Page 5 of The Promise of Tomorrow
‘You think I’m hiding three thousand stories?’
He stared at her for a few seconds. ‘No. Just one.’
Her cheeks flushed. What did he mean?
Elena lived for stories. Books likeThe Butterfly Lionby Michael Morpurgo had kept her company when little, on the rare occasion she’d longed for the company of another child, a sister or brother who didn’t exist in real life. And she loved tales about animals. Jane Austen fulfilled her romantic longings as a teen and in her twenties her mum’s Jackie Collins ball-busting stories made her feel anything in business was possible. She dived into romances and thrillers, after challenging days at the office – happy ever afters and the punishment of criminals gave her faith that, perhaps, everything in her own life would come good. Her one big sadness was that Mum had sorted through her ever-increasing collection of books when she was twelve, as a surprise to create more shelf space. She’d thrown away many that were too tatty to go to a charity shop, not thinking that they’d been favourites. Mum had been mortified by her mistake. Apart from the more well-known stories, Elena couldn’t remember all the more obscure ones that had been so important during challenging times – like those from 2004.
The worst year of her life.
Yet the best.
3
RORY
Rory drew the curtains closed. Whatever the time of year, he liked to sleep with the window open, but the ones in Elena’s spare room were firmly locked. The rug was stuck down with gripper tape and none of the furniture had sharp edges. The en-suite bathroom had a lock on the cabinet even though Elena had no children, as if she were worried ghosts might break in and accidentally swallow tablets that would make them real. There was an anti-slip mat in the shower, bright lighting and a grab rail by the bath. These precautions likened to a dialled-up version of the uptight measures taken by the Elena he’d got to know at work this last year. She always closed the filing cabinet drawers that colleagues left open, like a messy teen’s over-pedantic mother, and made sure the staff’s mugs were washed up, even though evening cleaners came in to tidy up. He must have lost his mind when he’d agreed to take Elena up on the offer of her spare room. This was a posh area. Perhaps all the residents were equally hyper-vigilant when it came to doors and windows. But as for everything else… However, her fun side shouted from the walls, too, hinting at the Elena who was more chilled on a staff night out, like the abstract framed print ofThe Screamwith a ginger cat, instead of a man, standing with its mouth open. Also, a human portrait with the face made up of vegetables, with pea pods for eyebrows. The bedside lamp was made from an old-style rotary phone, the handset elevated in the air and projecting the light.
Rory collapsed onto the bed. His shoulders sank. No one was watching. He could let it all out and exhale noisily; let out the fear that had ripped through his body, at the prospect of his colleague suffering a violent death. He dropped his head into his hands, palms pressed into his eyes, still seeing her terrified face in the darkness. What if he hadn’t dislodged the firework in time? During those crucial seconds, in that field, whilst he’d resolved how to save Elena, random thoughts had muddied the process, random small things. Like how she bit her lip when he made her laugh, but she didn’t want to let on; how she doodled whilst on a phone call at work, usually ladders or building blocks – signs of ambition, he reckoned and respected.
A notification flicked up on his phone – Izzy, from his group of mountain-biking buddies, had invited him over for a gaming and takeout night this week. Now and again they hooked up. It was a casual relationship that suited them both, when they weren’t dating other people. He reached across to the bedside table, put down his phone and grabbed a pen and the journal he wrote in every night – had done since he was eight years old. The style hadn’t changed. It was calledRory’s Day In Numbersand listed things of note he’d done or seen during the day, in a mathematical way. His dad had encouraged it when his son was little. Being a plumber, he worked with numbers, calculating costs and taking measurements. Rory had always loved maths but struggledwith English and writing. The teacher said journaling might help. Rory’s dad, Mike, had come up with this compromise.
Saturday 9th November
1 hour packing.
50-minute drive to Elena’s.
Whaaat, 2 sentry boxes?
1 burglar alarm, 1 CCTV camera.
0 seconds before I wondered if moving in with Elena was a mistake, despite my renovations hell. She and I are as different as paint and paint remover. 5 seconds after these thoughts before feeling ungrateful. However irritating Elena was, her spare room was far less dusty and noisy than my canal-front apartment.
15-minute walk through Cariswell village centre, 2 Jaguars, 1 Lotus, 3 Porsches parked up.
2 degrees centigrade.
3 noisy rockets, 2 peonies, 1 chrysanthemum, 4 comets, 1 horsetail – multi-coloured light travelling at 186,000 miles per second, noise at 767 miles per hour.
5 reckless teenagers.
THE LONGEST FEW SECONDS OF MY LIFE.
£6.50 taxi fare.
4 gins.
1 large pizza, 14 pineapple chunks on top (yes, I gave in), 1 garlic bread, 1 potato wedges, 2 pots of coleslaw, 2 cookie dough desserts. To Elena’s disgust, a large squirt of tartar sauce, one of my favourite side relishes whether I am eating fish or not. She needs to live a little.
1 game of Scrabble, 235 to 224. Elena won, with the word za, a slang term for pizza. Fittingly, my last two letters were fk.
3hrs and 6 minutes of listening to background KILL ME NOW music – or gentle jazz, as Elena prefers to call it.
24:00 bedtime. Elena slid 3 bolts across the front door. 3?
1 minute killing it, singing ‘Ocean Eyes’ by Billie Eilish in front of my bathroom mirror, aided by a toothbrush microphone with 2,500 bristles.
4
