The Turning Point. Freya North
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Jones.’
‘Bank it – before it bounces. And go and drink wine with Ruth. Or join the school mums for a coffee morning.’
‘I don’t have time – I have to write my book.’
Frankie decided she’d try and fool Alice into appearing. She left her pencils and paper all spread out on the kitchen table like a fisherman’s nets but instead, she drove to Wells-next-the-Sea directly from dropping Annabel at school. It was all part of her plan. She went to the bank and was told it would be five working days before Miles’s cheque appeared in her account. She went to the newsagent, bought a plain notepad and a clutch of pencils that she wrapped inside a copy of the Guardian. Then she walked slowly, casually glancing in shop windows as if this was precisely the way she’d planned to spend her morning. She came to two cafés almost next door to each other, but she eschewed the crowded one that indulged mums and toddlers with cappuccinos and crayons for the one that didn’t. She wandered in as if the fancy had only just taken her. It was filled with the creak of pensioners but there was an empty table by the side window towards the back and it was perfect. Dumping all her stuff on the empty chair, she ordered poached eggs on toast – white please – and a pot of tea. And there she sat, watching the microcosm of Wells going about its business, as if the street in this small seaside town typified the world at large. Mothers with strollers, people with dogs, builders taking a break, pensioners taking their time, a couple of kids playing hooky, a traffic warden trying to be inconspicuous, a horse and rider, a lorry headed for the Londis – and just an off-duty author having a fulfilling breakfast of eggs and toast and tea.
Alice?
Alice?
You should see this place – why don’t you come and sit with me awhile?
I don’t like towns, Frankie.
It’s hardly a big town.
I like fields.
But this is fun, it’s different. No one knows you here, Alice. See – a lovely blank piece of paper. Hop onto it – it’s what you know. I’ll look after you.
He won’t come you know – not here. He’s too shy. You know that.
You went trick-or-treating together though? That was in a town – remember?
That was in Cloddington. You created Cloddington for me to live in. This place is not there.
But it’s similar.
It’s completely different Frankie. I don’t want an adventure here. But if you eat your eggs and finish your cuppa, I’ll race you home.
So Frankie ate her eggs and finished her tea and walked briskly to her car and raced Alice home. But Alice won. By the time Frankie made it back to her kitchen table, Alice had found one heck of a hiding place and wasn’t going to give Frankie even the tiniest clue as to where she was.
* * *
‘Frankie Darling.’
The voice of Michael, her editor, came through on the answering machine and Frankie closed the door to the kitchen as if he might spy the pages devoid of any creativity strewn over the kitchen table.
‘My surname’s Shaw,’ Frankie muttered at the answering machine, ‘not Darling.’
Actually, she quite liked the way her publishers always referred to her as Frankie Darling. Her agent simply called her Author. She liked that too.
‘Frankie Darling – it’s time to lure you to London. We want to run through the pre-publication plans. And of course I want to hear all about what Alice is up to. We’ll put you up somewhere gorgeous for a couple of nights. Call me.’
Somewhere gorgeous. They were the very words Frankie had used to justify her relocation to everyone. I’m going to move to somewhere gorgeous. North Norfolk: the dictionary definition of precisely that – and everyone had agreed with her, everyone said they envied her. Soon she was lightly telling everyone it didn’t matter that she couldn’t afford the Burnhams, she’d found instead a detached cottage in gently undulating fields two miles from the sea, decorated inside with soft chalky shades reminiscent of a handful of blanched pebbles scooped from the shore.
She was aware that the interior of the house had seduced her as much as the vast sky and endless quiet lanes. But there was something else: the very concept of being detached: the house, herself, her little family, it brought with it a sense of comfort and freedom, independence and excitement. Solitude would be novel and welcome after years in flats squashed between other flats like the patty in a burger, having to look down on other people’s gardens and listening unintentionally to the thunks and arguments above, below, to either side. So last year Frankie spent all her money and borrowed heavily to purchase the traditional flint-and-brick cottage with a bedroom each for the children, a spare room rather than a sofa bed for guests, an en-suite for herself and a garden that wrapped itself protectively around the house in a fragrant and pastel-coloured embrace.
Frankie looked around her home today, nine months on. Weathering winter, it transpired that the tasteful paint scheme had just whitewashed a multitude of faults and problems. What began as annoying niggles soon became a major headache in the hands of a rogue builder no one thought to warn The New Lot about. And now, in late spring, the windows that leaked could open but not close and a peculiar patch of damp had appeared in the hallway that just didn’t make sense. The plug socket in her bedroom sparked, some of the light switches became too hot and the tap in the kitchen often vomited out the water, soaking everything.
Being detached.
She saw it as a quality though it was often a criticism levelled at her by her mother, her sister. Even Miles. In fact, Peta said she was becoming increasingly introvert, even used the word deluded, but Frankie found it easy to hang up on her. Actually, Frankie found assurance in privacy and a certain relief that she could keep the devils out of the details of her life. For the time being anyway. Because apart from Miles’s cheque, which would be swallowed by the bank in one gulp anyway, there was no more money until the next Alice book was in. Currently, Alice hadn’t found her way to Norfolk and Frankie’s sense of direction had never been her strong point.
Standing at the bottom of the stairs, she caught sight of a lone sock halfway up which she’d nagged Sam about since the weekend. Suddenly it struck her how easily she could spend the day just as she was, feeling in a fug, scuffing her feet in absent-minded arcs over the clay-tiled floor. Easy to let her editor’s call go unanswered, the bills to stay unopened, the pages on which Alice and the Ditch Monster should be adventuring to remain tauntingly blank. She could go to the sea. There was something so energizing and validating about gazing at the constant swell while being buffeted by the wind, tasting the briny air while she said to herself see, this is why I moved here. For the fresh air and the good life; for the peace and quiet of feeling miles away.
Or she could take herself to task and do something about it all. She could pick up Sam’s sock and kick-start her day. She could wash the floor and make the beds, she could phone her editor with her diary to hand. Then she could sit at the kitchen table and attempt to draw Alice back into existence.
With the children bickering over TV channels, moaning at her not pasta again Mum, the concept of a couple of nights in a swish hotel at her publishers’ invitation was just then very attractive even if she’d have to lie about progress on her current book. However, Peta said she wasn’t free to come and housesit because she was hosting her book club.
‘But if you’re organizing it, can’t you rearrange?’
‘Can’t you phone Mum?’
‘Can’t you just change the date? It’s important, it’s my career.’
‘Listen Frankie – I know you think I have all this spare time because I don’t work, but every day I have to ferry my teenage boys in a car which stinks of rugby boots or rattles with cricket bats. My husband is never home before nine and all I ask is that once a month I can get lost in a book with a bunch of people even more frazzled than I. It’s good for