'The funny thing is, I started carrying a big bag because I thought it would make me more organised. If I had space for everything, I reasoned, then I'd always have what I needed. But actually, it's just meant I carry around more things I don't need, and I still never have the thing I actually want when I want it.'
Settling the now repacked bag beside her, Darby pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a random hair tie she’d found in her bag. 'Maybe I need a smaller bag,' she said to the camera, though she could already hear the doubt in her own voice. 'Maybe if I could only carry the essential items.'
But even as she said it, she knew she wouldn't downsize. The bag had become too much a part of her identity, too central to her sense of being prepared for whatever the world might throw at her. It was a security blanket and portable home and archaeological record all rolled into one admittedly cumbersome package.
'Right then,' she said, checking that everything was properly zipped and secured. 'That's what's in my bag, which turns out to be pretty much everything that's in my head as well. A mixture of practical items, optimistic purchases, sentimental objects, and random rubbish that I can't quite bring myself to throw away.'
'If you've made it to the end of this deeply engrossing exploration of my personal belongings, thank you for your patience. And if you're wondering whether your own bagcontains similar evidence of hopes, dreams, and domestic failures, I can pretty much guarantee it does.'
22
Darby was lying on the floor of the room that she called the “study”, but was in actual fact a junk room because, well, it was full of junk and needed a really good declutter. It was one of the rooms she hardly went into because it was surrounded by 80s wallpaper. However, she was attempting to do some kind of stretching to her inner thighs via a yoga mat on the study floor and yoga video on her laptop.
Lying on the floor with the soles of her feet together to try and release what she’d learnt via a pair of YouTube physios from Boston was a tight psoas muscle, she wiggled her hips. She wasn’t sure if she was going to be able to get up again, but it was worth a go. With the latest novel from a supposedly brilliant author in her hands, she tried to read as she waited for the muscle to do its thing.
Very glad that she’d got the book out of the library and not bought it because it was dreadful in every way, she attempted to read it while her inner thighs stretched away from each other. Holding the book in front of her, she turned a couple of pages, read another paragraph, skipped a few more pages and then gave up, let the book drop to her side, and stared up at theceiling. It had to be said that the ceiling was a whole lot more interesting than the book.
Looking at the visible ceiling beams, she wondered what year they were from. A mix of a traditional English beam and the Arts and Crafts era, they were another thing in the house on her list to paint. The bulb from the light was in her eyes as she stared up at the ceiling and her mind wandered. Inevitably, her brain went to Archie.
The more she thought about the dinner date, the more she decided that she was going to cancel. It was just too much bother. Despite telling herself she would not fuss, she’d already fretted over such ridiculous things that it was all too much like hard work. She pondered what she was going to wear, what baggage he came with, why he had asked her to dinner in the first place and everything else in between. With the divine insight of experience, she’d come to the conclusion that it was simply not worth it.
Many other thoughts had gone through her mind as she’d lain awake in the night thinking about it. A lot of them had concerned her previous disastrous relationships and how this one would only head the same way. Meaning that there was little to no point in her going to dinner in the first place. The drinks had been fine and Archie seemed nice enough on the surface, but her track record with men was worse than terrible. She would be better off cutting her losses and getting out while she was still ahead.
Even if the dinner was okay in the long run, it would probably all go wrong anyway, so it wasn’t even worth it. On top of that, she had nothing to wear, her hair really needed some help and she wasn’t currently flush with money. Having mulled it over, she decided that she would definitely send him a text and cancel, making up some excuse about one of her children being ill or something. She'd not run it past Penny or anything. She’djust send him a quick message to cancel, then maybe block his number, and that would be the end of it. Yes, simple as that.
It was a few hours later and Darby’s psoas muscle and her decision about Archie were unchanged. Her location, however, had. She was no longer staring up at a ceiling, but out on a long walk with Lola, enjoying the fresh air. It had been a week of rain in Pretty Beach and now the sky was blue. To her left, the swell and waves were huge beside her, as rolling waves hit the sand and the beach. Visitors who had come for the day or week were standing with flasks, looking out at the sea rolling in and out, over and over again. Taking a massive inhale of the coastal air, Darby watched as a couple of day-trippers, with their trousers rolled up, dodged waves and howled with laughter.
Deciding that the glorious sunshine would be great as a segment in one of her videos, she pulled out her phone and started to narrate the scene. Mildly embarrassed that she was talking to her phone, but really, not caring, she carried on regardless. She was way past caring what people thought about her and wasn’t particularly bothered if anyone saw her rambling away into her phone, anyway. As she’d thought and been told enough times, she had nothing to lose.
As she spoke to her phone screen as if she was addressing an old friend, she then turned the camera around, wondering whether the microphone had picked up her voice with the deafening sound of the waves. Filming for a few minutes, the thoughts about the Archie thing continued. In the end, she’d decided not to do anything rash and sit on it for a day. She owed him nothing, and if she really didn’t want to go, she’d just let him down on the day.
Continuing with the filming, the hem of her coat flicked about in the wind as she made her way up the path by the sea. Pretty Beach was showing off with a beautiful day. A brisk, blue-sky afternoon that made it look like a windswept, blustery,pastel-filled postcard. The sky was a soft, pale blue and the waves enormous. Huge crash-and-thunder, foamy-topped ones that rolled in hard and fast, then frothed up the shoreline. A soaking wet dog skittered past, full of glee, its owner jogging behind with a lead in one hand and a takeaway coffee in the other. Darby smiled to herself and carried on, stepping aside to let a couple of walkers with walking sticks, wax jackets, and bright cheeks pass by. A blast away the cobwebs sort of a day that doubled as video content. A good thing.
As she followed Lola’s lead while she stopped every few minutes to sniff, she pondered all sorts of things as they arrived at the ferry wharf. Leaning over the railing for a bit, she watched one ferry coming in and another chugging out. Looking down into the water, she sighed and spoke to herself. ‘It’s just dinner.’
But it wasn’t just dinner. To Darby, it felt big. For one, Archie was way out of her league; he had his act together, restored beautiful old buildings for a living and quite frankly looked like a god. He was calm and precise and bottom line just seemed capable. She feltfarfrom capable. She hadn't dated in years, she was the owner of a house half stuck in the 80s, she felt as if she was always chasing her tail and truth be told she had lost just about every shred of confidence she’d ever had.
With the sea slapping against old weathered timber below, a fine spray settled on her jacket and she took a deep breath, filled her lungs with the salty air and let the sound of the sea thud through her. She was going to have to cancel. All the dithering and thinking and her lack of confidence told her that. But, on the other hand, if she went, it might be lovely.
The thing was, if she didn't try, she wouldn't know. Her mum had always told her that. Not that her mum had been in her life for a long time. Darby nodded; she’d go for it for no other reason than that sometimes things worked out.
23
Darby had plumped to go on the date. After way too much deliberating, musing and contemplating that had included but was not limited to consulting with both Penny and Instagram, Darby had settled on what to wear on the date. She’d plumped for wide leg jeans with a long-sleeved white shirt, nice hair, good jewellery, underwear that hadn't gone grey. Her stomach was even feeling flat enough for her to tuck the shirt in. That in itself was unheard of and worth celebrating. Said shirt was more of a blouse really and was more suited to a summer evening but she loved it and it made her feel good which was the most important thing when going on your first date in approximately seven and a half years. The blouse had a pointed collar, balloon sleeves and thick, wide cuffs. All the way along the button placket, a narrow strip of thick cotton lace matched the same at the wrists. It was simple, lovely, cut to show off shape rather than add weight to it and Darby had saved up for it after stalking it online for way too long. Flattering, so very much so, and comfy, too.
With the evening ahead of her and, to be frank, all a pickle, she was very pleased she was in possession of the blouse. It had been waiting patiently to take her out for dinner and its momenthad arrived. In her underwear in the utility room off the kitchen with the iron board up, she pressed it to within an inch of its life and popped it on. A few minutes later, she was standing in her bedroom with the shirt tucked into the jeans, wondering whether or not to add a cardigan. Deciding on no, she quickly fluffed an extra dab of blusher onto her face for good measure, spritzed just about every part of her body with perfume and hoped for the best. Telling herself that what she looked like did not matter, she nodded. She would not succumb to the idea that women had to look good to be worthy, but a lot of the time, she felt as if that notion was embedded in the far corners of her mind.
The thing about that notion, feminist or not, was that it was all very well to say it on paper. For sure. It might well be true that her appearance was of no consequence, but unless things changed anytime soon, she was part of it. Willingly or not. Archie had seen her trapped in a fur coat whilst lying on a charity shop floor, so for sure he had some iota of who she was. There was something quite astonishing to be said for that. At least she wouldn’t have to spend the whole night pretending to be something she wasn’t. He’d already seen the real deal or at least some of it. Wincing, she wasn’t sure about whether that was a good thing or not.
Grabbing her bag, not her huge daytime basket, but a smaller cross-body bag with the smaller inner bag from her basket deposited inside it, Darby decided that, quite simply, she would go to the pub and not make a big song and dance about it. She’d have one drink and the Locals Only for dinner and then make her way back. The pub was close enough for her not to have to worry about getting home safely and in one piece, and all she had to do was try and have a nice evening. Yet again, she asked herself what she had to lose.
Not more than ten minutes later, she was pushing her way into the inner door of the pub. Right away, a man, Roy, head of Pretty Beach council, who she knew from dog walking smiled, said hello, and raised his eyebrows. As she made her way in the direction of the bar, another local, Holly, who owned the bakery, also smiled. Holly’s mum, Xian, was sitting with an iPad in a gold case, holding it out in front of her. With headphones on her head and a green jumper, Xian flicked her eyes up in recognition.
Holly beamed. ‘Hello. How are you?’
Darby nodded and smiled. Darby knew Holly from both going into the bakery and work. It was fair to say that Holly liked her sparkly jewellery. She about dripped in it. It was also fair to say that the jewels were not fake. More than once, Darby had calculated that Holly was a walking version of a diamond dealer. ‘I’m good, thanks. You?’
Holly gestured to her mum. ‘Thank you for sorting that stuff out for Mum the other day. I don’t know what happened with all of that.’
