Twice a week he slept at our house, and once a week when Selena babysat, I’d stay at his. Most evenings he joined us for dinner and would end his day being pulled in three different directions by six hands for bedtime stories and baths.
Tom had been in a rock group during his university days but his attempts to seduce me away from my George Michael and Phil Collins CDs and towards his Led Zeppelin collection were wasted. But James was more than willing to soak up different sounds, so Tom took him to see bands I’d never heard of at music arenas in Birmingham and London, and they’d arrive home singing at the top of their voices and holding armfuls of tour merchandise.
I let him move his tools and wood into Simon’s garage-workspace, and soon the smell of fresh sawdust wafted regularly around the garden.
Tom was aware Simon was a presence that would remain in the cottage for as long as his family did. But if it bothered him, he never showed it. I grew used to having a man around the house, and he reminded me of how much I’d enjoyed it with my husband.
And then, from beyond the grave, Simon destroyed it all.
SIMON
San Francisco, USA, twenty-two years earlier
7 January
With Betty transmuted to a smelted shell wedged into the desert floor, I had been relying on railways and Greyhound coaches to ferry me around.
They carried me up to Canada, then back down into America and towards middle states like Colorado and Nevada. My surroundings were unimportant, as long as I kept active. Solitude posed the greatest threat to my state of mind because it allowed me time to think.
On my arrival in France, I’d had a firm understanding of how my thought process operated and I’d manipulated it accordingly. If I didn’t want to think about something, it was consigned to a box and then closed tight. But I couldn’t shut Paula away with such ease. And her death began to eat at me like a slowly growing cancer. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make the lid fit. Flashbacks of her last, fateful moments haunted me so often that I began to question whether I’d dealt with our confrontation correctly. Because if I had, then why was she playing so heavy on my mind? Why could I not stop hearing her voice as it screamed my name? Why did my cheek still sting from her slaps? Why couldn’t I blank out the confusion in her eyes when I’d pushed her?
I reminded myself countless times it was Paula who’d forced my hand, and not the other way round. But it wasn’t enough.
Every town and city housed an area of dodgy repute, making narcotics easy to source once you spotted the familiar signs of decay in its residents. Cocaine became the only thing that kept my thoughts of Paula sedated.
I still enjoyed cannabis, but only as my night-time buttress. I’d smoke a few joints and delay retiring to bed for as long as possible, so the moment I slipped into my sleeping bag I was too exhausted and relaxed to analyse anything.
I constantly kept moving, and crammed as many activities as I could into my weeks. I’d visit notable landmarks, seek adrenaline thrills like white-water rafting and rock climbing, or spend time with other travellers discussing the next place to visit. The more unmarked paths I explored, the less opportunity there was to revisit those I knew too well.
The prospect of being more than a few days in one location and risking further muddling scared me. But I couldn’t spend the rest of my life running. Eventually, something had to give.
Two years in perpetual motion had left my bones begging for rest and my mind longing for unclouded breathing space. And so, on the recommendation of others, I settled on San Francisco as a bolthole.
I stood at the summit of one of the city’s twin peaks on my arrival, and understood why so many out-of-towners had left their hearts there. Its magnificent panoramic views, adorable Victorian-style houses and misty skies were as beguiling as they were calming.
I stayed at the Haight-Ashbury Hostel, which nestled quietly in the centre of what, twenty-five years earlier, had been the heart of the hippy insurgence. Many of the peace-and-love generation had remained, and weren’t hard to spot by clothing alone.
San Francisco’s compact nature enabled me to work my way around it by foot and cable car. It was a world away from the sprawling landscapes I’d scoped from train and bus windows. And as my body slowed down, gradually my brain followed suit.
There were plenty of parks, museums, galleries and coffee houses for me to relax in and gawk at the absurd walking shoulder to shoulder with the elegant. I was at home in a city of misfits.
The hostel’s vibe reflected its surroundings, reminding me of the temporary safety I’d found at the Routard International. Like its predecessor, it too was a former hotel that had seen better days.
However, the only restoration project I had a vested interest in was me. Until someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
20 April
My exposure to dozens of hostels of varying standards qualified me to advise Mike, the relatively inexperienced proprietor of the Haight-Ashbury Hostel. I’d become an expert in the minimal requirements a budget traveller expected, and he lent a willing ear to my suggestions. What began as a casual proffering of opinions over a pitcher of Budweiser escalated to an offer of employment as manager.
I had drifted towards the city to gather myself, and three and a half months of self-medication in a fresh environment brought me closer to who I’d been when I first embarked on my adventure.
And my old self appreciated a challenge. So a free rein to build a business from scraps was too interesting an opportunity to reject. It would also help my ever-active mind to remain focused with constructive ideas. I hadn’t felt such purpose since I’d walked along Rue du Jean as flames from a burning hotel nipped at my heels.
I held court at twice-weekly travel workshops in which I’d advise guests of off-the-beaten-track destinations, where to find work without a green card and how to stretch their dollars. I liaised with hostels cross-country to set up discounts for mutual recommendations. And having briefly once been the guest of a homeless shelter myself in London, I encouraged our patrons to spare a few hours to serve lunches in a downtown soup kitchen.
But away from my distractions, sleep still proved elusive. So when I wasn’t inducing a nocturnal cannabis coma, I was leading guests out on bar and club crawls around the Mission District. Darren Glasper was a decade my junior, and I found it physically challenging to keep up with the partying of those even younger than him. The only way to gain stamina for those interminably energetic nights was to up my cocaine intake. And when crippling hangovers ate too far into the following morning or my nostrils felt too numb to snort any more, I introduced powdered amphetamines into my daily routine via my gums, to remain conscious and functioning. It seemed a sensible solution to the internal chaos of burning my candle at both ends.
It was much more rewarding to be Darren’s caricature than it was to be Simon Nicholson. I threw myself into the role with such gusto that I often struggled to distinguish where he ended and I began.