B L A I R E
•
I can't face myself after the way I blew up at Elizabeth. I can't face her either, shame and embarrassment and regret pressing down on my shoulders alongside the grief and anxiety and sorrow that lives there anyway.
When the ache in my gut has subsided, and I've heard the click of the door to the attic that means Elizabeth will be absent for the rest of the day, I drag myself out to the garage where her bike waits for me. Without anything to distract me from the tweeting of the birds nesting in the trees along the road, I set off and let the wind fly through my hair.
Pedalling as hard as I can to get away from the house, the weight of its atmosphere a crushing burden on my shoulders, I careen down the long, winding road until my calves are burning and my lungs are screaming. With the lake right ahead of me, I power on until I reach the jetty and let the bike fall away.
I walk right to the end of the uneven wooden slats that creak with every step, until my toes poke over the edge and I could lose my balance any moment. If a gust of wind whipped across the shore, it could blow me into the water, and the something about the sense of balancing on the edge of an abyss grounds me. I rock back on my heels and take a shuddery breath, and swallow the urge to throw out my arms and yell across the lake.
My head's too full. I need to scream and cry and rip the throat out of this agony that has made itself a home inside every part of me but I don't know how to reach that stage, how to do anything but sink onto the damp wood and rest my head in my hands.
The dusky grey water laps the jetty, a quiet slap and splash with every ripple, and I try to focus on that. I spend so much of my life inside my head and at the moment it's the worst place I can be, but it takes so much work to look outside of myself and pinpoint a snapshot of reality at which to direct my attention. But there's something mesmerising about the lake, the gentle to and fro of the tideless water, pushed by the wind and the creatures beneath.
I wonder how far I am from Loch Ness. I barely know where in the country I am, let alone where the infamous lake is, but a cursory search shows me that if turn right along the shore of Anchor Lake and keep walking for thirty miles, I'll reach Loch Ness.
Maybe if I go there I'll find the monster when I look down at the surface and catch sight of my reflection.
But it's too far to walk and it's too far to cycle, so I shelve the idea and get to my feet. There's a flicker of freedom in the idea that if I need to, if I really need to, I can swing my leg over the bike and push down on the pedals and get out of this town.
There's rain in the air. There always seems to be rain in the air. The wind feels heavy, verging on tempestuous, and when the cold sinks under my skin and burrows into my bones, I wheel the bike away from the lake to the protection of the shop-lined street. I can't keep my hair out of my face, the wind picking up speed, and I feel the first spit of rain on my cheeks within a minute of turning my back on the lake.
It's about to pour. I can feel it. I can see it in the clouds, and as I'm looking up at the sea of black and grey and white above me, the heavens open. Fat droplets of rain seem to fall in slow motion, and then the rain comes crashing down. Before I get drenched, wet clothes sticking to damp skin, I find a post to tie the bike to and I duck into the warmly-lit café that calls to me from across the road.
The intoxicating scent of freshly-baked pastry overwhelms me the moment I step through the door, before I catch a whiff of brewing coffee. It's deliciously warm in here and my stomach growls at the thought of a cinnamon swirl and a latte; my eyes bulge at the creamy cakes and rich brownies and fluffy croissants that fill the cabinet.
And then I look up at the girl behind the counter. She grins at me and says, "Hi! Welcome to The Flour Patch!"
I'd know that voice anywhere. Broad and bright and out of place, like she belongs three hundred miles down south. My jaw drops as I match her face and her smile to her voice and her name. Her black hair is tied up in a windswept ponytail and her fringe almost covers thick eyebrows; her perfect skin is the same shade of light brown as my freckles and her short, upturned nose is oddly adorable.
"Oh my god, are you Sukie Watanabe?" I splutter out.
Her grin falters, brows twitching together as she studies me. "Yeah, I am. Sorry, do we know each other?" She puts a hand to her forehead and says, "Sorry, I have the worst memory, I swear to god."
"No, no, we don't know each other," I say, though I feel like I know her, after listening to her voice for hours in the comfort of my bed, the duvet pulled up over my head to shut out the world except for her. "I found your podcast recently, and I can't stop listening to it. I'm obsessed."
Her whole face changes, illuminating with the brightest smile that reaches her eyes and makes them sparkle, and her hand drops from her head to her chest. "Oh my god! Really?"
I nod mutely, starstruck to meet her when in my head, Sukie Watanabe is virtually a celebrity. My cheeks are hot and flushed and probably peony pink, and my brain has emptied itself.
"That's so cool! Wow, I thought I'd already either got everyone in town to listen, or made them so sick of my voice they vowed to never listen again."
"I love your voice," I blurt out. Her grin widens.
"What's your name?"
"Blaire. Blaire Bloxham."
"That's so cute," she says, leaning on the counter that forces a metre between us. "Hey, so are you new? I'm sure I haven't seen you around here before."
"I moved here a week ago," I say. She sucks in a breath and pulls a face.
"On purpose?"
I know it's supposed to be a joke; I've heard her and Oli ribbing each other about the town for long enough. But it still stings, because this was far from my choice. I shake my head, and her face falls.
"Oh, god, sorry." She throws a hand over her eyes, every movement endearing me to her even more. "I'm always putting my foot in it. Listen, let me make you a drink. What d'you want? It's on the house."
"No, don't. I can pay."
"But you're not going to. Mocha? Latte? Hot chocolate? Espresso?" She grabs a fresh mug, so big it's virtually a soup bowl with a handle, and waves it at me. "Make your mind up, or I'll make you the Sukie special."
I'm not sure if she's joking or not, but I lean into it. "I'll have the Sukie special."
She pauses, eyebrows raised. "Are you sure?"
I nod.
"Okay. I take no responsibility if you don't like it, though." She spins to face the coffee machine and looks over her shoulder at me. "By the way, the Sukie special comes with your choice of whatever's in the cabinet. What'll it be?"
I can't say no to her. There's persuasion written into her accent; there's a confidence to her voice that makes me trust her, and makes it impossible for me to turn down the offer. "The cinnamon swirl, please."
Wielding a pair of tongs, she plucks out the fresh, flaky pastry. "One Sukie special and one squirrel tail, coming right up. Take a seat and warm up; I'll bring it over."
I'm entranced. I wanted a distraction when I listened to the podcast and I found it, and now I'm even more distracted by the real deal. I can't tear my eyes from Sukie as she whizzes up something to drink, and it's impossible not to take her in from head to toe when she steps out from around the counter with a tray in both hands.
Her black apron, loosely tied over a stylishly oversized yellow jumper, is embroidered with flowers and cupcakes and the name of the café, a cute pun I didn't even register when I ran in here from the rain. Her black leggings – my kind of girl – are dusted with flour, her Doc Martens look well worn, and two necklaces hang around her neck. One is a delicate S on a thin silver chain that sits between her clavicles; the other is a yellow rose on a black ribbon that sits snugly at the base of her throat.
"Here we go," she says, holding the tray against her hip to unload the mammoth mug and the cinnamon swirl – the squirrel tail, she called it. "Wait, you're not allergic to anything, are you?"
"Only milk, and coffee."
Panic floods her features until I crack a smile and she realises I'm joking, and her impish grin returns.
"You nearly had me there," she says, brushing a few stray hairs out of her eyes and shifting her weight to one foot, her hip jutting out with the tray tucked into the crook of her waist. "I can't believe you're new to Anchor Lake, and you've started listening to my podcast already!"
"I saw it in the library," I say. "It sounded interesting, and then I got hooked after the first episode. I think I'm up to the ... twelfth episode, maybe?"
It feels so fucking good to talk, to have a proper conversation with another human. A conversation that isn't a screaming match, and it isn't riddled with the unspoken subtext of death, and I'm not crying.
She lets out a happy sigh. "Ah, the early days. You've got a lot of catching up to do. Though I'll warn you now, there's a lot of rambling in store for you. Probably, like, sixty percent of the episodes are just rants and conversations and stuff that has nothing to do with the book."
I don't tell her that as much as I love the mystery, as much as it has grabbed me hook line and sinker, I almost love her off-topic rants and rambles more. Those moments when something snags her attention and she and Oli venture off on a winding tangent, and I feel like they have taken my hands and pulled me into their lives, bringing me along for the adventure.
"Look, my shift ends in a couple of hours," she says. "Any chance you want to come over and we could do an interview? It's not often we get new residents here, especially not ones who are already invested in the history. It could be cool to do an episode with you!"
My heart rate shoots sky high and I haven't even fully thought it through before my head starts nodding. My own voice on the podcast. Time with Sukie.
"Yeah, that'd be cool," I manage to say. My pulse races even faster and I have to ground myself with a sip of the drink she's made me, and I almost groan out loud the moment I taste the heavenly concoction of frothy milk and rich coffee and what must be cinnamon and nutmeg, caramel and cocoa. "Wow. This is amazing."
"A little bit of all my favourite flavours," she says with a wink. "It should be too much, but somehow it comes out tasting pretty good."
"Pretty incredible."
"Thanks!" She drops the tray from her waist and holds in front of herself over her apron, shifting her weight to the other foot. "So, are you okay to hang around for a bit? Obviously you can go home or whatever, but I finish at one and its"—she cranes her neck to look at the ornate coffee cup clock on the wall—"nearly eleven already. Are you busy?"
"Not remotely," I say. I think of the cold and silent house I have to return to, and the cold and silent aunt, and the scars of all the words I threw at her. I know it's on me to apologise; I know I was a bitch to her, and I know she's saved me by taking me in. But I wish all of this was easier.
"Awesome, okay, I'll see you again in a couple of hours. Enjoy your Sukie special!"
I know I will. It's the first thing I've tasted in over two weeks that has brought my taste buds to life; it's the first time that my heart racing has been a good thing, a sign that I'm alive and excited and interested.
Once Sukie returns to the counter and starts serving another customer, I unfurl my earphones and plug myself into her voice. It's funny how I can hear the time lapse now; she sounds younger in the podcast. Episode thirteen, I think. Some time back in 2016.
It's been more than two years. More like two and a half. I'm way behind, over a hundred episodes left in the archive, but meeting her is like holding down the fast-forward button. I'm hopping between timelines, the gap closing every time I glance up from my absent doodling and my eyes lock on present Sukie while I listen to her past.
It's a little disorientating, and totally captivating.
*
The time flies, minutes slipping by like paper in the wind as I plough through several more episodes of The Anchor Lakey until my battery is critically low and Sukie appears in front of me.
"Hey! Ready to go?"
I scramble to my feet too fast and almost knock my chair over. She laughs and pushes the sleeves of her jumper up to her elbows, swinging a bag over one shoulder and nodding at the door.
"My house is about ten minutes away, if you're okay to walk," she says, peering out of the window before she opens the door and leads me out onto the street. "The rain's stopped, at least."
My words have dried up. I don't know what to say. I'm out of practice, my throat closing up when I try to persuade some kind of conversational effort, and there's a spark of panic when I imagine sitting down to record an interview and having absolutely fuck all to say.
"I hope you don't mind," Sukie says, walking with a bounce in her step, "but I like to keep my questions for the recording itself, so it doesn't sound staged or rehearsed. Is that okay?"
"Of course."
"If there's something you don't want to answer, just say, and I'll cut it out." Her bag drops from her shoulder; she lets it slip to her hand and she swings it as we walk, her hair swaying in the light breeze that remains in the aftermath of the wind.
"That's fine," I say, conjuring something at last. "I, uh, I've never been interviewed before."
"Oh, don't worry, I won't be intense. It'll be more like a conversation." She twists to face me as we walk and I have to concentrate on not staring into her eyes, deep and dark and surrounded by lashes that look naturally thick. When she smiles at me, I feel like a puppet on a string, some unknown master pulling the cord that makes me smile in response.
I was already obsessed enough with her podcast and her voice and her passion. Now she has to go and be beautiful too. My heart is doomed, too recently battered and too painfully bruised to cope with the sickening rush of whatever it is I'm feeling, but I don't have a say in the matter. It's already too late.
*