lavender blotches. Yet something about it felt alive; something she herself had created.
“Lovely,” said an older lady opposite, called Grace.
“I dont think so,” said Nina doubtfully.
“I do. It has mood.”
Nina looked again. Perhaps so.
Afterwards, Sarah suggested coffee at a small café nearby. Nina agreed. They sat by the window; Sarah held her cup in both hands.
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Yes. Surprisingly.”
“I thought you might.” Sarah smiled softly. “Youve a kind of look about youlike you see things but wont look at them straight on.”
Nina didnt answer at first. Then she asked:
“Have you lived here long?”
“Three years. Moved from York after my divorce.”
“I see.”
“No drama nowit was hard at first, but then better. Theninteresting, even.”
“Interesting?”
“Being on my own. I didnt really know myself at all. Turns out I was unfamiliar to me.” She smiled again, warm and open. “Are you married?”
“Twenty-nine years.”
“Is itgood?”
Nina stirred her coffee, unnecessarily.
“It varies,” she answered.
Sarah nodded, not probing further. Nina appreciated that.
Home before half past one. Geoffrey, glued to the football, didnt ask how it went. She reheated soup and ate alone, then propped her painting of blurred lilac near the geranium.
The geranium, Nina noticed, was looking perkier than before. On one stem, a tiny red bud unfurledshe hadnt noticed it until now.
The following Saturday she went again. Then the next. Sarah was there each week. Gradually their post-class chats lengthened from thirty minutes to an hour. Nina found herself speaking of the library, its visitors, books she loved; Sarah talked of her job as a bookkeeper at a small firm, her life in York, her daughternow at university, studying French.
One day, Nina asked:
“Dont you ever feel lonely here?”
“Sometimes. But its a different sort of loneliness to before.”
“What do you mean?”
Sarah folded her hands thoughtfully.
“I used to feel alone even with someone right there. Thats the worst sort of loneliness, I think. Now, Im by myself but not lonely. See the difference?”
Nina understood. She didnt say so, but inside, something shiftedlike river ice breaking in spring. Slowly, unstoppably.
In May, management announced a competition. The borough council wanted local libraries to host cultural events.
“We need an idea,” said Mrs. Clarke, the library head. “Anyone?”
No one spoke up. Nina didnt either. Still, something niggled at her.
“What about an evening by and about women?” she ventured. “Their real storiesinvite women from the neighbourhood, let them share experiences. Whats changed, how they live. And show their handiwork: painting, knitting, pottery, whatever.”
There was a brief silence.
“Unusual,” said Mrs. Clarke.
“But engaging.”
“Who would organise this?”
“I will,” said Nina, surprising herself.
Mrs. Clarke nodded. “All right, Nina. Lets try.”
Nina called Sarah at once. She laughed with delight.
“Youre taking the lead? You?”
“I dont really know why. It justspilled out.”
“Thats the most honest reason there is. Im in. And lets ask Grace from art groupshe does ceramics.”
Grace, sixty-two, retired three years ago and had since been making little clay birds and sometimes selling them at craft fairs. Nina invited her; Grace agreed, only saying shed rather not speak at length.
Nina outlined the programme in her notebookscribbling, striking out, starting againlate at night, when Geoffrey was tucked in his study. The sense of creating something new, not just tending what existed, was exhilarating.
One night Geoffrey wandered in for water and saw her working.
“What are you writing?”
“Library event plans.”
“Library stuff again.”
“Yes, library stuff.”
He shrugged.
“Dinner was cold tonight.”
“Sorry. Ill warm it properly next time.”
He left. She watched him go, thinking: he commented on the cold food, not the liveliness in her face, not the interest. Just cold supper.
She turned back to her notes.
The evening took place on the third Saturday in June. Four women agreed, besides Sarah and Grace. The fifth was Dorothy Palmer, retired geography teacher and secret poet; sixth was Zoe, their art tutor, the youngest.
Nina made a poster, sent a notice to the local paper, worried no one would come. Yet on the day, every seat was filledover thirty people, nearly all women; some in their twenties, one who mustve been ninety, shepherded in by her daughter.
Nina hosted. She kept introductions short, simply saying theyd come to listen to one anotherand that was what mattered. She gave the floor to Grace.
Grace told how, after retirement, shed wandered her flat feeling superfluous, lostuntil, quite by accident, she joined a pottery group, took up clay, and realised, as she said with a laugh, “I still had hands.” The hall broke out in warm, unmocking laughter.
Sarah spoke about starting life again at forty-six, about realising shed feared not newness, but the familiar itself. “I was afraid of what Id always known,” she said. Nina wished she could burn those words into memory.
Dorothy read two poems. Her voice wobbled at first, but grew steadier. When she finished, a woman three rows back clapped, and soon everyone joined in.
Afterwards, tidying up cups and chairs, Linda said:
“That went well, Ninagenuinely.”
“Unexpectedly well.”
“Not unexpected for you. Youve always had a knack with peoplejust never let yourself, perhaps.”
Nina glanced at her.
“Do you think so?”
“I know so. Eighteen years weve worked side by side.”
Nina picked up a forgotten scarf and hung it by the door. Why, she wondered, did it take all these years for this to happen?
At home, Geoffrey was in bed. She undressed quietly, sipped some water in the kitchen, glanced at her painting and cream. The geranium was now smothered in bright red blooms.
Nina smoothed on a little cream, slow and deliberate, watching the geranium. She thought about Sarahs words: “I was afraid not of newness, but the familiar.”
Next morning, Geoffrey asked:
“How did your evening go?”
“Very well. Lots turned up.”
“Did you get anything to eat there?”
“Just tea.”
“Teas not a meal.” He buried himself in his phone.
Nina poured herself a coffee and stood on the balcony with it. Dawn. The courtyard was quiet, smelling of poplar. She stood thinking Geoffrey had asked if shed eatencaring, in his own stilted way. For twenty-nine years, shed mistaken form for substance, not noticing when substance fadedor vanished.
She didnt know. She was, at last, beginning to look honestly.
In July, Anthony rang on a Wednesdaynot Sunday, which was unusual.
“Hi Mum, all right?”
“Fine, Tony. Is everything all right?”
“Yeah, its just Sarah messaged me.”
Nina paused mid-step at the fridge.
“Sarah?”
“Your friend. Found me on social media. Said youd done an amazing job with some event. That youve really found yourself. I had no idea.”
“You never asked.”
Silence.
“Sorry, Mum. I suppose I didnt. Will you tell me?”
So Nina didabout art class, Graces birds, Dorothys poems, a room full of people. Anthony listened, silent, for once.
“Mum, youre brilliant. Really.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you been doing this long?”
“No. First time.”
“You should have started sooner.”
“Perhaps I should,” she agreed.
They were quiet for a moment, then Anthony asked:
“Mum, are you and Dadare things all right?”
Nina looked out across the sun-soaked July courtyard where two boys were kicking a ball about.
“Everythingsfamiliar,” she said.
“Is that good or bad?”
“Im not sure yet.”
Anthony pressed no more. He promised a visit in August. Nina hung up, standing by the window a long time.
In August, he did visit, staying four days. Physically, he was his father; but in manner, something gentlerher influence, perhaps, a sensitivity to others. He brought cheese and nuts, sat at the kitchen table, and genuinely listened.
One morning, after Geoffrey had set off for the cottage, Anthony sipped his tea and said:
“Mum, youve changed.”
“In what way?”
“Im not sure Its as if youre more present. It sounds strange.”
“No, it doesnt.”
“Are you happy?”
Nina cradled her mugit was still hot.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Though, a little scared too.”
“Scared of what?”
“Once you see yourself clearly, you see everything else more clearly too. Thats not always comfortable.”
Anthony nodded, silent.
“Does Dad see it?”
“Dad sees a cold dinner,” Nina replied, then straight away felt shed been unkind. “Sorry. Thats not fair.”
“No, it is fair,” Anthony said. “Have youtalked to him about what you need?”
Nina looked out at the slightly faded August grass.
“Im not very good at that,” she whispered.
“Try.”
After he left, Nina changed the bed and mulled over try. Shed gone nearly thirty years living without ever quite trying, not for the deep things. Shed spoken, of course, but never about the heart of itnot really. Because it was easier, safer, and Geoffrey, with a certain look, could always close down a conversation before it started.
In September, Mrs. Clarke called her in.
“The council wants another event from us, Ninaon a bigger scale this time, across all the borough branches. And theyd like you to lead again. Itll mean more work and we can reassess the pay.”
“Id like that.”
Mrs. Clarke smiled. “Youve changed this summer, Ninamay I say that?”
“You may.”
“For the better. More vibrant.”
Nina returned to her desk, greeted a detective-fiction regular, checked out his books, entered them in the log. Then she stood a while, looking over the reading room: rows of books, tables with their green shaded lamps, wide windows letting in autumns gold.
Eighteen years. And only now did it feel like hersa place she inhabited, not visited.
Autumn brought changes at home, too. Nina couldnt say which were cause and which effect, only that everything seemed to shift in step.
Geoffrey noted her regular late returns, her Saturday mornings gone. “With these other women I dont know.”
“Sarahs my friend.”
“When did you make a new friend?”
“Met her at the library, in February.”
“Every week?”
“Just about.”
Geoffrey eyed hernot scornful, but with a confusion that took her aback. She searched for whyand realised: he was lost.
“Im not telling you not to,” he said. “Its justnot how Im used to things.”
“Not used to what, Geoff?”
“How busy you always are now.”
Nina sat opposite, for once seeing him not as an institution but as a boggled person she barely knew, despite the decades.
“Are you glad I do things outside the house and library?” she asked.
He hesitated.
“I dont know. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“As I saidit feels strange. You used to be here. Now, always somewhere else.”
“Im not gone. Im here.”
“Here, but different.”
Nina watched his back, rounded by age. Sixty-one now. He too had grown older without her noticing.
“Geoffrey Can you remember when we last talked properly? Not about dinner, or the carjust talked?”
He turned.
“Wellwe do talk, dont we?”
“About what?”
He didnt reply, eyes drifting past her to the window.
“Exactly,” Nina said gently.
November brought cold and the much bigger borough event. Nina worked for weeks, lined up eight participants, secured a local artists permission for a small exhibition in the library. Sarah helped with everything; they met most daysover coffee, at workshops, even just strolling the banks of the Mersey if weather permitted.
Once, by the river, Nina said:
“I dont know how I lived before.”
“You did what you could,” Sarah replied.
“I meanreally. I lived so deeply within myself, never venturing out.”
“Its not about why. It just happens.”
“But couldnt it have been different?”
“It could,” Sarah said. “But different comes when its ready. Not a moment before.”
“Im fifty-eight.”
“And?”
“Thats rather late.”
“Nina.” Sarah faced her square-on. “Truly? I know women who are museum pieces by thirty-five: finished, done, boxed up under glass. Here you are, fifty-eight, just beginning. Thats right on time, if you ask me.”
Nina watched the barges move slow and sure below.
“You know, I paint every week now. Nine months and counting.”
“I do know.”
“And today I wrote my own script for the event. My own words. Not borrowed from anyone.”
“I heard,” Sarah said. “Its living. Thats better than good.”
The event that Friday was packedover seventy attendees, people lining the walls. Nina opened, reading her own words, hands nearly steady. She spoke about the hidden things in women that sometimes wait decades to be noticed. About how age opens doors once invisible. Not as a lecture, but as someone freshly awake to realisation.
Afterwards, the very old lady led in by her daughter approached her. “My dear,” she said, “did you mean me tonight?”
“All of us,” Nina replied.
“No, especially meI could feel it. As a younger woman, I did embroidery. Gave it up, thought it trivial. Now, maybe Ill try again. Eighty-threeridiculous, isnt it?”
“Not at all.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
She left, her daughter linking arms, not just leaving but taking something new away.
December was calm. Nina began leading a little book group at the libraryhalf a dozen regulars, lively debates, voices sometimes tumbling over one another.
Home, though, was tautnot stormy, just strained. Geoffrey more silent than ever. Nina sensed he was wrestling with something, and this time, she didnt wait for him to speak.
One Sunday evening, she came into his study.
“Geoffrey, I need a word.”
“So say it, then.”
“Not like this.” She closed the door, set a chair beside his, sat. “Truly.”
He closed his book and looked at her, wary.
“Its nothing dramatic,” Nina began, hands folded. “Only I lived a long time as if I almost wasnt here. I cooked, worked, did all that was needed. But somewhere, truly, I was missing. Thats my doing, partlyI allowed it. But its also about you and methe way weve existed beside each other.”
Geoffrey gazed at the desk.
“Areyou wanting a divorce?”
“I dont know what I want, except that we must talk. Really talk. I want you to see me. Not just dinner, or a pressed shirtme.”
A hush fell. Outside, snow fell softly.
“I dont know how, Nina,” he finally admitted. “Wasnt taught to, I suppose.”
“I know.” She stared at his hands. “I dont blame you. I just want to try. To try differently. To know if you want to, too.”
He was quiet, watching snow drift by. Then back at herwith that lost, vulnerable look again.
“Youve changed this year,” he said.
“I have.”
“I dont always know who you are now.”
“I know.”
“But I dont want” He paused, groping for words. “I dont want you to leave. Not the house. Or me.”
Nina looked at him. Sixty-one, stooped, face baffled by change. Someone used to what was, not sure of what could be.
“Then lets try,” she said. “Cant promise itll be easy. But lets try.”
January came with frost and clear light. Nina went to the library, ran her group, painted Saturdays. Artwork piled up; some went to Sarah, some pinned round the kitchen with the geranium, now thriving in its larger pot.
She and Sarah saw each other lesswork had gotten busy for Sarahbut spoke by phone.
One day, Sarah asked:
“Will you carry on with the events in spring?”
“I plan tosomething bigger next, maybe a mini-festival. A few days.”
“A lot of work!”
“Yes,” said Nina. “And I like big work.”
Sarah laughed. “Whod have guessed, a year ago?”
“Quite.”
Things with Geoffrey were still hard, yet more open. They spoke more. Sometimes the talks went well; other times, he withdrew. Nina let him have his silence, and did her own thing.
In February, during supper, Geoffrey said:
“Saw the doctor last week. Just a check-up.”
“Were you feeling unwell?”
“No. Just blood pressure now and then. Nothing serious, tablets sorted.”
“Why not tell me sooner?”
He put down his fork.
“Didnt want to worry you. Old habit.”
“You make a habit of not worrying me?”
“Yes. Youre always busy nowadays.”
Nina studied him, aware these words mattered, though she couldnt immediately say how.
“Geoff,” she said. “I want to know if youre ever unwell. If you see the doctor. Tell me. Please?”
“I will,” he nodded.
“And so will I.”
A pause. Snow and wind outside; inside, warmth and food. The cream still stood on the ledge, beside her latest paintinga white apple blossom branch.
“Thats a good one,” said Geoffrey. “Is that yours?”
“It is.”
“Youve got the knack.”
“Im learning.”
Late in February, Linda Benson phoned, late in the evening.
“Sorry the hour, Nina. My daughters come home.”
“All right?”
“Yes, we made up. She said she was wrongthat she shouldnt have called me outdated.”
“Are you glad?”
“Very. Nina, may I try your art class this Saturday? Watercolours?
“Of courseeleven oclock.”
“Im worried itll be hopeless.”
“Linda, no ones brilliant the first time. Thats the whole point.”
Saturday, Linda arrived. She gripped the brush like a pen. Zoe guided her. The first stroke: too dark. The second: washed out. Linda grew disheartened.
“Nina, look at this mess.”
“I am. I like it.”
“Its not a branch, its a blob!”
“Its just the start.”
“You must be embarrassed, comforting me.”
“Not at all. Next time, itll be something else.”
Linda looked at the paper, then burst out laughing.
“All right. Next time.”
March brought the first warmth. Nina submitted plans for the spring festival; library management approved. Anthony wrote hed like to come see it.
One evening, with Geoffrey in bed, Nina sat at the kitchen table, jotting ideas. Outside, thaw and drip of melting snow, spring testing its strength. The geranium was full, green, with bright flowers and a bud sure to bloom in a day or two.
The hand cream jar was empty long ago, but she kept it there. She bought another, same kindVelour, three pounds eighty. Geoffrey said nothing.
She opened her notebook to a blank page and wrote: “What I know now that I didnt know a year ago.” Then she paused and closed it. She didnt need to write it down. She already knew.
At nearly eleven, the phone rang: Sarah.
“Everything all right?” Nina asked.
“Yes. Nobetter than all right.” Sarahs voice was lively. “Ive had a job offer in York. Good role, good salary. My daughters there. Im thinking.”
Nina was silent for a moment.
“Do you want to go?”
“I dont know yet. Thats why Im ringing you. What do you think?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“What do you think?”
Nina studied the window. April pressed close: wet, dark, alive.
“I think you already know,” she said slowly. “Youve already decidedyou just havent said it aloud.”
A pause, then:
“Probably, yes.”
“Then what are you afraid of?”
“Leaving everything here: the art group, you, Graces birds, Dorothys poems.”
“We wont disappear.”
“Yorks far from Manchester, Nina.”
“Sarahremember what you told me? On the river, in November?”
“What?”
“Different starts the moment it starts.”
Sarah chuckled.
“I was wise, wasnt I?”
“You still are.”
“Nina, may I ask somethingbe honest?”
“Go on.”
“Are you happy?”
Nina paused, looking at the geranium, her painting, the cream, the empty notebook.
“Ive come to myself,” she said. “Thats what matters most, I think.”
“Is that an answer?”
“I suppose it is.”
Sarah was silent.
“Im glad for you, then.”
“And I for you.”
“Nina”
“Yes?”
“What will you do if I go?”
Nina glanced down at the pages waiting for her words, the blank space.
“Ill carry on,” she said.
