The Book of Us Read online

  The Book of Us

  ANDREA MICHAEL

  One More Chapter

  a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

  Copyright © Andrea Michael 2020

  Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Andrea Michael asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008370213

  Ebook Edition © March 2020 ISBN: 9780008370206

  Version: 2019-11-05

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About This Book

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two: Finland

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three: Spain

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Four: Australia

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24: A Few Months Later

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  About This Book

  This ebook meets all accessibility requirements and standards.

  For little girls with big dreams.

  And for the old friends who keep them alive.

  Some days

  I am more wolf

  than woman

  and I am still learning

  how to stop apologising

  for my wild.

  – ‘Wolf and Woman’, Nikita Gill

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  Sorry to do this, Loll,

  This has to be the three hundred billionth letter I’ve sent you (approximately) but you weren’t answering and I haven’t got time for bullshit anymore. So this is all nicely typed, properly addressed, no trace of my scraggy writing or those hearts over the ‘I’s you used to hate. It’s proper, the way you like.

  It’s funny, I’ve been writing these letters for years, and now I finally have something important to say that isn’t ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Please forgive me’ or any of that other bullshit we know never works. You always said that if people cherished forgiveness, they would care enough not to make mistakes in the first place …

  At this point, Lauren Richards honestly considered ripping up the letter. She’d been tricked into opening it, what with the sad Christmas songs still on the radio, and sitting alone in front of that huge tree with her glass of wine. Well, a few glasses of wine.

  How the hell was she going to get that tree down? Darren always did that part. Suppose she just left it up all year, until it started to rot through the expensive carpet? When people asked, their noses wrinkled in disdain, she could tell them it was Darren’s fault, because he wasn’t there to help. Not that many people visited the house these days anyway.

  She averted her eyes from the beautiful tree, softly twinkling and totally perfect. Too perfect. She tipped the rest of the wine to the back of her throat and swallowed, blinking. Back to the sodding letter then.

  … When we first met, you remember you said I was the best person you knew at living? Just pure chaos and destruction and fun. You loved it then, even when you pretended not to. Your mum thought I was a terrible influence, and your dad thought I was a hussy and you loved me anyway …

  ‘And you proved him bloody right,’ Lauren said to herself. Cass always got away with that, retelling the truth. Her parents loved Cass. They used to ask her to make Lauren over, take her out places, make her more … just more. Cass was fun to be around, and Lauren had liked being near the edge of the spotlight. ‘Why can’t you be more like Cass?’ her mother had sighed more than once, ‘she’s so confident, so vivacious.’

  So I’m pulling out every trick in the book here, babe. I’m gonna need you to remember some time when we were happy. There were enough of them. The camping in the woods, and the puking off the side of the carousel at the fairground? That summer in Ibiza? I know, you’ll be thinking ‘she’s listed vomiting as fun, and I hate camping and that summer in Spain I got burnt to fuck.’

  Lauren almost laughed. Almost. She could hear Cass so clearly it was painful, and she couldn’t stop reading. She could pause long enough to pour another glass of wine and snuggle down on the sofa, but she couldn’t stop. Damn it, if she’d just ignored the letter in the first place she wouldn’t be in this mess, enthralled by Cass all over again.

  So you’re holding on to that happy memory, right? Now I need you to remember the last thing you said to me. Need a little refresher? You told me you wished I was dead. Surprisingly strong words for sweet little Loll. I deserved it, obviously. But seeing as it’s Christmas, I thought I’d get in touch to give you a very special gift – you’ll be getting your wish!

  I wonder how that feels. If you’re at all sad at the idea of me not existing. Most likely, you’re pissed off at me for telling you. But the thing is, babe, we both know that when I kick it, if you didn’t know, you’d be even more pissed at me. So hold on to that, because there’s more.

  I’m thinking about the Big Book, and I’m pretty sure you have it. There’s a chance you could have thrown it away, I guess – I know how stubborn you can be. It’s been six years. But I’m really, really hoping that whatever tiny part of you that loved me, that loved us, kept hold of that book.

  So whatcha say, Loll? Come punish me in person. Address is at the bottom. I won’t say I know you’ll come, because shit like that drives you nuts, and you’ll end up doing the opposite.

  But come, Loll. We’ve got some important things to talk about. It’s time.

  Love

  Cass

  Xxx

  Lauren was trying to decide whether to scream or throw up. And yet, she knew she’d go. She was a pushover, and Cass needed her. She’d be angry as hell, and she’d grumble and cry and punish Cass for making her do it, but she’d go. Besides, it wasn’t like she had anyone else to worry about, or ask permission from. It was just her now.

  Her eyes slid to the address at the bottom – Blackpool! Gaudy illuminations and loud noises and fresh popcorn, a new party every night – she supposed that was a good enough reason for someone like Cassidy Jones.

  When Cass had disappeared all those years ago – ther
e one moment, all tears and destruction, and then suddenly gone – Lauren had been insane with rage. Even thinking about Cass had made her skin itch like she wanted to tear it off. She took a moment to assess if that was still how she felt. Did she still want to throttle her once best friend, want to cry at the very sight of her, or was it now a warm straightjacket cuddle of a grudge, comfortably settled into? She had become accustomed to life without Cass. To monochrome routine and being invisible. People didn’t really bother with you when you were shy – they seemed to think she was stuck-up, or aloof. Cass never had. Cass had understood.

  At least before, she’d had Darren. That was why people got married, wasn’t it? So they wouldn’t be alone, especially at Christmas? Darren hadn’t thought of that when he left her. She was still shaking at the injustice of it – leaving your wife on Christmas Eve. ‘Lonely this Christmas’ indeed.

  She tried to take a breath, pushing away the image of Darren’s shrugs as he explained it wasn’t his fault, ‘You don’t choose who you fall in love with.’ He’d looked so handsome, those painfully sharp cheekbones and his eyes bright against that blue jumper she’d bought him. He was leaving her, he wasn’t sorry. Cupid’s arrow had struck him and it wasn’t down to him. It wasn’t his fault, it was fate.

  Lauren had sat there and looked at him in wonder. It wasn’t his fault, of course, because he was fated to fall in love with a twenty-three-year-old beauty therapist who modelled part-time.

  She’d almost choked on her hot chocolate. God, but he made good hot chocolate. He heated the milk in the pan, melted in marshmallows and added a sneaky shot of Baileys. Just like everything else in Darren’s life, attention to detail mattered – perfection had to be achieved. Lauren wondered if she’d ever eat chocolate again, or if he’d ruined that for her too.

  She’d spent Christmas Day caterwauling drunkenly in front of Casablanca and fallen asleep, waking up to the smell of burnt turkey and smoke billowing from the kitchen.

  Cass would have found the whole thing hilarious. If they’d still been friends, Cass would have come round with Chinese food and too many bottles of wine, and they would have sung at the top of their lungs until the early morning. She would have called Darren every name she could think of, but wouldn’t have said, ‘I told you so.’ Cass would have listed her top thirty favourite things about Lauren, which she did every time Lauren had been disappointed or sad or let down, and she wouldn’t pause once trying to find things to say. She would have held her hand, and stroked Lauren’s hair whilst she cried.

  There was something timely about this, losing Darren then Cass reappearing. Two opposite directions, opposing forces. It had always been like that. She could never have both of them at once.

  Lauren conjured memories of Cass without effort, her blonde hair billowing, laughing over something ridiculous. Dancing at Inferno at those godawful uni nights, where they had downed Jägerbombs until one of them was sick, and then gone back and danced even more. She could see her at that final moment, tears in her eyes, skin patchy and flushed with guilt and anger as she apologised over and over again.

  And then she couldn’t see her at all.

  Lauren tipped the last of the wine bottle into her glass, nodding her head as it emptied. An ending. Could Cass really be dying? She had a flair for the dramatic, just like her mother. Pulling fantastic stories out of an interaction on the bus, or a conversation in the queue for a coffee. Maybe this was one of those. A scheme, a final cry for attention. She wouldn’t even be mad if it was.

  She would go, Cass would say, ‘Haha, tricked you! Knew you’d fall for that!’ and she’d threaten to storm off. They’d fight and then everything would be fine. That would be it. It had to be.

  She had lived the last six years of her life without Cassidy Jones, and they had not been okay at all. They had been greyscale, and quiet. But what if there weren’t any more years left?

  Lauren tottered upstairs, wine glass still in hand, trying to ignore the photographs on the wall, those smiling faces of two people who were always just making do. Doing what people did. Her fingertips traced the space on the wall that she had left bare, ready for softly-lit photographs of cherubim smiles and tiny handprints in ceramic. She missed those once future babies more than she missed her husband.

  Darren had very carefully not said that Lauren’s desire for a baby was obsessive. Crying every time she got her period was absolutely not irritating him. He’d just shrug and say it would happen when it happened, not to worry. ‘We’re still young, Loll, what’s the rush? Let’s live our lives!’

  She supposed boredom was a bad reason to have a child. ‘Living their lives’ seemed to mean the same takeout from the same restaurant every Thursday, going to the cinema at the end of the month, a visit to the same hotel for their anniversary every year and an expensive holiday to somewhere warm that they would spend the next few months paying off. It meant having the same conversations about how Darren was overlooked for promotions when he was the best, how he deserved more money, how their friends had second homes abroad and he was embarrassed that they didn’t. The future always carried the promise of reward. The present was something to be endured.

  Lauren clung to the doorframe, surveying her room.

  The bed was unmade. There had been no point – she only tossed and turned, scavenging for booze and biscuits before retreating back to it, burying her face in the covers and crying until she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t necessarily that she missed Darren. It was the unfairness of it all that got to her.

  She had to go back to work soon though. She had to get the grief and anger out now, before she messed up someone’s paperwork and they lost their dream home. She placed the wine glass carefully on the side table and lay down across the bed on her stomach, reaching for the box underneath.

  The box was slightly fluffy at the corners, beige cardboard showing beneath the purple. Dragging it out she snorted at the thick dust, pausing to run a finger through it. A relic of a different time.

  She took a deep breath and threw the lid off, wondering if she’d feel different. Inside was an array of photographs, notebooks, odds and ends. A worn-bare keyring from when they’d gone to Disneyland. Those youthful photos, their cheeks pressed close as they pouted at the camera, their bright eyeshadow clashing with their lipstick. They were garish and loud and weirdly beautiful.

  Lauren looked at herself, traced the cheekbones and the huge hair that Cass had teased out from curls into static. She always looked nervous in photos, but she didn’t in this one. Her dark eyes were haughty, daring you to challenge her. Cass had that waifish look girls have when they know their own power – she was thin and coltish without being skinny, all odd sharp angles and huge blue eyes. She pulled you in. You only had to look at that picture to tell the girl was trouble.

  And beneath it all, in the bottom of the box, was the Big Book. A chunky black Moleskin notebook that Cass had bought. It was a graduation gift for Lauren, a promise of their future adventures together. Lauren’s clear black capitals had written, Eat proper pizza in Italy, followed by Cass’s swirly scribble: Try ayahuasca in South America. After it, in her hand again, was (If we feel safe).

  Later, the pages were organised by country, then again by theme. They wanted to try wall climbing, canoeing, eat paella, drink absinthe. Cass wanted to find out which country’s men were the best lovers, but Lauren was content to Dance with a stranger.

  Even the warmth of the book in her hand tugged at her chest, this strange clawing ache that made her grit her teeth. It was different to Darren. Darren’s leaving she had felt in the pit of her stomach, all rage and injustice and the sheer cheek of it.

  The least he could have done was given her a fucking child. That was the first thing she’d thought when he said he was leaving – which wasn’t a good sign, she supposed. But he was leaving her all alone. He would keep the friends that were always his, the family that adored him. If only she’d had someone to pour her love into, to survive for, she could h
ave forgiven him.

  Of course, she’d said nothing. He’d patted her on the shoulder before he left, commending her for being so understanding. She was always so good, so kind, so generous. Lauren had pressed her nails into her palms until she’d drawn blood. Her silence raged.

  Lauren picked up that photograph again – that Cass was the one she’d met in the toilet stalls of the university bar. The one who was wild and fun and always up for adventure. The one who dragged her along because she needed to be forced to have fun. The one who listened when she finally did speak, however quiet she was. She had missed that girl. The Cass who came later – more mess and drama and betrayal – it was her Lauren was angry with. This Cass was perfect.

  There was an entire folder in her phone full of text messages she had written, then saved, because she had no one to send them to. There was grief in that loss. A little shame, too.

  Lauren used to talk to Cass in her head, back when her voice still represented comfort and stillness. In the midst of panic she could still imagine Cass talking slowly and gently, keeping her calm. At university, when her panic attacks had reached their peak, Cass would grasp her palm, pressing her thumb into the centre to distract her. She’d reminded her to breathe, talked her down until the waves crashed around them both and fizzled away. Then, she would always produce a chocolate bar from her bag and tell Lauren that everything was fine, that chocolate solved everything.

  She hadn’t conjured that voice for years – it just wasn’t the same anymore.

  But Cass not existing at all? No blonde-haired wild girl wreaking havoc somewhere in the world – it just didn’t seem right.

  Lauren sipped on the last of her wine, snuggling down against her wrinkled pillows, frowning at that photograph. Her belly burned with a prickle of curiosity. The memory of slender fingers tapping her on the shoulder and warning her not to be stubborn. Telling her to take a risk.

  Tomorrow was New Year’s Eve. And Lauren would be driving to Blackpool. They had both known she could never say no to Cassidy Jones.