I Am Not Here
Did you buy that stuff again? Graham set the bag on the table with a thud, making something inside clink. I told you, no more Velvet Touch. Its overpriced and pointless.
Nina Stevens stood by the window, looking out over the courtyard. Out there, a neighbours little girl, perhaps seven years old, was chasing pigeons. The birds took off in a cloud, scattered in all directions, then gathered on the tarmac as if nothing had happened. Nina watched them and wondered when she had last bought something for herself, just because she wanted to. Just for the sake of it.
Its only hand cream, Graham. Three pounds eighty.
Three eighty is three eighty. Forgot how to count?
She didn’t reply. She turned away, took the bag, pulled out a small jar with a golden lid, and put it on the windowsill next to the geraniums. The geranium hadn’t flowered in agesNina had meant to sort it out for months, but hadnt got round to it.
Nina. Im talking to you.
I hear you, Graham.
She walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, thinking of what to cook for dinner. She heard his heavy, even footsteps behind her, then the soft click as he shut himself away in the study. Nina exhaled quietly.
She was fifty-eight. Living in Manchester, in a three-bedroom flat on Victoria Road, married to Graham Stevens for twenty-nine years. They had an adult son, Anthony, living in Bristol, who called on Sundaysthough sometimes he forgot. There was a garden plot out in Cheshire, a car Graham drove exclusively, and her job at the city library, where Nina had worked as senior librarian for eighteen years.
A life. No one could take that away.
She took out a chicken breast, put it on the chopping board, picked up a knife. Outside, the little girl had gone, the pigeons dispersed. The courtyard was empty, grey, tufts of last years grass pushing up through cracks in the tarmac.
Nina realised that she was standing still, knife in hand, not chopping. Just standing there.
She put down the knife, went over to the window, unscrewed the little pot of cream. The scent was delicate, with a faint floral undertone. She smoothed a small dab onto the back of her hand. The skin absorbed it quickly, leaving a sensation as though someone had gently taken her hand for a moment.
Nina snapped the lid back into place, then went to cut up the chicken.
The night went by as usual. Graham ate dinner in silence, watched the news, went to bed. Nina stayed up in the kitchen with a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, paging through an old gardening magazine. She didnt really readjust sat.
In the morning Nina came into work to find Lydia Brown in tears behind the periodicals shelf.
Lydia, whats happened?
Lydia, three years older than Nina, had worked in the library longer than anyone and knew every volume on the shelves by heart. Nina had never seen her crying before.
Its nothing, Lydia waved her hand and took out a handkerchief. Dont mind me. Personal stuff.
If you need to talk
Nothing to say. Lydia blew her nose, pocketed the handkerchief. My daughter rung last night, said: Mum, youre out of date. Just like thatout of date.
In what way?
Literally. I gave her a bit of advice about her husband, my way, normal, sensible. She goes, Mum, your advice is from the last century. You dont understand what life is now. Lydia carefully straightened a stack of mags. Maybe shes right.
She isnt, Nina said.
How do you know?
Nina didnt have an answer. They stood together in the library hush, scented with paper and old wood, then drifted away to their duties.
At lunch, Nina went outside. April was cool and bright; she walked to the little public garden, sat on a bench, and closed her eyes. Through her eyelids, the light painted everything orange. She thought about Lydia and her daughter, about that word: out of date.
Then she thought of herself.
Nina Stevens, née Thompson, born Manchester, 1966. Graduated in English and Literature from teacher training college. Married at 29late for those days. Graham had been an engineer, a serious, reliable sort. Anthony arrived a year later. Nina took maternity leave, came back part-time, later brought her mum to live with them until she passed, then went back to work fully. Life ticked along. Neatly, quietly.
Somewhere in all this order, something had slipped awaya thing Nina sensed but couldn’t name. She could feel its absence.
Nina opened her eyes. Opposite, a plum tree blossomedtiny, delicate white flowers, absurdly fragile. Nina realised she hadnt drawn anything for, what, thirty years? At college she had. Just for herself. With pastels. Then there was never time, then it felt silly, then she forgot.
She took out her phone and called her son. Anthony picked up on the third ring, his voice distracted.
Hi Mum. Everything okay?
Fine, love. I just wanted to hear you.
Im about to head into a meetingcould I call you this evening?
Of course, ring later.
He didnt call back. That was normal, too.
Nina went back to the library, worked until six, then picked up a loaf on the way home. She walked her usual route, as she had for eighteen years, knowing every pothole, every bend by heart.
Graham was home before her, reading at the computer. She took off her coat, walked into the kitchen.
Dinner?
Later.
She put the kettle on, found some leftover soup in the fridge. As it warmed, she stared at that pot of cream sitting on the sill. Small, pretty. Nina thought that Graham was probably right. Three pounds eighty. Was it worth it?
But the smell had been nice.
And so she left it there.
A fortnight passed. Life trundled on, nothing much happened. Then a woman came into the librarySamantha.
Nina noticed her at oncea woman in her mid-forties, cherry-red coat, cropped hair, standing straight-backed. Samantha walked up to the counter, said she wanted to join, was looking for books on psychology and, if there were any, something on watercolour painting.
Watercolour? Nina repeated.
Yes, I did some as a child. Id like to try again.
Nina gave her a library card, showed her the right shelves. Samantha browsed confidently, picking up books, flicking through, putting some back, choosing others. Nina watched with interest, sensing something independent about this womana completeness that needed nothing from anyone else.
Half an hour later, Samantha came back with two books and asked,
Do you ever read any of these yourself? She nodded towards the psychology shelf.
Sometimes.
Have you been here long?
Eighteen years.
Samantha looked at her thoughtfully. Not judgementaljust really seeing her.
Thats a long time.
It is.
Do you like it?
Nina hesitated. A simple question, not a simple answer.
I like the books, she said. The people. The placewellits familiar.
Familiar, Samantha repeated as if rolling the word around to weigh it. I see.
She took her books and left.
The next week, Samantha returned, returned one book, and asked for something more on watercolours. Nina found her a slim album of prints.
Samantha took it, paused. Would you like to try it? Watercolour? I go to a little workshop every Saturday morning. Informal, a small group. Join us?
Nina almost said no. Her mouth formed the word, but instead she asked,
Where is it?
Samantha wrote the address on a slip of paperThe White Room, a creative space on Chapel Street. Saturday, eleven oclock.
All evening, Nina mulled over the paper. She kept it in her apron pocket, then put it on the windowsill beside the hand cream. Graham didnt notice the paper. He never asked about her activities unless they involved money or housework.
That Friday evening she said over dinner,
Im going to a painting class tomorrow morning.
Graham looked up.
Where?
Chapel Street. Watercolour. A friend from the library invited me.
What friend?
New library member.
He chewed, laid down his fork.
How much does it cost?
I havent asked yet.
Right. He broke off a piece of bread. Well, go on. If youve nothing better to do.
Nina really heard the words: if youve nothing better. For twenty-nine years, she had heard their like again and again: Another one? What for? How much? Havent you got better things to do?
All right, she answered. Ill go.
She rose early, washed, put on a grey jumper and navy trousers. She paused before the mirror. When had she last looked at herself properly? She usually slipped past. Today, she lingered. Unyoung, but not unattractive. Her grey eyes were alive, her hair, though touched with silver, remained thick. She brushed it differently, opened the hand cream, applied some to her hands and a dab to her neck.
She left at nine so she wouldnt have to rush.
The White Room turned out to be upstairs in an old building. Outside, it looked quite ordinary, inside it gleamed with clean white walls, wooden floors, large windows. Nina climbed the stairs and opened the door.
Samantha was already there, along with four other women of various ages and a sturdy, fifty-ish man in a check shirt. They all sat around a long table, with glasses of water and sheets of paper in front of each seat.
Nina! You came! Samantha waved.
Nina sat beside her. The tutor, a young woman named Zoe, explained they would be painting a lilac branch today. Nina picked up her brush; her hand quiverednot from nerves, but because it was unaccustomed.
Dont worry about making it beautiful, Zoe said. Think about the water and the colour. Nothing else.
Nina made her first stroke. Purple flowed over the wet paper and mingled with blue. A second, a third. Watching the paint move where it wished, not quite where she intendedit was strangely absorbing. Beside her, Samantha frowned in concentration; the man in the check shirt painted with a tiny brush and seemed dissatisfied with his work.
After an hour, Nina looked at her page. It didnt look like a lilac branch. It was more an impressionblurred, in purples and blues, with patches. But there was something alive in it. Something Nina herself had done.
Its beautiful, said an older woman opposite, named Pauline.
I wouldnt say so, replied Nina.
I would. Theres a mood in it.
Nina looked again. Perhaps. Perhaps there was.
Afterwards, Samantha suggested coffee in a nearby café. Nina agreed. They sat by the window, chatted over mugs.
Did you like it? Samantha asked.
Yes. It was unexpected.
I had a feeling you would, Samantha said, holding her cup in both hands. You have a way of looking at things. Like you see them, but hesitate to look straight at them.
Nina didn’t reply straight away. Then,
Have you been in Manchester long?
Three years. I moved here from Cambridge after divorce.
I see.
Its fine, said Samantha, calm, without bitterness. It was hard at first. Then it got easier. Then it got interesting.
Interesting?
Being on my own. There was so much I didnt know about myself. She smiled warmly. Are you married?
Twenty-nine years.
Are you happy?
Nina stirred the coffee she didnt need to stir.
It depends.
Samantha nodded without pressing. That, too, was good in her.
Nina returned home at half past one. Graham was watching football, and asked nothing about how it went. Nina heated her soup, ate alone in the kitchen, pinned up her watery lilac branch on the wall by the geranium.
The geranium seemed a little more alive than it had last week. Nina leaned in. On one stem, a tiny red bud appeared. She hadnt noticed before.
The following Saturday, she went to class again. Then again. Samantha came each time. They began to talk more after classat first thirty minutes, then longer. Nina spoke of the library, her favourite books and readers. Samantha spoke of her job as an accountant for a small builder, of Cambridge, of her daughter still living with her dad and studying French.
One day, Nina asked:
Dont you get lonely here?
Sometimes. But its a different sort of loneliness.
How do you mean, different?
Samantha folded her hands on the table, thoughtful.
I used to be with someone, but still alone. Thats the worst sort. Now, Im alone, but not lonely. See the difference?
Nina did. She didnt say aloud, but something inside shiftedlike river ice cracking in the spring, slowly but surely.
In May, the library announced a competition. The borough council was hosting a kind of cultural showcase; the library staff had to stage an event for locals. Mrs Johnson, the head librarian, gathered everyone.
We need an idea. Any suggestions?
Silence. Nina stayed quiet, but her mind was already working.
We could have a reading evening, said Lydia. Read aloud, discuss.
We do that every year. Something new, perhaps.
What about womens stories? suggested Nina.
Everyone looked at her.
In what sense? asked Mrs Johnson.
Real women’s stories, not just literary. Invite women from around here, of all ages, to share how their lives have changed, what its been like. Nothing fancyjust honest talk. Maybe also show their crafts if they paint, knit, or sculpt.
There was a pause.
Unusual, said Mrs Johnson.
But real.
Who will organise it?
I will, said Nina, surprising herself.
Mrs Johnson studied her.
All right, Mrs Stevens. Lets try it.
Nina phoned Samantha as soon as the meeting was done. Samantha laughed.
Well, well. You?
Me. I dont know why. It just came out.
Thats the honest way. Ill take part. Lets ask Pauline too, remember her from our group? She does pottery.
Pauline, sixty-two and retired, made little clay birds to sell at local fairs. Nina rang hershe agreed straight away but said, Dont make me speak too long, or Ill muddle it up.
Nina started planning in the evenings while Graham sat in his study. At the kitchen table, she drafted, scribbled, rewroteit felt strange and thrilling to create something new, not just keep old routines going.
One evening, Graham came in for a glass of water, saw her frowning at her notes.
What are you writing?
Work. Im putting something together.
Library stuff again.
Yes. Library stuff.
He poured water, hung around.
Dinner was cold.
Sorry. Ill warm it up next time.
He left. Nina watched him go, thinking: He commented on cold soup. Not on how alive she looked, not on how this thing was excitingjust the dinner.
She returned to her notes.
The womens evening ran on the third Saturday in June. Nina found four speakersSamantha, Pauline, and two more: Jeanette, a retired geography teacher who shyly wrote poetry, and Zoe, the art class tutor. Nina made posters, put a notice in the local paper, worried no one would comebut the room filled fast. Over thirty people, mainly women of all ageseven one very elderly lady escorted by her daughter.
Nina ran the event. Her opening was briefjust that they were there to listen to each other, and that mattered. Pauline spoke first, about retirement, feeling lost at home, finding herself again with her hands in clay. I suddenly realised I had hands, she said. The room laughed, not mockingly, but warmly.
Samantha talked about her move, about how she feared not the new, but the old. Nina wanted to remember those words.
Jeanette read two poems. Her voice trembled at first, but gathered confidence. At the end, a lady in the third row started clapping, and everyone joined in.
Afterward, while clearing up, Lydia said,
Well done, Nina. Genuinely.
It went surprisingly well.
Not surprising at all. Youre good with people. You always wereyou just never let yourself show it.
Nina picked up a forgotten scarf and hung it on the rail. Maybe Lydia was right; it felt good but stung a little. Why, after eighteen years, was this the first time?
Graham was asleep when she got in. She undressed quietly, drank a glass of water in the kitchen. On the sill, the cream and her lilac painting stood together. The geranium was in splendid bloomfour clusters of bright red flowers.
Nina slowly massaged cream into her hands. She gazed at the flowers and thought of Samantha: I was afraid not of the new, but the familiar.
In the morning, Graham asked:
How was your event?
Good. Lots of people.
At least you ate something?
There was tea.
Teas not dinner. He stared at his phone.
Nina took her coffee onto the balcony. It was early, the courtyard empty, the scent of poplars in the air. She realised Graham had asked if shed eaten. That, perhaps, was his way of caring. For twenty-nine years, shed confused that surface for substancenever noticing the inside was different, or missing altogether.
She didnt know. But she was only starting to look things in the eye.
In July, Anthony called hernot on a Sunday, but a Wednesday. That was unusual.
Hi Mum. Hows things?
Fine, love. Is something up?
No, nothings wrong. Its justSamantha messaged me. Found me online, said you organised an amazing event, did a brilliant job. I had no idea.
You never asked.
Pause.
Sorry, Mum. I really ought to have. Tell me about it?
And Nina told himabout the art classes, Paulines birds, Jeanette’s poetry, how the room brimmed with people. Anthony listened, didnt interrupt.
Mum, thats fantastic. Well done.
Thank you.
How long have you been doing this?
This was the first time.
You should have started ages ago.
I should have, she agreed.
They sat in silence. Then Anthony said:
Mum, are you and Dad all right?
Nina looked out at the sunlit July courtyard, boys kicking a ball.
Its familiar, she said.
Is that good or bad?
I dont know yet.
He didnt press. Said hed visit in August, and they made plans. Nina stood by the window long afterwards.
Anthony came in August, stayed four days. Physically like his father, but something in his naturea sort of attentivenesscame from her. He brought nice cheddar, sat and listened, properly listened, to what Nina said.
One morning, with Graham out at the allotment, Anthony and Nina sat at the kitchen table.
Mum, youve changed.
How so?
Hard to say. You seem bigger somehow, he laughed awkwardly. That sounds odd, doesnt it?
No. Makes sense.
Are you happy?
Nina cradled her mug, the coffee warm.
Yesthough its a bit frightening.
Why frightening?
Because as you see yourself more clearly, you start to see everything else more clearly. Its not always comfortable.
Anthony nodded, thoughtful.
Does Dad see?
Dad notices cold dinners, she said. Immediately wishing she hadnt. Sorry, thats unfair.
No, its honest. Anthony looked at her. Have you talked to him?
About what?
About what you need?
Nina gazed out at the gold-tinged grass of late August.
Im not good at that, she admitted softly.
Try.
Anthony left. Nina tidied his bed and thought about ittry. For twenty-nine years, she had never tried properly. She talked, of course, but not about the real things. That was always left unsaid. Easier. Safer. Graham could give a look that shut conversations down.
In September, Mrs Johnson called her inborough council wanted to repeat Ninas event, this time bigger, across all the libraries in the area. Nina would be responsible.
Its a serious project, Mrs Stevens. More work, but pay can be increased.
Im on board.
Mrs Johnson smiled a little.
Youve changed this summer. Dont mind me saying?
I dont mind.
Changed for the better. More alive.
Nina stepped back to her desk, said hello to a regular looking for crime novels, logged out a few books, then stood looking at the reading roomthe shelves, the lamps, the great window rimmed with September sun.
Eighteen years, and only now did she see it as her placenot somewhere she worked, but something she was part of.
At home, things shifted. Graham started noticing her late evenings, her Saturday absences, her new friends.
Whos this Samantha?
My friend.
Since when have you had a friend?
Met in February. At the library.
And you see her every week?
Most weeks.
Graham eyed her. There was something newnot irritation, not the usual offhand tone, but something Nina recognised at last: confusion.
Im not stopping you, he said. Just not used to it.
To what?
You being so busy with everything.
Nina sat opposite him. For the first time, she looked at him straightnot with her old, automatic shield, but as a man she realised shed hardly known, though they had lived side by side for decades.
Graham, she said. Are you glad I do things? Apart from house and work?
He was quiet.
Dont know. Maybe.
Maybe?
Its just different. He stood up, went to the window. You used to be right here. Now youre always out and about.
Im not going anywhere, Nina replied. Im here.
Here, but different.
She looked at his back, broad and hunched now, sixty-one, older than shed noticed.
Graham, when did we last talk? Not about dinner or the car. Actually talk.
He turned round.
Well we do talk.
About what things?
No answer. He looked away.
Exactly, Nina said softly.
November brought cold and the big borough event. Nina prepared for three weeks, gathered eight women for the panel, arranged with a local artist to put on a small exhibition around the library walls. Samantha helped in every way; they met nearly daily, at the café, at the library, or just walked by the river Mersey when the weather allowed.
One afternoon on the riverbank, Nina said,
I dont know how I lived before.
You lived as you lived, Samantha replied.
No, but I mean, I was somewhere far inside, hiding, not coming out. Why did I do that?
Its not about why. Its just how we are sometimes.
But I could have been different.
Yes. Samantha stopped, looking at the chill, beautiful river. But different starts when its ready. Not before.
Im fifty-eight.
So?
Thats old.
Nina, Samantha turned to her, serious, I know women who stopped living at thirty-five. Decided everything about them was finished, became museum pieces behind glass. And here you are, starting at fifty-eight. It isnt old at all. Its the best time, in my view.
They watched the water for a long moment. A barge moved slowly in the distance.
You know, Nina said, I paint every week now. Its been nine months.
I know.
And this morning I wrote a text for the event. My own words. Not just what Im supposed to say.
You read it to me.
And its good.
Its alive. Thats even better.
The November event arriveda Friday. Over seventy people crowded in, many standing by the walls. Nina opened the evening, reading her text aloud. Her voice was clear, her hands almost steady. She spoke about how inside every woman there is something of her own, sometimes waiting years for notice. She said age doesnt close doors; sometimes it opens new ones wed never seen. She didnt preach, she spoke as someone whod just realised it herself.
Afterwards, the elderly lady, Mrs Brown, approached her with her daughter.
Dear, were you talking about me? she asked.
About all of us, Nina replied.
No, about me, I felt it. I used to embroider when I was young. Gave it upthought it nonsense. Today, I wondered, why not try again? Eighty-three years old. Ridiculous, isnt it?
Not ridiculous at all.
Truly?
Truly.
Mrs Brown left, holding her daughters arm as they slowly walked awaythough not empty-handed.
December arrived quietly. Nina now led her own little Wednesday evening literary group at the library; six or seven regulars read and argued so fiercely that Nina sometimes hardly managed to join in.
At home things were tense, but not stormy. Graham had grown more silent; deep down, Nina sensed he was working things out, but not putting it to words. She didnt expect him to bring things up anymore.
One Sunday evening, she went into his study, shut the door, and sat down beside him.
Graham, I need to talk.
So talk.
NoI mean, properly. She slid a chair beside his armchair and sat. Please.
He closed his book and looked at her.
Whats happened?
Nothing in particular. She folded her hands. I just need to say something that I’ve not said for a long time. Or maybe ever.
Graham waited, guarded.
For such a long while, I felt like I was barely there, Nina began. I did everythingcooked, worked, ran the house, the allotment, all the usual. But somewhere inside, I was nearly gone. Thats on me. I let it happen. But its also something about us. How we exist together.
Graham looked at the table.
Do you want a divorce?
I dont know what I want. I just know I cant keep pretending. I need you to see menot just tea and clean shirts. Me.
A long silence. Snow fell outside the window.
I dont know how, Nina, he finally said, quietly, with nothing put-on. Nobody taught me how.
I know. She gazed at his hands on his knees. Im not blaming you. I just want to try doing things differently. And I need to know if you want to try too.
No immediate answer. He stared at the snow, then at herface hesitant and uncertain.
Youve changed so much this year, he said.
I have.
I dont always understand you.
I know.
But I dont want he trailed off, searching for the word. I dont want you to go. Leave here. He motioned aroundmeaning home. Or at all.
She looked at hima man of sixty-one, shoulders rounded, lost in the face of change.
Lets try, Nina said. It wont be easy, but lets try.
January came with sharp light and biting cold. Nina kept at her library work, ran the group, painted every Saturday. Shed filled a wall with her pictures; some Samantha had taken, others hung beside the bright geranium in the kitchen. Nina had figured out its needs, repotted itnow it bloomed again.
She and Samantha saw less of each otherSamanthas work got busybut they spoke often.
One day Samantha said,
Nina, are you thinking of doing another event in the spring?
Ive been thinkingId like to run a proper little festival. Something bigger, over a few days.
Thats a huge project.
I know. Nina paused. I think I like a big challenge.
Samantha laughed.
Whod have guessed a year ago?
Not me.
With Graham, it wasnt exactly easier, but they spoke more. Sometimes it went well, sometimes he withdrew, and Nina let him. She waited, or she found other things to do.
One ordinary February evening, Graham said over dinner,
I went to the doctor last week. Had a check-up.
Anything wrong?
Just routine. My blood pressure. Tablets, nothing drastic.
Glad you went.
Arent you going to ask why I didnt mention it sooner?
Nina set down her spoon.
Why didnt you?
Didnt want to worry you. Habit.
Youre in the habit of not worrying me?
Yes. After all, youre always busy these days.
Nina looked at himthere was weight to these words she couldnt yet work out.
Graham, I want to know when something is wrong. Doctor visits, anythingtell me. Will you?
I will. He nodded. And Ill listen to you, too.
They sat quietly; outside Februarys snow and wind swirled, in the kitchen it was warm, scented with food. On the sill stood the hand cream and a new painting from her last classa branch of apple blossom, white and gentle.
Nice picture, Graham said. Yours?
Mine.
He looked again.
Youre good at it.
Im learning.
Near the end of February, Lydia rang, just gone nine pm.
Nina, I know its late. My daughter visited today.
Thats nice.
It is. We made amends. She said she was wrongthat out of date business.
Are you glad?
Very. Nina, can I come to your art class? Watercolours?
Of courseSaturday at eleven.
Im afraid Ill be hopeless.
Everyone is at first. Thats the point.
Saturday, Lydia came. She held the brush wrong, got paint all over her page. The first wash was too dark, then too pale.
Nina, look at this mess.
I see. I like it.
Its a splodge, not a branch!
Its your first time.
Arent you just being kind?
No, honestly. Next time will be different.
Lydia looked at her work and suddenly burst into laughter.
All right, next time then.
March brought the first warmth. Nina planned the spring festival; management agreed. Anthony emailed to say he would visit in April, wanted to see the event.
One late evening, after Graham had gone to bed, Nina jotted ideas in her notebook at the kitchen table. Outside, water dripped from the roofs, the snow meltingspring tentatively arriving. On the sill, the geranium was lavishthree red blossoms and a bud set to bloom soon.
She glanced at the old hand cream pot. It was empty now, but shed kept it anyway, bought a fresh jarthe same brand, same price. Graham never commented.
Nina opened a blank page and wrote at the top, What I know now that I did not know a year ago. She looked at it, paused. Then closed the book. Some things didnt need to be writtenthey were inside her now.
Her phone ranglate for calls, almost eleven. Nina checked the screen; Samantha.
Everything all right? Nina asked at once.
Everythings fineactually, better, said Samantha, voice alive with excitement. Ive been offered a job in Cambridge. Good money, good position. My daughters there. Im not sure what to do.
Nina waited a moment.
Do you want to go?
I dont know yet. I called you to help me decide. Tell me what you think.
Nina stared out into Aprils darkness beyond the glass.
I think youve already made your mind upyou just havent told yourself out loud.
A short, quiet laugh.
Probably. Yes.
So what are you afraid of?
Leaving things behind. The art group. You. Paulines birds, Jeanettes poems.
Were not going anywhere.
Manchester is far from Cambridge, Nina.
Samantha, Nina said, turning the pen in her hand, remember what you told me on the riverside, in November?
What did I say?
Different begins when it begins.
Samantha chuckled softly.
I was wise back then.
You still are.
Nina, can I ask you something? Please be honest.
Go on.
Are you happy?
Nina looked at the geranium, the cream pot, the pinned-up paintings, the notebook with its unwritten answers.
Ive become myself, she said at last. And I think thats what matters.
Thats your answer?
I think so, yes.
Samantha paused.
Im happy for you.
And I for you.
Ninawhat will you do if I move?
Nina glanced at her open notebook, at the blank page.
Ill carry on, she said.
Meaning in life doesn’t come from what we keep doing for others, or from the routines others put upon usit comes from finally allowing ourselves, at any age, simply to be.
