Skylark

a novel

Ruthie Morgan

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

First published in 2014 by Lucky Arbuckle Publishing.

ISBN 978-0-473-28921-8

Cover Illustration by Kate Louise Powell

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

For Richard-

Who always told me to write

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One: Billie

Chapter Two: Billie & Evan

Chapter Three: London

Chapter Four: London

Chapter Five: Paris

Chapter Six: A Wedding

Chapter Seven: A Turning Tide

Chapter Eight: Betrayed

Chapter Nine: Fallout

Chapter Ten: Escape

Chapter Eleven: Revelation

Chapter Twelve: Decisions

Chapter Thirteen: Migration: Arrasaigh to St. Cloud

Chapter Fourteen: The Arrival

Chapter Fifteen: Change

Chapter Sixteen: Flight Paths

Chapter Seventeen: Turbulence

Chapter Eighteen: First Flights and Free Fall

Chapter Nineteen: Chaos & Coffee

Chapter Twenty: Fiesta

Chapter Twenty-One: Silent Regret

Chapter Twenty-Two: Seacrest

Chapter Twenty-Three: Displaced

Chapter Twenty-Four: Past Shadows

Chapter Twenty-Five: A Birthday

Chapter Twenty-Six: Fallen

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Final Flight

Acknowledgments

"The song of the Skylark is fast, variable and sustained, delivered as it hangs suspended from considerable height. At the close of song it soars steeply, head to wind before its dramatic drop earthward."

Falla, Gibson & Turbot: A Field Guide to Birds of NZ & Outlying Islands, 1966

Prologue

The keyboard gleams as she poises herself on the edge of the seat, hands hovering, ready to transcribe the key paragraph she knows must come soon. Sucking in her breath, she leans back on her chair, pressing damp palms against tired eyes. She wills the words to come.

Late summer nights are the hardest to bear with the heat of day settled in the dimly-lit room with its cane sofas, brightly patterned cushions, and the woman in the corner at the desk. Windows and doors are open to the still, heavy night that lies wearily over the hot haze of day. A ceiling fan turns listlessly, cutting the fragrant air heavy with blossoms and earthy dampness, but no breeze comes. The humidity of day seems to rest here in this room; a thick blanket of darkness and insect sounds.

11:59 p.m.: The computer screen's bright glare announces one last precious minute of the day to make a difference, to do one last thing that might somehow make her more. She jerks from her thoughtful repose, fingers on the keyboard in one fluid movement. She taps urgently, as if slowing down may let whatever thought has arrived slip away again. The tap-tap sounds a beat with the chorus of tree frogs and the drone of mosquitoes, and there is life here in the little room in the heat and darkness.

12:12 a.m.: Another noise joins the chorus, jostling for its place in line, but its entry to the symphony signifies an end, and she instinctively jumps in her seat. A wearied look of frustration superseded by concern passes over her face. Removing her glasses, she flicks off the desk light and pads across the bare wooden floor to the urgent cry of a baby awake.

***

Chapter One

Billie

St. Cloud 2006

"My name is Billie May Skylark, and I'd like to send my manuscript in for consideration… it's a fictional work, yes… no, not as yet. Sorry, can you hold for just one second?"

I take a breath and cover the mouthpiece with my hand, turning to one of my eighteen-month-old twins who is attempting to climb inside the dishwasher. "Sunny! Get out of there now, that is not a toy! Mommy is on the telephone."

Grabbing the wriggling terror, I placate him with a cracker as I return to my phone call. "Sorry about that… no, that's correct. I haven't yet published a novel… no, I have had a few poems published, and I currently write a column… oh, ok… no, that's quite alright; I understand. Thanks for your time." I stick my tongue out at the receiver as I place it back into its cradle, wondering how it might be possible for a writer to ever get published when no one will look at your novel unless, duh, you've already published a novel.

"I give up!" I announce to the dishwasher; although I know that, really, I won't.

The truth is that I may never get my book published, but I know, deep down, that even if I remain the frustrated, undiscovered writer forever, the simple act of writing has saved me. Amidst nappies, pureed foods, and tantrums, I manage to hold on to a hidden identity which allows me to believe I'm somehow more than the groundhog day pattern my life since babies has become. I tell myself, sometimes out loud whilst cleaning the highchair, soaking the laundry, or playing peek-a-boo for the zillionth time, I am also a writer, I am also a writer, I am also a writer.

"Sunny, sweetie, where's Evie?" one of the twins is no longer in my peripheral vision, and this is always a bad sign. "Honey, where's Evie?" Sunny gives me his dimply double-toothed smile and waddles away, wearing only a nappy and singlet. "Evie… Evie, where are you?"

As usual, I begin the triage search, starting with the places I know most likely to be the site of some awful accident. I race around the house calling her name, trying not to sound like a frantic freak of a mother. Did I close the door to the laundry? Are the baby gates on? Did I leave the garden gate open? Meanwhile, Sunny toddles around after me, giggling as though we are now in a big game of hide and seek.

Reaching the twins' bedroom, I find the lower drawers of the tallboy open and every item of clothing and bedding on the floor. She's been here, but she's not here now. In the bathroom, rolls of toilet paper are unraveled, covering every surface. No baby, but I'm on the right track. Laundry door definitely closed. I exhale a breath of minor relief. Out into the front garden, still no sign, but the dog food dish has been emptied into the plant pots. Down the side lane to the backyard, I'm calling her name loudly now. "Evie, Evie, where are you?" Long grass itches bare legs as I run through the overgrown yard we never seem to find the time to care for.

Panic takes hold, changing in an instant what was irritation and mild concern to the icy chill of raw fear. If Evie has gotten this far down the yard, then she might reach the dilapidated fence… which leads directly through the bush to the cliff.

The yard is half a kilometer long, most of it thick with overgrown grass, the rest beyond the fence is dense bush. I had never thought it possible that an eighteen-month-old could make it this far down the yard, but kids surprise you every day. Shit, why was the baby gate to the garden unlocked?

This and a zillion other panicked, terror-stricken and self-flagellating thoughts bounce around my head as I tear through the last few meters to the fence. "Evie!" I scream this time, the pitch in my voice stifled by the heavy bush which waits beyond the fence. There is no sign of a baby; no sign at all.

"Billie! Hey Billie, over here." I turn to the sound of the voice my chest heaving, overwhelmed by panic and the sprint through the long grass. Searching for the source, I shield my eyes from the glare of the midday sun.

"Jack, I've lost her, Evie's gone." His silhouette appears at the crest of the hill leading down to the fence, he is carrying something and I sink to my knees in relief.

"Here's Mommy. Now, what do you guys think she's doing down here?" Jack walks calmly toward me, and I open my shaking arms out to the giggling bundle of mischief he brandishes. I hold her wriggly body to mine as tightly as possible, relief sparking tears as I scold her lightly.

"Where have you been monkey? Mommy's been looking everywhere for you." She smiles and puts her thumb in her mouth, nuzzling into my breast as though it should still hold some sustenance. "Thank you Jack; where was she?"

He smiles down at us; Sunny is on his shoulders, tickling his ears. "I think maybe the dogs have burrowed a hole under the fence. She was in my garden pulling up the flowers."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I was on the phone for a few minutes, and then she was gone. I thought for a second…" I stall gesturing toward the fence behind me. "I'm a disaster. Women like me should be given compulsory birth control. I don't know how to do this."

"Yes, you do." He puts a work-scarred hand under my elbow and guides me to my feet, Evie almost asleep in my arms, exhausted from her escapee adventure. "You just need a break."

I take a breath and wipe my damp brow with the back of my hand, hair sticking to my forehead. "Thank you Jack, for everything."

He smiles and we make our way back up through the long grass to my open French doors. All is as it was. I carry Evie to her cot where I pull up the rail, should she wake from slumber and decide on another expedition. Jack takes Sunny and lays his compliant little body down on the adjacent cot. We tiptoe from the room and I flop on to the sofa, wondering when life became so very tiring.

Jack returns with a glass of ice water, places it on the table, and tells me to have a rest. "I can see your halo glowing from here, Mr Kelly" I sigh. "My very own guardian angel right next door."

He smiles, making for the door. "Have a nap; I'll get that hole in the fence sorted this afternoon." He leaves with our dog, Toby, trotting along at his heels, and I watch him go; a strong, solid, reliable frame. He stops, bends down to pat Toby's head, then rubs his belly, turns briefly back toward my house and then is gone.

Jack Kelly is my neighbour here in St. Cloud, the South Pacific Island furthest from just about anything and anyone I have known before, a small dot on the map that is now our home.

To find St. Cloud, you might take a plane to Costa Rica then head south, down just past the equator line. Or you might head to Peru and travel north; St. Cloud lies somewhere in the expanse of blue ocean that lies between. We moved here shortly before the birth of our twins, and without Jack, the change might have been too much for me. Jack is a rock, always around with a calm word and a smile. He's like the pied piper for animals and kids. Wherever he is, there's bound to be a dog or two in tow, and whenever he's here, the twins are laughing. Jack is low on the drama factor, and as I'm married to a guy like Evan, any relationship that doesn't involve drama is welcome.

Being a single male in St. Cloud is a precarious position as there are, it seems, more women than available men. Jack keeps a low profile. He's been burned before. I tell him it's only a matter of time till one of those single ladies on the island manages to reel him in, but he isn't interested. After meeting his ex-wife Claudia, I knew the reason why. I think after a few years with her, any good man would need at least a decade of celibacy. She's a piranha with highlights and long legs, and on the few occasions I've seen her, I surmised that she's the sort of woman who doesn't like women.

They divorced two years ago, although Claudia seems to think it was more like two weeks ago. She tries to keep her talons in Jack's life any way she can. The story goes (and here in St. Cloud, you quickly become privy to most stories) she trapped Jack into marrying her by pretending to be pregnant. Jack's a good guy, old fashioned in a way and would have insisted on doing the right thing. Of course three months after the wedding, he discovered there was no baby but there you go. Jack's a "believe the best in everybody" kind of a guy and made a go of things. They say he wanted a family and she didn't, and well, the rest is history. It was a simple divorce; Jack gave her everything, and she now lives in a beach villa overlooking La Misere, St. Cloud's most beautiful beach.

Jack built a house here on Frontiere Point on the opposite side of the island. His house is next door to us, although I'd say "house" is a stretch of the term. His "break-up build" is more of an open-plan man cave atop a large work shed; basic but functional.

Claudia's penchant for expensive, soft furnishings and designer wallpaper ensured Jack will have a lifelong aversion to anything but the basic comforts. He maintains he doesn't need much, and his studio room above the work shed reflects this housing: only a woodstove, bookshelf, radio, and sofa bed. Jack's passion is boats, and he works day and night drawing, building, and restoring them in his work shed below his man shed, along with his two dogs, Louie and Bets, for company.

***

Closing my eyes, I let the heat sink into my bones. I stop fighting and let it soothe me into the hazy place between wakefulness and slumber. I can hear the sound of the ocean beyond the end of our yard and the constant buzz of insects. St. Cloud is always sleepy in the heat, but an undercurrent of activity thrives below the surface of its overheated community; it is a hive of people and life. A community in a bell jar.

Sleep comes quickly and I am soon lost in a dream. I am making a speech, thanking people, shaking hands and signing books, but it's raining, and I realize someone forgot to put up a canopy. Words on pages run till everything is blank. I look down at myself and my literary demeanor has changed to mother coffee group attire; braless and in sweats with baby vomit down my front. Jack is in the crowd stifling a laugh and Evan stands, arms folded, embarrassed and disappointed.

Evan.

The telephone rings and rings, and the dream dissolves with the downpour. With half of me still at my dream book signing, I scramble for the handset only to hear the sound of two hungry cries from the bedroom. "Hello?" I sound pissed off because of course I am, the phone has pulled me from my so needed nana nap and woken the twins simultaneously. I clear my throat and answer again. "Hello?" More warmth in my tone.

"Hey baby, where were you? I was about to hang up."

"Evan." It's always good to hear his voice. "I fell asleep with the twins, we've had a busy morning. How's work?"

"Oh, you know; it's good, but I'd rather be there sleeping with you."

I hear the smile in his voice and return it with one of my own. Evan was born with the gift of the gab and as he speaks, his soft persuasive tone slowly pulls me from my sleepy funk. Since I have known him, he has always been able to sweet talk anyone, get himself or others out of a fix with words and charm, and somehow always win me over no matter how mad I might be. Evan is Irish with all the accompanying cheeky humor and charm you might expect. He is my weakness; dark haired, green-eyed, tall and lean, he was and is my first love. We are here, with our babies in St. Cloud because of him. I have followed Evan since we met: a journey equally satisfying and terrifying, depending on which day you ask me.

"When are you coming home?" The sound of the twins yelling for me gets louder every second I ignore them.

"I'm not sure sweetheart, I have some plans to finish before I cut out."

I'm used to this. Evan's job in Becketsvale (St. Cloud's only city) means he leaves before the sun rises and generally returns home after the sun sets, usually smelling of a few local after work cocktails. He is happy in this new job, so I don't make a fuss, even though the days are long without him. His happiness feeds mine.

"Do you think Evie can climb out of her cot yet?”

"How would I know?" He sounds vacant. "It wouldn't surprise me."

I hear a thump in the bedroom and a bang at the closed door. "I can't believe it; she's out! I gotta run Evan. Oh, and you have to do something about that old fence at the end of the yard. I thought Evie had gone off the cliff earlier."

"You'll turn yourself grey with all that fretting. It's practically a kilometer's hike. There's no way they could get down there".

"How do you know that? Evie is practically catching buses on her own!"

Evan laughs. "Go have beer baby; the twins are fine. I'll see you later."

I hang up, rolling my eyes. A beer is Evan's answer to everything; a beer, for crying out loud!

I walk toward the source of the commotion and find Evie has climbed up and into Sunny's cot; she has a crayon and is trying to draw on his dimpled cheeks. I shake my head and stifle a laugh. "What am I going to do with you two? You, my girl, are your Daddy's daughter." I lift curly-haired little Evie into the air as she giggles and charms me with her beaming smile. She is light and wiry, where Sunny is dimpled and chubby; he is fair while she is dark, and seeing them together, it is almost impossible to believe they can be related, never mind twins.

Baby gates secure and double-checked, we three head to the living room floor where I lie on my tummy with the twins and their toys, watching them play and intervening when one looks set to clobber the other with a building block. I love this, watching them together and seeing them explore and learn. I love their need for cuddles and reassurance and love that I am the one who can always give them that. I love all of this yet the voice that nags, "It isn't enough" won't leave me alone.

If my physical body were to reflect my lack of balance since the twin's arrival, it would look like this: swollen feet, skinny legs, oversized milky boobs, and a head that is shrunk from lack of stimulation. A brain once of good size and function reduced to the size of a walnut. Maybe I should do a quick mirror check just to be sure this hasn't actually happened yet ; the head shrinking bit that is. The boobs, the feet; that's all a given.

The air has changed, and a rare wave of cool rolls over the heat haze. My skin prickles with the unfamiliar sensation. In no time at all, a thunderclap sounds, and we gather at the windows to watch the show; St. Cloud hosts the most dramatic thunderstorms this time of year. The twins watch in awe as the dark sky is sliced with lightening, and for a split second, their wide eyes are bathed in white light. We count the seconds till the thunder rolls and they squeal in delight, burying their little heads in my lap as the booming noise shakes the sky.

Storms have always smelled like change to me; something coming, a warning to be ready, a signal to assume the position. It was a night not too dissimilar to this when my life course last jumped tracks, but I wasn't ready. If it hadn't been for that storm, I'm not sure how life might have worked out. But the thunder and lightning that night in London, the smell of change, and warning to be ready were for me, I just didn't know it then. At the end of that stormy night was Evan, and I would wait for him in the rain then follow him to shelter.

***

Evan

St. Cloud 2006

He's always liked the rain. It falls heavy in St. Cloud, downpours washing the heat from the day, cleaning and smoothing as they go. The sound overpowers the fusion of music, laugher and talk in the small beach bar, and as the storm heightens, the battering rain on the tin roof becomes deafening; a high-frequency drumbeat that crowds out competing sound until the rain is all there is.

Evan leans back on his chair, one arm lazily slung around the empty seat beside him, the other reaching for the half-empty bottle on the table. There's nothing to be done but wait out the storm, and for now, there's nowhere else he'd rather be. Here, no one needs anything, and he doesn't have to be anyone but the guy who wants to wind down after a long day. It's a guilty pleasure; he should really head home, but for the first time all day, he feels relaxed, the beer working its way through the tension and stress.

Scanning the small bar, he watches the faces; his artist's eye taking in detail carefully, storing away features, expressions, profiles, and angles: the stooped posture of the drunk, the raised face and flushed cheeks of eager new love. Hands gesticulating, fingers pointing, palms raised to the sky in surprise. People all around, yet he's happy to sit alone for now. He'll let the first few drinks work their magic then he might be social.

It should be hard to feel lonely in a place like St. Cloud. Its tight-knit community is a comforting blanket of new best friends and family. But Evan's default position is lonely; it's always been this way. Despite friends and a growing family, there's a space inside him that's always alone. The feeling is almost comfortable; its familiarity welcome in a head whose thoughts and moods swoop and dive like birds riding pockets of thermal air in summer skies.

"You want another beer Evan?" The barman smiles in Evan's direction, gesturing to the now-empty bottle in his hand. "It's a real good St. Cloud storm out there. You'd be wise to hang here till it passes. You don't want to be driving these roads in that." As if on cue, a loud clap of thunder sounds, followed closely by a bright flash of white as lightning splits the charcoal sky. Evan nods in agreement, attention quickly shifting from the familiar faces in the bar to the light show over the ocean. The cold beer arrives, and he traces a finger carefully down the dewy glass before raising the bottle to his lips; eyes still fixed on the drama unfolding in the St. Cloud skies.

This is his sort of weather; big, loud, unafraid and dramatic. Storms here are unrelenting, but short-lived, wild and unrepentant, yet apologetic in departure, a perfect sound bite of nature's great contrasts. The fiery fury is short-lived and the watery sunlight that follows fills the island with a beauty that always feels like the first day of spring.

By nine, he knows he should go home. Billie will be waiting. He drinks the last sip of beer from the bottle then lifts his phone, fingers working quickly on the illuminated screen.

"Hey baby, on my way now. Love you. Ex."

The rain has eased a little; the storm passing, and he knows that if he stays for another, he won't be safe on the road. Heading out of the bar into the moisture-heavy night, he jogs to reach his truck, jacket over his head and keys in hand. The fall of rain is still heavy, although the intensity of before has faded. The red Ford starts first turn. Evan flicks on the lights and reverses carefully from the parking lot before hitting the stereo and turning up the volume.

Falling rain on the roof, the low beat from the speakers and scraping metronome of windscreen wipers form a chaotic symphony in the confines of the truck as it winds its way around the dark roads. Evan drives steadily, carefully, his eyes focused despite the low buzz of beer in his bloodstream. The truck descends down into the darkest part of the road; the base of a gentle dip in the land before the gradual climb skyward. Bright headlight beams carve a narrow path through the darkness, and dense bush rises on either side of hot tarmac. Here the sky is barely visible as overhanging ferns and palms create a dark canopy.

The route turns inland and begins to climb gradually out of the dense valley, winding slowly up around the hairpin bends toward the island's highest point. The truck climbs and slowly gains speed as the road stretches out to traverse the island. Here the rain seems harder, a pocket of the storm lingering, reluctant to leave. Sheets of rain and gusts of warm tropical winds buffet the truck around, and Evan struggles to see the road ahead. There is no other traffic; no other lights to break the darkness.

Taking a hand from the wheel, he distractedly pushes back the damp hair that sticks to his face as rain streams in the half open window; the stormy drive suddenly seems less like a good idea.

He glances down at his cell phone thrown carelessly on the passenger seat. He'd left the bar feeling invincible, and a drive through the storm hadn't seemed like a big deal. The weather is worse than he'd realized and he knows she'll worry. He'd call her to explain, but there's no reception here. He should pull over and wait it out. The truck is buffeted again, and the tires slip and skid on the dark, slick road.

"Fuck." The cuss is barely audible amidst the rain on the roof; he bangs the steering wheel with the heel of his hand and flicks the headlights to bright.

Eyes straining ahead on the dark road for a safe place to stop, he doesn't see it, and blinded by the sudden glare of headlights in the dark, it doesn't see him.

One image flashes bright before impact: a crystal-clear frame of color, mid-flight and a flash of dark eyes in the moment life meets death. Color and feathers clearly defined, wings outspread, the angle of the head and sheen of the beak. A Scarlet Macaw. He knows every bird on the island and even in the moment of frozen panic, he recognizes the form. Evan hits the brakes and the truck screams to a halt, skidding and turning on the slick road.

The sound of breathing is louder than the rain, louder than the screech of tires and louder than the sound of his voice and the words that will come too late. He fumbles with the door, hands shaking uncontrollably and runs through the heavy rain to the spot where the bird lies—a muddied pile of wings and once bright primary colors that seem to leech and dilute on the rain-soaked road.

"Oh Jesus, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The words drip and pool on the tarmac. He knows it's too late; the damage done. The bird lies awkwardly, crushed and broken, and Evan sinks to his knees by its side. Headlights from the truck shine over the scene: the rain beating on his back as he bends over the Scarlet Macaw, palm outstretched to lay a hand on its heart.

Life flickers, the spark of spirit trying one last time to restart the broken body. The bird's dark eyes are fixed on Evan; no trace of fear or pain as the last essence of life flickers and dies. The bird stiffens imperceptibly under his open palm; and he feels it, the very moment the heart stops and life leaves. Rain falls relentlessly, and he sits there at the side of the road with one hand on the heart of the bird that grows colder with every passing second.

An hour, a minute, or only a moment passes, and he sits, unable to move, unwilling to go back to the truck and drive away. Where did the life go; that force that propelled the bird forward in the rain to meet its end so meaninglessly? Where did it go, and what was the point? All that beauty, a life, nurtured, grown and lived moment by moment… where was it now, and why was it him that took it away?

He picks up the broken bird and holds it to his damp shirt, walking slowly back to the truck. The noise of the rain is an angry drumbeat on the roof as he sits in the driver's seat, shocked and shivering, with the Macaw's colored feathers drooping dully on his knees. Fate, chance, or circumstance, he took away life and felt it leave. Mud-spattered hands rise to his face, and he weeps, not knowing if the sadness is real or imagined.

That life can be so fragile, so easily given and taken away, that one action, one decision can be a catalyst for catastrophe. That life is a spider web of consequence, and we are all at the mercy of one another. The spill of tears triggers grief unexpressed in a lifetime of occasional sorrow. He cries, and the relief of tears leaves him calm and washed out—how much later he doesn't know.

When he opens his eyes again, the storm has passed, the rain a mere drizzle, the wind all but gone. "Billie." He needs to get home to her, feel her next to him, and let her remind him there's meaning in the chaos. Before Billie, it was always this; life as a series of chaotic events with no reason or meaning. She'll smile and make him laugh, and somehow within the madness of just being alive, it'll all be okay.

It's how she's always been, it's who she is for Evan; a brighter, happier half that finds something good in everything, even him. She'll make it right, just like she's always done from the very beginning. He needs to get home to her and that single thought lays the lifeless bird by the side of the road and turns the key in the ignition to make the careful drive home.

Maybe it's the rain and overwhelming emotion, the feeling of being out of control and the storm, but the drive home sees Evan follow a series of memories: a stormy night not so long ago, rain in summer, birds in flight, and Billie.

***

Chapter Two

Billie & Evan

Five Years Earlier (London 2001)

"Pens down and wait at your desks, please. You may not talk or leave the room until instructed to do so." The exam invigilator must love this phrase. He can stop pacing the rows, looking over our shoulders, and sit with a good British cup of tea before the next wave of terrified students arrive to seal their future in the last exam of finals.

I place my pen down and exhale slowly, desperate to be outside in the fresh air of freedom. My head throbs from three hours of frenzied essay writing; my fingers ache, and I would like more than anything to lie on the grass and look at the sky. Witness the world outside academia. A door is finally beginning to close as a new one opens; goodbye undergraduate life, here I come into the world of adults. An educated, university-qualified adult, no less. I'm on the threshold of a new beginning, and despite my heavy head, I feel a buzz of new life, of new direction fire up inside. I glance around at the sea of faces; some crumpled, some elated. Whichever way this may have gone for each of us, one thing is certain; we are done.

Cheers and car horns sound as we emerge from the great hall of pain. The last exam of our undergraduate study finally complete, the final paper in the four year degree we all so desperately wanted. Now that it's over, what will we do?

"Over here, Billie!" My vision is still a little hazy from long hours of concentration and little sleep as I turn to find my best friend Iris wearing a smile that speaks on its own.

"We did it! We did it, holy crap, can you believe it's all over? We're done!" She throws her arms around me as we are engulfed by a wave of similarly elated students; everyone is cheering, and as if from nowhere, beer flows. Warm beer in plastic pints is handed out and we drink deeply, barely stopping for breath; the haze in our heads replaced quickly by the warm buzz of booze.

"Jesus H Billie, this is the best day of my life," Iris announces, lying on the grass a few hours later wearing a toga and still drinking beer. "What'll you do?" She props herself on one elbow to face me. Her tone might be asking what I'm having for dinner not what I'm doing with the rest of my life.

"I'm not sure I know where to start." I exhale a long, slow breath. "I'm thinking maybe I'll write the next great novel of our time." I examine my open palm as though looking for a life line to confirm my prophecy. "I'll aim for the Booker Prize next year, and soon after, a whole section in the library under 'W'. Billie May Worthington a writer for our times!" I flop back on to the grass eyes closed smiling wistfully.

"Well, that sounds easy enough, send me a copy of your first best seller." Iris is smiling, her eyes focused on her own projected future. "Yep, good luck with that Billie, but I'm getting myself a job pronto. There's no time to fanny around! I'm heading straight to make some big bucks. Jesus, I've student loans coming out my arse." Iris is also Irish and has a way of expressing herself that can equally horrify and reduce me to howls of laughter.

"Iris, what the hell kind of a job do you think you're going to get with a degree in literature? I doubt the stock market will take you." I laugh.

"Ah, just you watch Billie girl, the world's my lobster, it's up, up, and away from here," she announces, all excited smiles.

"I think you'll find its oyster," I correct, shielding my eyes from the sun.

"Oyster? Who said anything about oysters, for God's sake? A bag of crisps would do nicely." Iris flops back on to the grass, moaning. "I'm peaking too early, it's not even five. Okay, no more beer for an hour and forget the crisps. I need a sausage roll."

8:00 p.m.: Hot shower, sausage roll on board, and a pint of water for Iris, and we are ready for the night of partying we so deserve. In the halls of residence bar we drink cheap cocktails, debrief the year, and swap tales of woe on our performances in today's exam.

Just after nine, our artist-in-residence friend, Derek, or Dez as he prefers to be called, swans into the bar. "Ladies and not so attractive men, you are all looking fabulous tonight!" he announces, red curly hair bouncing as he waves his arms at us. "Accompany me, your cultural guide, into the depths of the city's art scene this fine evening. Our taxi awaits."

We raise our eyebrows, someone throws a crumpled crisp packet at him, and we carry on our conversations.

"Oh, come on you lot." He looks deflated, alter-ego diminished for the moment. "I booked the cab. It's outside. Who's coming to the opening with me? I promise you'll love it, pizza's my shout on the way home!" He awaits the rush to the doors, but gets no response; everyone is quite comfortable, ensconced with their best friends, drinks, and a DJ in the corner.

"Oh, poor Dez. Come on Iris, let's go with him." I nudge her in the ribs, gesturing toward Dez, who pouts by the door. "The poor guy's going to shed a tear if he has to go by himself." Dez has a crush on one of the artists who happens to be part of an opening in a swanky art gallery in town; we had promised him we'd keep him company on his love mission.

"Oh okay, as long as there's free bubbles," says Iris, only half-reluctantly. "I can do art." She applies more lip gloss to her already glossed pout.

"Yes!" Dez punches the air as though Arsenal has just won the league. "Let's go babes." He motions to us, and then pauses, looking carefully at me with the critical eye of a fashion consultant. "Don't you want to change Billie?"

Hands on hips, I turn to face his frizzy hair and nose ring. "Why, is there a problem, ginger nuts?" It's hard having flaming red curly hair. Dez has many nicknames, and not surprisingly, "Ginger nuts" is one of his least favorites.

He raises both palms to face me and stutters, "No ma'am…" He looks at the others, who are stifling smiles and raises an eyebrow. "I'll just go saddle up your horse." Everyone is laughing now, including me; my unchanging dress sense is often the butt of many jokes.

It wouldn't be so funny if I weren't called Billie May. It opens me up to a whole realm of country and western gags. You see I'm rarely seen out of leather cowboy boots and some well-worn Levis, and as I am originally from Kansas, the name slots me right into that Midwestern country girl stereotype. The cowgirl gags are something I'm quite used to.

My Dad is a Londoner, and my mom is from Kansas. They divorced when I was barely a year old; country life was not quite what my Dad had envisaged. Mom died of cancer when I was fourteen, so I came over here to live with Dad. These days, I'm as much Londoner as Kansas gal; a strange blend I guess. So my jeans and boots are all Kansas, and my shirt is usually an expensive designer something-or-other, a bid by my stepmother to glamorize me. I like to think my feet are still in Kansas with my mom, and the rest of me is pretty much Anglicized. The prairie girl twang of twelve-year-old me now replaced by a strange blend of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz and Anne of Green Gables.

"Leave her alone Dez, and get your fecking beret on," says Iris. "Let's be off to critique some art."

"More like get Dez laid!" hollers a voice from behind as we head for the door.

We step out into the still-humid night air, unseasonably warm. These balmy days that stretch into evening are usually reserved for August and early September; summer's last dash before autumn. But here in June, the warmth feels aged. The air smells thick, but not fragrant. These are hot city smells—individually indistinguishable, of the color grey. Iris and Dez are arm-in-arm up the steps and along the sidewalk to the waiting cab with its shiny black exterior and yellow light atop. I dawdle behind, needing a second to take in the evening, relishing the smells and sights. This could be the last evening like this; here with these friends. I'm ready for change, but nostalgic as always and resolve to hold as much as I can of this last evening to memory. I will write about it later, as I do with mostly everything; journals with descriptions, short poems, sketches, the odd photograph, concert tickets; collages of place and time in images and words.

"Get a move on Daisy Duke; the meter’s ticking!" cries Dez from within the taxi, a shiny black beetle, wings open and ready for flight. I hop inside, and the driver pulls away from the curb with the confident air of a true London taxi driver. He drives with the conviction that he is invincible and the road his own. We three must seem an odd bunch huddled in a row; Dez in his second-hand suit and Doc Martens, Iris in a seventies dress and platform wedges, and me, straight-Sally with jeans and ponytail.

The city flashes by; the light waning and the traffic thickening. Stop-start, stop-start, car horns and sirens, roundabouts and underground signs, everywhere there are people.

Dez peers through the glass divide that protects the driver from us, his custom. Checking the neon numbers on the meter, he says. "All right, mate, pull over here if you will."

The driver clicks his tongue and, with a slight shake of his head, pulls in to the curb. Cars behind honk their annoyance.

"But we're not here yet Dez." I'm confused.

He leans in conspiratorially. "Sorry, gals, I've run out money. This is as far as we go." He grins, and we roll our eyes, protesting, as we emerge from the shiny beetle, and Dez parts with a rolled up ten pound note.

Iris whacks him on the arm. "What about the pizza on the way home, you tight cockney?"

He laughs and does a little skip.

"You might not see me on the way home ladies; I'm wearing my lucky undies!"

My turn to punch him on the arm. "How far to walk, then Romeo?"

"Just a few blocks this way." He links arms with us, and we trek through the city to find the much anticipated gallery opening.

"Now just so you two don't look as entirely clueless about the art scene as you so obviously are, let me fill you in… " Dez nudges me. I am lost in one of my favorite hobbies: people watching. "The location is totally amazing," he enthuses. "It's worth a visit just to check out the building. It's the old synagogue near Baker Street, fabulous architecture. They've converted it into three floors, plus there's a loft space and a basement, so there are five exhibits."

Iris is searching in her bag for gum, and I'm still busy watching the scene around me, the people, the bustle, and the feel of night in the city, wondering where each person is going and what their story might be.

Dez doesn't notice our distraction and carries on enthusiastically. "Now, I think there's a mix of painting, sculpture, and architecture; models and stuff. Anna is a sculptor. She's amazingly hot, and wait till you see what she can do with her hands." He's breathy in anticipation.

"Christ, I didn't think it was that kind of show," says Iris.

"Her sculpture, you daft cow," says Dez. "Although I think there are a few penises there."

"She sculpts penises?" I ask, trying not to sound too straight.

"Oh yes, in fact, she held interviews to find the right male models for her work."

"She was paying young blokes to show her their willies?" says Iris, aghast. "Can't you get arrested for that?"

Dez ignores her. "I was going to go along myself, but then I worried I might get stage fright and not be able to get it up on command; then she'd never go out with me."

We all laugh. "Does she only want to sculpt stiff willies, then?"

Dez doesn't register my tone. "You know Billie, that's a good question; I can't say I'm sure. Let's go take a look."

We are still two blocks away from Baker Street, Dez having hugely underestimated the distance, and Iris's platform wedges proving to be a hindrance to our pace.

"For fuck's sake Iris, did you have to wear those God-awful shoes? It'll be midnight before we're there."

"I'll kick your arse with one of these here shoes if you're not careful ‘Mister I'll get us a cab and pay for the pizzas on the way home!'"

I zone out of their squabble as a cold prickle of temperature change laces my skin with goose bumps. "You guys, I think it's going to rain. We should hurry"

They don't hear, so caught up in a dialogue over the role of platform wedges in the fashion revolution. A sudden flash of lightening stops us all in our tracks; in one blink, the city is all white reflected light and we are monochrome shadows of ourselves. Thunder follows closely, and heavy rain that washes the heat from the day.

"Run!" yells Dez, his voice high-pitched amidst the deep growl of thunder.

We run as commanded, convulsing with laughter, sinking into the hysteria that so often accompanies a storm. Iris pulls off her platforms, and we dash through the rain, squealing like three preschoolers until drenched and breathless; we arrive at the gallery, dripping wet and bedraggled into the foyer.

Iris has barely stopped to look around before she bellows out to anyone who might listen, "Fucking hell, its bloody wild out there! Anyone got a towel?" For a second, all is deathly quiet, glass clinking and hobnobbing stops. All eyes turn in our direction. The art crowd, momentarily ruffled quickly recover their composure at the uncouth disturbance and progress to ignoring us.

Dez is mortified and guides Iris and me to the ladies' room while he scoots off to hang up his sodden second-hand coat (which incidentally smells really bad now) and find us some champagne.

We smooth our hair and take turns standing under the hand dryer. "Okay, that should do Iris, let's find the bubbles." I pull her toward the bathroom door, but she insists on applying some red lippy to both of our pouts.

"It's much more alternative than pastel shades darling. We’ll fit right in.” We emerge only slightly less bedraggled than we entered to find Dez with his red hair all a frizz deep in conversation with an attractive brunette. He is holding three bubbling pink glasses whilst sipping clumsily from another.

"Ladies, come meet my dear friend Anna. She's the sculptress I've been telling you about." The brunette turns to us and says hello with what appears to be more of a shoo-fly hand action.

"Dear friend my arse," whispers Iris. We take our drinks and politely tell Anna the sculptress we are off to look at her willies. She doesn't flinch.

Dez is quite right; the old synagogue is breathtaking despite the modern renovations to convert it to a gallery. We walk around, enjoying the sheer spectacle that is the world of art; one I would so like to understand but remain on the fringes of. I know what I like and equally know what I don't, but don't ask me to discuss relevance, theory, or influences behind a body of work. I'd consider the question carefully then tell you I like the color.

Despite our lack of education regarding the nuances of each exhibit, Iris and I take our time enjoying the glorious pull of passion in creativity. Well, I do. Iris is fiddling with her mobile phone, and then suddenly turns to me, agitated and a little apologetic. "I've just had a text from Marcus, he wants me to meet him at ten." Her cheeks flush. Marcus is her latest love interest, and she's trying to look unflustered.

"You're leaving me?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"Ah, you'll be alright, you can talk to anyone, and I've seen quite a few of those art ponce types giving you the eye, all rosy cheeks and blond hair. Now, you have a grand night. Say cheerio to Dez for me, and I'll see you back at the ranch… maybe," she finishes with a smile. "Oh, don't look so forlorn, get yourself another glass of free bubbles and mingle. I know you secretly love this stuff." She pecks me on both cheeks and makes a dash for it before I can answer. I'm not that fazed; this situation is more than a little familiar to me. Iris has no loyalty to friends whatsoever when it comes to men. She will dump her girlfriends at the drop of a hat if the chance of a quickie with a new flame arises.

"Be seeing you then," I say mostly to myself and head for the waitress with the tray of filled glasses. I take my time knowing I have nowhere to be and am now effectively here on my own, sad git that I am.

Art ponce guys checking me out, as if! Iris has a clever way of always making it seem like she's trying to do me some kind of a favor when she's off on a love mission. Of course! What was I thinking? She just wanted to free me up for the man of my dreams who must be floating around all these alternative artsy types just waiting for the chance to sweep me off my feet. I laugh out loud, the bubbles going to my head. Oh well, this is good; it's something different, and I don't have to make small talk with anyone. I can't help but keep a tiny eye out for any surprisingly handsome art types who I might want to make some of that small talk with, but it's only the highly unattractive ones who seem to be here tonight.

I have been on a man famine. In fact, I don't want to think about how long it's been since well, you know. I've been a little caught up in studies; this is what I tell myself when the truth is I have no interest in any of the types of men that seem to be interested in me. Of late, it has been beef head rugby blokes or the nerdy anorak types straight from "University Challenge," and presently, I am not desperate enough for sex to go down those roads.

"Single it is!" I toast myself; I am one strong woman. I don't need a man to make me feel good about myself. In fact, I just finished my degree today, and I rock. Oprah would be standing in applause. This is a "you go, girl" moment. "Wooo!" I whoop, giving my thigh a good cowgirl-style slap and am instantly mortified, realizing I may have had more bubbles than I care to admit. I catch a few glances and examine my thigh like I was swatting a bug.

"You must like this one a lot," says a deep, heavily-accented voice behind me, there is humor in the tone and I jump, ready to defend my feelings for the exhibit I am whooping amongst. "Sorry, didn't mean to make you jumpy and all, it's nice to see someone appreciating the work."

I turn to face the voice and find myself close, too close to his face. He is smiling and about to laugh, you see in all my self-reflection, I hadn't realized I was whooping in the room of sculpted willies. I slap my hand over my mouth, afraid I might laugh out loud or have my jaw drop and my tongue loll.

He is beautiful.

"My name's Evan." He holds out a hand; his fingers are long and slender, and I stare at them for far longer than is polite before reaching my own hand out to clasp his.

"Billie May." I feel color rise to my cheeks. My gaze has now traveled from his fingers up to his face and all the small talk I should be making has left the building. I'm writing a soliloquy in my head to the beauty of this man, all dark, wavy hair flopping over one eye, strong jaw, and clear green eyes. I have been holding his handshake for too long, and now I'm not sure just how long the staring thing has been going on. Crap. I say a silent prayer for serenity, plus some irresistibleness, if it's not too much to ask.

"Are you an artist Billie May?" he asks.

"No, and you can just call me Billie." I smile and flatten my hair, not sure whether to run or stay. "I'm just here with a friend." He stares, still smiling that lop-sided grin and I'm afraid if he doesn't stop I may do something worse than the whoopee thigh slap.

"Do you really like the penises?" he asks, and I quail. He just said penis to me, and now I can't stop thinking about his. Internal face slap moment. Billie May, you are twenty-two years old, and you can do this. I channel my grandma and look up to answer the penis question without a glimmer of fantasy.

"Not really, I just…" Oh crap, will he think I don't like penises at all now? "Well, not these penises, I mean… oh fuck, can we talk about something else?" I'm a disaster; he will run for the hills wondering who let the mentally-challenged hillbilly in.

"Did you just say fuck?" he asks only loud enough for me to hear, and in his perfect pronunciation of the word 'fuck,' I realize that accent is of course Irish. He is laughing at me, and I can't help but laugh too. He leans in. "It's a little stiff in here, if you'll excuse the comparison, but they don't like bad language. You'd better come with me." He takes me by the hand and leads me out of the room of sculptures and guides me through the crowd. People recognize him and say hello as we pass. He nods and replies, remembering everyone's name, and I am reeling—following him, holding his hand, and wondering who the hell he is.

This moment bears testimony to the sheer pull of physical chemistry.

I know nothing of this man I met moments ago, but I do know that from the instant I saw him, heard him, and touched his hand something changed. Not a small sort of a change like a weather front or a mood flip and not a mild attraction, but something large, something strong and dizzyingly powerful. I've never taken drugs, rarely been really drunk, but I can only imagine this feeling; this sudden high and overwhelming need must be similar to that of an illicit high. Suddenly and unexpectedly plugged into a power source I didn't know existed; a thrilling new sense perception never expected to be in the realm of possibilities.