Courtney comes over to me and pulls me into a hug. ‘Take care of yourself. Promise to keep in touch.’
‘I promise.’ I have no idea what I’m going to do with my life now that the job with Elspeth has fallen through. I’m back to square one. I haven’t broken the news to Arlo yet. He’ll be disappointed in me. He was so happy when I got the job. I know he’s worried about me since Mum died and I sensed he was reassured that I was settled. I also think he liked me being out of his hair. I know it’s not good for his reputation to be living with his little sister.
‘Will you be okay?’ she asks, her pretty face full of concern.
‘Of course. I’m always okay.’ I laugh, which hides my real fear. I have no idea if it’s true. ‘I’m going back to my brother’s flat – he’ll be chuffed, no doubt – and then, well, we’ll see.’
She puts her hand on my arm and what she says next sends chills through me. ‘I think you’ve had a lucky escape.’
It’s still light when I leave Courtney’s flat. My heart feels unexpectedly heavy. I’ve only known Courtney a few weeks but all of this has bonded us. I feel we could become proper friends. And I love Bristol. Maybe I’ll come back. When I’ve decided what I’m going to do with my life.
I head to the bus stop through the unfamiliar streets. It’s much quieter here than in Clifton but as I amble along the pavement I get the familiar feeling that someone is behind me. I quicken my pace, telling myself not to be paranoid. The footsteps are getting closer but I daren’t turn around. It’s probably someone making their way to the bus stop too, I tell myself. But apart from me and the person behind me, the street is quiet. I hear them speed up and I tense. I can see the bus stop ahead. To my dismay, nobody else is waiting and, even though it’s not yet dark, the area has a ghost town feel to it. I slow down as I approach the bus stop and as I do so someone brushes past me, shoving me hard in the shoulder. I cry out in shock but they continue walking briskly, a hood pulled over their head. It looks like a bloke. I want to shout at his retreating back and call him a wanker, but I feel vulnerable, worried he might turn and attack me. I’m relieved when the bus to Temple Meads station pulls in.
The area might have been quiet, but the bus is heaving with commuters and the great unwashed so I have to stand for most of the journey. Temple Meads is even busier and I run to catch my train, just making it on time. I wander through the carriages until I find a seat next to a man in a smart suit with a laptop. His eyes slide towards me and I can almost see him wrinkle his nose when he takes in my hair and clothes. I might look a bit eccentric, I want to tell him, but I don’t smell.
It’s dark by the time we pull into the station at Weston-super-Mare. Even so I decide to walk the ten minutes to my brother’s flat. Now I’m no longer in Bristol, the fear of being followed dissipates and I breathe in the fresh sea air, the backpack heavy on my shoulders.
The streets are still busy and the sun is setting in the distance, streaking the sky dusky pink and ochre. I can see why Arlo ended up here. It has a certain charm. Not unlike where we grew up, I suppose. Since Mum died two years ago we’ve both been in limbo, unsure of what to do with our lives. Not that we could ever accuse Mum of being a helicopter parent. Her philosophy was to make us as autonomous as possible and to do what made us happy. The problem is, Arlo and I are still figuring that out.
Arlo lives in a top-floor flat in a row of equally dingy buildings that have been battered by winds. Unfortunately there are no sea views from his street, just grey rooftops and overfed gulls that wake you up with their squawking too early in the morning. It’s the antithesis of where Elspeth lives. There are no lights on in the window of Arlo’s flat, which isn’t unusual. He often sits in the dark. Sometimes he meditates with just a flickering candle and a spliff in his hand. Although this is usually after a hangover. He could be out with his weird hippie friends – after all, it is a Friday night.
I let myself in with the spare key. The one I took before I left for Bristol. He doesn’t know I have it. I found it in the kitchen drawer among the elastic bands and rolled-up balls of string and pocketed it, just in case the job didn’t work out. It was an unusually savvy move on my part because here I am, barely a month later.
The flat is pretty much as I left it. It’s even smaller than Courtney’s: one bedroom, a small living room, with a futon, and a tiny kitchenette overlooking the street. There are posters of Bob Marley tacked to the walls and a lingering smell of weed. I suddenly feel a stab of something akin to homesickness for the elegant townhouse in Clifton that always smelt of Jo Malone diffusers and beeswax. I swanned – there really is no other word for it – around that house like I was in a Jane Austen film, and I can’t deny that I devoured every minute of living there despite its lack of homeliness. Yes, the job was dull, but the house and location more than made up for it. I doubt I’ll ever get to live anywhere so glamorous again.