January 12th
One month.
I sit up in bed and stare at moonlight on snow. I tell myself I am watching for Sal, but really, I am frozen. Anxiety is all through me, eroding me. If I erase you from my life, what’s left inside? What parts of me remain that are mine alone?
January 13th
The work emails and chat boxes are about the winter sun in Ibiza, or the recent case of food poisoning in a resort in Tenerife. It’s all pretty standard, until this one:
Hi Kate,
I hope you can help.
I’ve recently had some bad medical news, and I’m thinking about going on a special trip before my treatment starts properly. Could you talk me through some ideas? I see you’re listed as an online Travel Adviser for Australasia. I’ve always wanted to go down under. I want to see something beautiful—something to reset me. I would value personal recommendations. I love wilderness, tranquillity and travelling solo.
What would you advise?
Rose
My fingers hover. I could forward this enquiry to Charli or another of my colleagues, but already I’m starting to imagine Rose: my age, actually maybe a little older, never married, but never had any real life of her own either, and now with a surprise cancer verdict, or something else horrible. She’d have a red headscarf on, a cup of coffee in her hand. She’d have cats, I think, two; she’d like a dog, but they’re not allowed in her tiny London apartment.
I often imagine lives for the people I sell holidays to, whole complicated backstories and family sagas, and today it’s easy to let my mind run away. I conjure up the parents who gave Rose such a lovely name and imagine how gently and thoughtfully they brought her up; all organic food and regular trips to the woods to play. I think I would’ve preferred a name like Rose. Something gorgeous that grows. Something thorny. I go back to the email. If I was really sick and could visit only one final place, I know where it’d be.
Maybe I don’t need you to take me there.