‘Eloise! Come on. We need to go!’ calls Cassie.
She swings open my bedroom door to find me on the floor, kneeling amid three plastic crates and surrounded by mementos from the past thirty-two years: photos, cards, school reports, merit awards, and every sketchbook from childhood through to my teenage years. I even found the one my parents got me for my sixth birthday, which I filled with triangle-shaped dresses of various lengths and ‘fabric’ designs, using all 120 Crayola crayons, including the flesh tones.
Cass blinks at me in confusion.
‘Hi. Sorry, I know we’re supposed to have left by now.’
I scan the detritus of my fruitless search. Where the hell is it?
‘What are you doing? You’re not even dressed.’
I sit back on my heels. ‘I know, but I’m invested now and I just want to find it.’
‘Find what?’
‘A list.’
‘You’re making us late so you can find a list?’
‘Well, it’s not just “a list”.’ She hovers in the doorway emanating impatience, so I get to the point. ‘The first week at uni, one of our lecturers had us write down our career goals – as in pie-in-the-sky, dream big, pinnacle-of-our-career type goals.’
‘And you wrote “Show at Paris Fashion Week”?’ she asks, clearly wanting to hurry me up.
‘Well, yes, and Milan and London and New York, obvs—’
‘Obvs. Elle, we really need to go. The staff meeting starts in twenty minutes.’
‘We can be a little late,’ I say, resuming the search. I pop open the lid on the final crate. ‘We didn’t get home till after midnight.’
‘Yes, but it’s not a good look if the rest of the team arrives before we do. We’re the last to leave and the first to arrive. That’s the way we’ve al—’
‘Can’t you just text Zara and ask her to open up? I want to find the list so I can show the team,’ I say, rifling through the final crate. ‘For motivation,’ I add for good measure.
Cass sighs, then leans against the doorframe and takes out her phone.
‘Why now?’ she asks. ‘You’ve never mentioned it before.’
‘I dreamt about it last night. I was accepting an award and I talked about it in my speech.’
‘Which award?’
‘A completely made-up, I-was-dreaming award.’
I close my eyes, trying to picture myself writing the list. A memory comes to me and I start searching again, this time with something specific in mind.
‘Yes!’
At the bottom of the third crate, I find four study planners – one from each year of uni. I take out the planner from first year and start thumbing through the pages. Cassie leaves her post in the doorway and stands behind me, looking over my shoulder.
‘Is it in there?’ she asks.
‘I think so. I have a vague recollection of— Oh my god, look!’ There on the page for September 25th is my list.
‘You wanted to design a range for Topshop? That was your pie-in-the-sky goal?’
‘Hey! At eighteen, Topshop was aspirational – don’t be so snobby. Primark, remember!’
‘Again, that was for charity,’ she retorts.
I ignore her and read through the list.
Branded range for Topshop
Special collection in collaboration with a shoe designer/accessories designer
Own fragrance
Red carpet look for Taylor Swift
Show at Paris/New York/London/Milan Fashion Week
Cover of Nouveau
‘Taylor Swift?’ Cassie teases. ‘And what’s with this?’ she asks, pointing to number five. ‘Too lazy to write out your biggest dreams as separate items?’
I snap the planner shut and stand – or I try to, as I now have pins and needles in both feet. I hobble to the bed and sit on the edge. ‘Ow, ow, ow.’ I wince as I stretch my feet against the rug.
‘I hate that,’ says Cass, commiserating.
‘Yeah, worth it though. I found it,’ I say, both grimacing and smiling as I hold up the planner.
‘It’s a good list, Elle. And in a fortnight, you’ll be able to tick off number five – well, part of it.’
‘I might swap out Topshop for Harvey Nicks, though,’ I say, wiggling my toes as the last of the numbness finally recedes.
‘And Taylor Swift?’
‘Tay Tay stays.’
‘Could you at least add Florence Pugh or Elle Fanning?’
‘Fine. Now, I just need five minutes to shower and get dressed.’ When I look up, she’s smirking. ‘Fifteen minutes then.’
‘I’ll make you some Marmite toast for the walk.’
I stand and smack a kiss on her cheek. ‘You’re the best.’
‘And brush your teeth. Your breath stinks.’
Ahh, the joys of living with your sister.
‘You should frame that,’ says Prue.
‘Definitely,’ Zara agrees.
‘Really?’ I ask. The five of us are crowded around one of the cutting tables, all eyes trained on my first-year study planner. ‘I’m not sure I want to tear out the page.’
‘Could just scan it,’ says Gaz, our pattern designer and resident techy. They reach past me and pick up the planner to examine it more closely. ‘Yeah, I reckon scan it, print it… Easy peasy.’
Just then, a Polaroid falls out of the planner and flutters to the ground. My stomach plummets as Gaz picks it up. I know exactly what that is, even though I’d forgotten it was there.
‘Ooh, who’s the cutie then?’ They hand the photo around to the rest of the team, eliciting a collective ‘aww’.
‘Elle, you’re just a baby!’ exclaims Prue. ‘How old are you? Sixteen?’
‘And who’s the bloke?’ asks Zara. ‘He’s proper fit, he is.’
I signal for Gaz to give me the photo, even though there’s no way I’m going to look at it.
‘All right, everyone,’ says Cass with a series of quick claps, ‘let’s get to work, shall we?’
I know she’s just protecting me, doing her best to diminish the blow, but there’s not enough cotton wool in the world to make this discovery any less painful.
The team dissembles and I palm the Polaroid, heading straight to our office where I collapse into one of the chairs. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, willing the tears to hold off.
‘Hey, are you all right?’ Cass asks, closing the door behind her. I feel her presence beside me and open my eyes. She’s holding my planner to her chest. In the rush to escape, I’d forgotten about it. ‘The one that got away, huh?’
‘What?! How can you be so flippant?’
‘No! Sorry. Not him. I meant the photo. Sorry, Elle.’
‘Oh, in that case, yes: the one that got away.’ She pats my shoulder soothingly.
Several years ago, right after my last serious attempt to find him, I did a massive purge of all things Leo. I gathered every ticket stub and pub coaster, every gift he ever gave me, including the charm bracelet for my twenty-first, the sketches we drew together, one of his T-shirts that I slept in for months after he left, and all the photos I’d (stupidly) printed that once adorned my fridge – everything that could possibly remind me of him. Or so I thought.
Cass talked me out of burning the lot, even though Bonfire Night was just around the corner, which would have made ‘the purge’ even more of an occasion. Instead, I packed everything into a cardboard box, taped it shut with half a roll of packing tape, and couriered it to Mum and Dad’s, not trusting myself to take it over the following weekend when we were due for our every-other-Sunday family lunch. Apparently, Dad moaned about not having anywhere to store it, but Mum told him to shush and put it up in the loft. It’s been there gathering dust ever since.
There have been times over the past few years when I’ve been tempted to catch the train to Mum and Dad’s, climb up to the loft, and poke around inside that box – much like tonguing a mouth ulcer, I suppose. Fortunately, Cass has talked me out of it every time. And when we are at Mum and Dad’s, she keeps a sharp eye on me. One time, she walked in on me sitting on the toilet, just to make sure I hadn’t been lying about needing a wee.
Back in the present, the crisp edges of the Polaroid feel sharp against my palm. I could close my fist and crumple it, then toss it in the bin, but I can’t bring myself to do that.
I shove it at Cass. ‘Can you just…?’
‘Sure.’ She takes it from me and crosses to her desk, where she puts the photo and the planner in the top drawer. ‘Want me to lock it?’ she asks, knowing me as well as – if not better than – I know myself. I manage a nod and only when I hear the key in the lock do I fully exhale.
She comes back and bobs down in front of me. ‘All right?’
‘How can something from over a decade ago have so much power over me? I mean, look at me!’ I flap my arms about. ‘Behold this pitiful specimen.’
‘You’re not pitiful. Besides, it’s not just some thing. It’s a symbol of what you’ve lost. It’s perfectly normal for you to feel the way you do,’ she says unconvincingly.
‘You wouldn’t let yourself wallow like this.’
‘You’re not wallowing, Elle.’
I catch her sympathetic look and it’s nearly enough to send me over the edge. But I don’t let it, instead steadying my breath to compose myself. Cassie’s phone starts to ring but she stays put, watching me, which is even more disconcerting.
‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ I ask.
‘You sure you’re all right?’
‘Just answer it.’
Reluctantly, she leaves my side, answering in that ultra-professional way she has. ‘Cassie Bliss, Bliss Designs.’ I’m about to leave and get back to work when she says, ‘Wowser, already?’ followed by, ‘That’s brilliant. I’ll be right there.’
She hangs up, beaming. ‘What’s all that then?’ I ask, my woes instantly forgotten.
‘Er, just that side—’
‘Side project. Right. Are you ever going to tell me what it is?’
‘We’ll see.’ She slips her phone into her handbag and slings it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in time for the meeting with the show coordinator to finalise the music and lighting.’
She sends a kiss through the air and departs before I can quiz her further. This bloody side project! I’ll get it out of her eventually.
