Nell: A Guide with Missing Pages

I had considered making Kit a list of reasons not to forget me.

Even before I wrote it down, I could hear how terrible that sounded. It was not a gift. It was a hostage note with better stationery.

So I made something else.

The notebook was small enough to fit in a coat pocket, with plain pages and a cover I could draw on. I wrote THE VERY UNOFFICIAL GUIDE TO US across the front, then sat looking at the title for a long time.

The dangerous part was obvious. I could fill it with a beautifully organised account of our relationship and hand Kit a version of us she hadn't helped write. I had recent evidence that this was not my best idea.

I left most of it blank.

On the first page, I wrote our names, alphabetically. On the second, I wrote a short account of the picnic, including the fourth fork and Ollie's inability to operate a front door. On the third, I left a space labelled Kit's corrections, additions, objections and superior memory.

Then I wrote a note at the back.

This isn't a plan for what you have to do. I wanted somewhere we could put the things we choose to keep. You don't have to write in it. You are allowed to tell me the title is too much.

I read the note to Taz over the phone.

“The title is too much,” she said.

“I knew you'd be supportive.”

“It's also exactly you. Both things can happen.”

She was away for the company's residential week. I could hear people laughing in the corridor behind her and someone asking who had taken a prop suitcase. She sounded happy and tired and busy in a way that made me miss her before she'd even finished speaking.

“How is it?” I asked.

“Hard. Brilliant. I've learned that I can forget a line while looking directly at the page.”

“Advanced skill.”

“I'm broadening my range.”

We talked for twenty minutes. I promised to come to the performance when the dates were confirmed and put a reminder to ask about it in my calendar, because affection did not make me reliable by itself.

Kit met me at the harbour the evening before she left. We took the lower route, not because either of us needed to prove anything about the steps but because we wanted a longer walk. The air smelled of seaweed and chips. A boat engine turned over beyond the wall, then settled into a steady rumble.

I gave her the notebook without a speech.

She read the cover. Her mouth moved into a smile and then something softer.

“Is it finished?”

“No.”

“Good.”

She sat on the bench and opened it. I watched the water because watching her read felt too much like standing beside a teacher marking an essay.

At the picnic page, she laughed.

“You forgot the olive.”

“Add it.”

She took a pen from her bag and did.

Then she turned to a blank page and drew the rain chain. Just a few lines, the wall behind it, the little cups hanging down. Underneath she wrote: Sometimes it doesn't make any sound. Still worth going.

I sat beside her.

“I expected you to improve the title first.”

“The title's all right.”

“High praise.”

She closed the notebook and held it between both hands.

“I love you,” she said.

The words arrived without warning and made every joke in my head go quiet.

I had thought about saying them. I had also worried about using them to make leaving more difficult, as though an admission could be tied round somebody's ankle. Hearing Kit say them here, calmly, with tomorrow still happening, felt different.

“I love you too,” I said.

She looked relieved enough that I realised she had been frightened as well.

I kissed her. The harbour wall was cold against my hand. Her hair moved in the wind. For once I did not try to memorise everything because I was afraid there would never be another version. I let the kiss be the kiss we were having.

Afterwards, we sat close and talked about stupid things. The museum's sailor mannequin. The giant crab. Whether the title of our imaginary bus film needed a sequel. We talked about departure time and the bag that wouldn't zip and what she would eat on the journey.

Ordinary conversation kept making the next day real.

When we reached my house, the porch light was on. I didn't ask her to come inside and stay until leaving became physically impossible. We stood at the gate, holding hands.

“I'll see you in the morning,” I said.

“Yes.”

“You don't have to be cheerful for me.”

“Neither do you.”

I nodded. She kissed my forehead, then my mouth, and went home with the notebook in her pocket.

Inside, Dad was watching a programme about restoring old furniture. He looked at my face and lifted the edge of the blanket beside him without saying anything.

I sat down.

On screen, a man discovered that a table leg was not original. He seemed much more upset about it than the table did.

I leaned against Dad and cried for a little while. He kept the programme on. It helped that something in the room could remain ordinary while I wasn't.