Читать книгу Our Little Secret: a gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist from bestselling author Darren O’Sullivan - Darren O’Sullivan - Страница 14
ОглавлениеJulia’s diary – June 2011
I used to keep a diary as a little girl. All of the girls in my primary school did. It was like you had to in order to be cool. I had a bright pink one, one of the ‘My Little Ponies’ on the front. The ribbon that was stitched into the seam and tied around, holding all of my six-year-old secrets, was rainbow-coloured.
I found it again a few years ago. My first entry was about a boy I liked in class. My first ‘love’. I carried that diary everywhere I went and would always been seen writing in it. I guess, if I really think about it, it was from there the seed was planted to be a writer. Capturing stories, revealing truths. I remember I would often talk to myself in the diary – I guess like I am doing right now. Saying things like, ‘Julia, you have to remember Kyle (my crush in primary school) is an idiot.’ Or ‘Julia, don’t forget it’s Mother’s Day next week.’ But then I grew up and other things became more important.
Studying took over, then boys, then a little of both in my college years. My first twelve years of life was well documented by my family pictures and my childish diaries, and nothing much after. It’s kind of sad when I think about it. All those years, uncaptured and being lost as I get older. Recently I’ve had time to think about life a little more and it seems I’ve not saved the big adventures I’ve had in any way.
My secondary school and college days that I loved are only seen through Facebook pictures added by old friends, long forgotten. Showing we all had bad hair and the sense of style that came with the late Nineties and early Noughties. All of us looking like we want to be in the Spice Girls.
My university years are just fondly remembered hangover-fuelled dreams of late nights out – going to gigs of bands who were going to be the ‘next big thing’ only to disappear as quickly as they arrived. And my father: a complicated man who left my mum for Australia when I was in my teens. He’s just a speck of an idea. His bad jokes and silly stories seem to have been lost in the dark spaces of my memory. We speak a few times a year – birthdays, Christmas. But the conversations are always short and forced.
I struggled with him leaving and, as an adult, I’ve forgotten all of the good qualities he had. Ones that Mum couldn’t forget. She often tells me he was the kind of man that you rarely see. Funny, charming but fiercely protective of his family. That is, right up until he left us.
In those moments when Mum talks of him before he packed his bags, I can see myself as a child again, lying on his broad chest, his breathing raising me up and down as we both dozed in the garden on a spring morning. I see the bedtime stories, his St Christopher necklace gently hitting me as he gives me a kiss goodnight. His breath smelling like rolling tobacco.
Yes, loads of years have been lost to the archive in my head but, as you can clearly see, I’m going to change that. So hello, diary. Welcome back to my life. You might be wondering why I’ve decided to come back. It’s a good question. One that’s embarrassing but as it’s just you and me I’ll just say it as it is.
Yet again, there is a boy. Meeting him has ignited that part of me that needs to write it all down. It’s made me not want to lose anything that I might think fondly on later in life. (Or not.) ‘The new man’, as my friends like to call him, really he should be called the first man. In my adult life so far I’ve not met anyone who has interested me in the way he does. There is something about him. Something you can’t quite put a finger on. A depth to him I have never seen before. It’s exciting.
I’ve got a good feeling about this and I thought it would be nice to put it down in words to find again when I’m old and grey. Who knows who might be by my side? Perhaps, maybe, him? Just writing that makes me feel funny.
