Читать книгу Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop - Rebecca Raisin - Страница 14

Five hours later, well over schedule, I reach the camp in Bristol, accidentally accelerating when I mean to brake, and careen out of control towards a beautiful red-headed girl who wears a look of abject horror because I’m about to run her down!

I stamp hard on the brakes, Poppy fishtails wildly as airborne pebbles shoot into the poor unsuspecting girl like bullets, the sound pow, pow, pow ricocheting off her tiny frame but before long she’s shrouded in a mist of dust. I come to a screaming halt, the smell of burnt rubber permeating the air. Have I hit her? Stiff as a toy solider I manage to fall out of Poppy and land directly into a pile of mud with squelch as I miscue my exit from such a high perch. I turn onto my back, my bones creaking with effort. While my body may have the appearance of someone in the first stages of rigor mortis, I feel strangely euphoric.

I survived!

Poppy survived! London is long gone and I can finally breathe fresh air, and … and then I remember the girl! As the dust settles, I see she’s frozen on the spot, her mouth opening and closing but no words fall out. I’m hoping it’s on account of the dust she’s swallowed and not because a pebble punctured her lung or something. Just as I’m about to call for help, she chokes out, ‘That was some entrance!’

Still supine, relief washes through me as I stare up into her face, her coppery hair falling over her cheeks. She seems calm enough considering I almost killed her. Well, to be fair, Poppy almost killed her. Bloody hell, we’re going to have to practise when it comes to parking and dismount.

When I don’t respond she says, ‘Are you OK?’ Concern ekes from her voice. She’s one of those effortlessly pretty girls whose natural good looks don’t need adornment. Her bright hazel eyes are framed by lustrous black lashes sans mascara. Her hair is the colour of fire, and flashes in the soft sunlight and I feel drab in comparison.

I’ve taken too long to respond, and her eyes dart about looking for help. I get that look a lot.

‘I’m … great,’ I say with what I hope is a convincing smile that belies my inner turmoil. Just the where am I, why did I buy a van under the influence of Shiraz, how am I meant to wash this mud off me, kind of thing.

But there’s no need to panic, it’s all going on the to-do list, things I can improve on, a list of people not to run over, that kind of thing.

A frown appears between her thick, perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. How are girls achieving eyebrows so thick they need their own postcode? Tentatively I touch mine, wondering how you can add body to such a thing. There’s a whole world out there that I haven’t had a moment to consider while I’ve been cooped up in a commercial kitchen.

‘You don’t look great, to be honest.’ She’s noticed my eyebrows, and their rather spartan lustre, dammit. ‘You look like you’ve just escaped the jungle, or something.’ She grins.

I laugh for the first time in aeons but by the look on her face the sound is more maniacal than I intend. The jungle, that’s one way to describe it. ‘I have. I’ve just come from London. The urban jungle.’

The unreality of my situation hits me and I just feel so … disconnected from my old life, my old self, and while it’s strange, it also produces a feeling of wild jubilation. From this very moment on, I can be whoever I choose to be!

She holds out a hand to help me up. I pray my legs carry me after being ramrod in Poppy for so long. ‘Let’s get you cleaned up.’

I follow the girl to a bathroom and jump in fright when I see my reflection in the mirror. There’s no way she could have been judging my eyebrows or any of my face for that matter, because she can’t have seen it under all the caked-on grime from the muddy puddle and who knows what else. Bloody hell! I look like I’ve just participated in a mud wrestling competition, and even my hair sticks out at odd angles, probably because I spent the better part of the drive pulling at it.

‘Did you sleep rough?’ she asks, concern on her face.

‘No, gosh no. The mud is the culprit. It’s amazing that I can find the only puddle from here to the never-never, but there you go.’ After I’ve cleaned up as best I can, we head back outside. Poppy makes the strangest hissing sound and I give her a quick once-over to determine where the noise is coming from.

‘The tyre!’ Air slowly leaks from the front tyre and Poppy droops to the right, as if she’s exhausted. ‘It’s OK,’ I say more to myself than anyone. ‘I’m sure I can …’ I realise I’ve never changed a tyre in my life, and wouldn’t have the foggiest how to go about it.

Bloody hell, who goes travelling around the countryside without knowing how to change a tyre? It defies belief that I could have overlooked such a thing. Me, methodical to a fault, queen of contingency plans.

‘Don’t panic,’ the girl says. ‘I can help you change it. Do you have a spare?’

Oh golly. ‘I’m sure I must do. I guess van maintenance slipped my mind.’

‘I can also give you some pointers on the mechanical side of things. I’m a gun at oil changes and whatnot now, anything to save money, right? I’m Aria, by the way,’ she says, holding out a hand, which I find endearing since my own hands are stained black after my ordeal.

‘Great. I’m Rosie.’ We shake and she gives me a wide smile as if my presence has brightened her day.

‘How’d you find us here?’

‘I stumbled across the Van Lifers online forum and got chatting to a guy called Oliver who told me this was a good starting point, close enough to Wales to stock up and get my bearings.’

You mad, mad thing.

My body aches in strange places, and I’d found the drive as hard as being in command of a busy kitchen. A different sort of hard.

‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she says, flashing bright white teeth.

‘Me too,’ I say, and find myself meaning it.

‘The Van Lifers forum is great. Lots of tips on there, maps, market and festival info, that kind of thing. Plenty of people offering support.’

I nod, overwhelmed by the environment. It’s like I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and arrived in a parallel universe. Checked shirts are obviously a prerequisite. A group of bearded hipsters sit around a campfire, as a gorgeous brunette strums a guitar and sings a haunting song. A few play cards on fold-out tables, some hang washing under their awnings, while others bustle about packing their vans in readiness to leave. A handful give me a wave as I walk past, and I smile tentatively back.

I’m not like them. I sense it already. They exude this sort of worldly air, a certain grace as if they’re comfortable in their own skin, with their open faces and wise eyes that sparkle with all they’ve seen. But I’m determined to sink into this lifestyle and find the ease they all wear in their ready, lazy smiles.

Aria pulls me from my reverie. ‘I’ll make you a brew and we can chat.’

She opens the door to her little van and I gasp as the inside comes to life under flickering candlelight. It’s a utopia for bibliophiles. Rickety bookshelves line the sides of the van, filled to the brim with chaotically stacked books. On the floor, cane baskets cradle bundles of vintage Mills and Boon books, bound together with string. Every nook and cranny is bursting with novels, candles, cushions or rugs and the scent of recently brewed coffee lingers in the air.

While I understand how this would appear like a nirvana for most, for me it produces a sense of unease. This kind of clutter all begins innocently enough. A few things here, then there. Then everywhere.

‘You have a travelling bookshop?’ I say and then mentally slap my forehead.

‘The Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After. I sell romance novels. Word nerd at your service.’ She salutes and I can’t help but laugh.

‘Word nerd has a nice ring to it.’

The dim space is perfumed by posies of fresh wild flowers, and scented candles. Coupled with the aroma of old books, there’s a musty dustiness that hints of times gone by. An old, wrinkled, leather high-back chair sits squished against the side of the van and I bet it’s where Aria spends most of her days.

There’s a bunch of ruched velvet ruby cushions stacked in a pile, textured woolly throw rugs drape from hooks. I imagine whiling away time in the Little Bookshop of Happy Ever After would appeal to bookworms everywhere, but another thing concerns me, and I grapple with whether I should speak up or not.

It’s usually these little truth bombs that tend to detonate in my face, but it’s actually a matter of life or death – so I decide to be honest and figure out a subtle way to broach the subject.

I clear my throat. ‘Should you leave burning candles unattended?’ I ask in the nicest possible way, when really I mean, ‘you most certainly should not leave burning candles unattended, especially with so many books laying haphazardly around’. While Aria rescued me from the depths of a muddy puddle, her entire livelihood could have gone up in flames – it’s only fair I should warn her. It’s what I imagine a good friend would do.

She laughs, a big haw that startles me coming from such a wisp of a thing. ‘They’re all part of the ambiance, they add to the romance! People wander in when I’m not here so I want them to feel at home. Feel comforted. And what better way to do that than with the scent of old books and sweet-smelling candles?’

My eyebrows shoot up. ‘You let people come in here without you being present?’ What if they go through her things? Read her diary. Nap on her bed? Or worse, steal books?

‘Sure I do! They leave a note if they borrow a book, or money in the kitty over there if they buy something.’ Aria points to an unassuming pastel green unlocked cash box. I know it’s unlocked because the padlock sits next to it, rusted open as if it’s spent the better part of its life in the sea. Surely strangers would take advantage?

‘But …’ Words fails me.

‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

I move to the wrinkly leather chair and it sighs as I sink into its weathered embrace. I fight the urge to tidy, to right fallen books, to fold the rugs. Be cool, Rosie.

‘So,’ I say, squaring my shoulders. ‘Is everyone this erm … lax with their vans?’ I could always go back to London, it’s not too late. Get my old job back. Live in some bedsit I’ll jokingly refer to as the crack den. Start over. Adopt a rescue dog. Buy one of those lint brushes to remove pet fur from my clothing. Invest in some quality sneakers for all the walkies I’ll take Rover on. I picture myself, getting dragged along by a slobbery French mastiff, my life literally going around in circles. But where’s the fun in that? No, I must stay resolute and wait for my shiny, sparkly brand new life to take off. I desperately want to live outside of ordinary.

No change comes easy, right? I’m sure everyone feels like this when they upend their life, their hopes and dreams scattered about like so many escaped marbles!

She laughs again, that same boom that reverberates around the van. ‘Not everyone is so lax. Why, Rosie, does it bother you?’

‘A little,’ I admit, scrunching my nose.

‘It’s fine, really,’ she says. ‘I’ve never run into any trouble doing things this way. Most people are honest and if I lose a book or two that’s nothing in the scheme of things for the freedom I have, right? If I loan a book out I never get back, who cares? I can come and go as I please, and at the end of the day, there’s a little money in the kitty for the next adventure.’

I doubt I can ever be like Aria. I’d have a nervous breakdown. But in reality we have two very different businesses and I’ll have to be at my post – after all, the tea won’t brew itself. I don’t have to be exactly like her to fit in, do I? My tables and chairs will be outside, so no one has to traipse through my van unless I invite them to.

‘What made you pack up and leave?’ she asks, switching the subject while she fills a glass teapot.

‘Oh,’ I say, dropping my gaze. ‘Nothing really, I just felt like a change was in order.’ Who wants to be thought of as the dumped desperado, fleeing in disgrace? Not me.

She doesn’t probe further, but I can tell from the question in her eyes, she wants to. I detect Aria has a story too, from the way she looks knowingly at me – a likeminded soul, perhaps? But she lets the moment pass, balances a pot of tea on a stack of books between us and hunts in a cupboard for cups, finally producing two mismatched mugs, one that reads: Bookworms do it better. The tea is a fragrant blend of vanilla and jasmine and I go to ask her where she procured it from, when she interjects.

‘Do you have a rough plan, or will you take each day as it comes?’ she asks, her voice muffled as she reaches in to an overhead cupboard before brandishing a dusty biscuit tin.

Once the tea has steeped, I pour and the scent of jasmine fills the air. I’m eager to get started on blending a new range of teas for my pop-up shop, imagining the heady fragrance of fresh floral bouquets, or spicy nutty blends. Back in the present, I say, ‘I haven’t got an exact itinerary in place, but I thought I’d follow one of the festival circuits, so I have more opportunities for the tea shop.’

Her eyes twinkle. ‘You’re opening a tea shop?’

‘Rosie’s Travelling Tea Shop! I want to go back to my roots making old-fashioned comfort food served with big pots of house-made tea blends. I can’t wait to get started. I just hope Poppy’s tiny kitchen can handle it.’ Even though I’m muddled with this new version of me, of what I’m supposed be and feel, I know being in my happy place, the kitchen, will help centre me and ease those doubts, when I’m doing what I love.

‘Whatever cake and tea can’t fix, the open road can.’ A shutter comes down over her face. It’s so slight, I don’t think anyone else would notice it, but it’s as though what she’s saying doesn’t actually ring true for her. I see it, because I know that feeling well. Suddenly, she’s staring into her tea, her shoulders stiffening slightly. I have an inkling that asking her might cross that fine line between being nosy and potentially ruining a burgeoning friendship. I mustn’t say the first thing that pops into my mind, I’ve learned that the hard way.

‘Yes,’ I say, realising she is waiting for a response. ‘The open road … the possibilities are endless.’

‘It can be daunting doing that first big trek if you’re alone,’ she says, staring over the edge of her mug at me.

Poppy could break down at night, the very moment a guy with a hair fetish escapes from a prison up the road and lops off my white blonde locks. I could bake scones and buy fresh cream from a local farm and have not one customer. I could get robbed. My petrol siphoned. Get eaten by bedbugs. Go weeks without speaking to a real person.

I glance at my watch, wondering if there’s enough daylight left to announce I’ve left the oven on in London, and I’ll be back … never! Note to self: stop reading true crime books for the foreseeable future.

‘This might be presumptuous,’ Aria says, blowing her hair from her eyes. ‘But why don’t we stick together? Not to live in each other’s pockets or anything, but books and tea are a match made in heaven, and I think we could do well side by side.’

Oliver told me Bristol was the meet-up place, and safety in numbers and all that. A ripple of happiness runs through me. Despite turning up looking like I slept on the streets – dirty, grimy, muddy, and a little lost – Aria has managed to ignore all of that and has taken a shine to me.

Have I made a friend, so easily? I begin to doubt her motivations. She’s known me for all of five minutes. There must be something wrong with her. But what? Is she on the run from police? She doesn’t look like a criminal. Maybe she’s someone famous in hiding. Or is she lonely amid all these people? That, I can understand well. Does she sense I’m lost? She’s a little lost too, despite her apparent popularity, despite being surrounded by people of the same ilk to her. I see it in her eyes, the way they cloud over.

‘Stick together?’ I say.

‘Think about it,’ she says, gazing past me as if she is picturing us in the future. ‘We follow the festival route. Set up next to each other. Join our tables and chairs out the front for our customers, but best of all we have someone close by to hang out with in those lulls. To drive with on the long hauls.’

It couldn’t hurt. And as independent as I like to think I am, I’m terrified of driving Poppy through the lonely hours of night-time.

‘It could work,’ I say, trying to play it cool. ‘So you don’t have a set route?’ I ask. ‘Or follow any schedule?’ I like knowing where I’m going and where I’ll be. The festival route is a nice, orderly clear-cut circuit, with set dates and schedules.

She laughs. ‘I’m more a fly by the seat of my pants type of gal. I move whenever I get the urge to, and that’s how I’ve always been, but there’s plenty to see on route as we follow the festival circuit, and I’m happy to stick to that for business, and we’ll only run off course for adventures.’

Adventures? ‘OK …’ Does it really matter if we go off course every once in a while? Planning my old life down to the minute didn’t work out so well, after all.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say before I can change my mind.

We are opposites, that much is certain, but don’t they say opposites attract? Aria’s effusive, bubbly, and definitely popular, going by the number of waves and hey yous thrown at her as we’d walked past clusters of nomads outside. That’s what I aspire to be like, to have that ability to blend in easily, to not be the person on the sidelines all the damn time. I want adventure, a new purpose, to really grab life by the shoulders and shake it up!

‘Brilliant,’ she says, smiling. ‘And I get how you’re feeling, Rosie. At first it’s a little intimidating. Getting off the beaten track, following roads to nowhere, sleeping under different patches of sky every week, but you will learn to love it. And eventually you’ll look for the hidden places, ones empty of footprints and hope that real life never comes calling again.’

‘OK, I guess I have a lot to learn.’ A place with no footprints sounds a little too deserted for my liking, but Aria will be there (safety in numbers). Even so, it’s not like we’re going to be attached at the hip. We’re basically just travelling at the same time and setting up next to each other, in order to promote our pop-up vans.

‘You can learn as you go. All we need to do is make enough money for our adventures.’

‘Our adventures are what exactly?’ I picture myself skydiving, or parachuting, and my belly somersaults with panic. I’m more of a feet-firmly-on-the-earth type.

‘This and that.’

‘I’m not really fond of—’

She holds up a hand. ‘Outdoor adventures, Rosie – running, climbing, swimming in the most beautiful places you’ll ever see. Eating at fancy places, or holes in walls. Paying exorbitant prices at tourist traps, or eating fruit from a tree in the middle of nowhere, it’s all part of the fun! But first you have to give yourself some time to get acclimatised.’

I guess I hadn’t thought of exploring as much as I had about escaping. What would I see? Life changing sunsets, a galaxy of stars, water that runs backwards. I pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.

‘Let’s head off to Wales on Monday?’ I say, deciding that will give me enough time to consult my maps, speak to Oliver from the online forum for advice and double check I’ve done everything I can in terms of van maintenance.

‘Perfect. The Hay Festival is next month and in the interim there’s other local fairs we could set up shop at.’

My strength is my love of fragrant tea and hearty food and the absolute joy I find in making it. How can anyone resist my baking when I pour my heart and soul into what I do? Or taking a big sip of a spicy nutty tea blend that invokes a place yet travelled? This has the potential to be life changing for me.

And now I have a travelling companion. A feat in itself.

‘Wales it is.’ A place I’ve never seen.

What is this new world? The lost part of me shimmies with anticipation.

Later that day, I sit on my bed and email Oliver to double check I haven’t missed anything. I’m mindful not to bother Aria with every single thought that pops into my head, so I figure friendly Oliver can field some of my questions. His reply beeps back almost instantly.

Hi Rosie,

You’ve ticked all the boxes as far as I can see. Just make sure you double check with the council before ‘popping up’ anywhere. Some councils require certain approvals and health checks since you’re selling food. Let me know if you run into trouble and I should be able to point you in the right direction at least. Safe travels.

Oliver

The paperwork side of things is a lot more time consuming than I’d imagined, but that’s what spreadsheets are made for, right? I make a list of possible fairs and places to ‘pop up’ around Wales and enter all the relevant info into an excel spreadsheet so I’ll have it on hand when we need it. I send Oliver a thank you email and fall into bed wondering what Callum is doing right now. Does he miss me? I fall asleep with him on my mind.

* * *

By Sunday I’m as ready as I can be. A map is taped to the wall, and coloured thumb tacks mark our route. I’ve allowed for weather delays, car troubles, and sourced where to get fresh produce and supplies to cook with as we go from place to place. I’ve watched countless YouTube videos about car maintenance and feel confident I will at least know the basics if I break down. Aria’s showed me how to do an oil change in return for some basic cooking classes so she can learn how to switch off the pan one step before charcoal, which is probably more a life-preserving measure than anything. I’ve never seen anyone burn so much food before!

I feel strong, capable, and enjoy learning more skills, even on the go.

We plan to set off early the next day, and I’m jittery with anticipation.

But I’m prepared this time. I have engine oil, the flat tyre has been fixed and refitted and a wheel alignment done on Poppy. There’s an extra car jack, a spare canister of petrol, oil, water and a maintenance kit. All our permits and insurances are sorted thanks to Aria, who it turns out is a dab hand at all that mind-numbingly tedious legal side of things, completed online without much angst by her. Council approval is a headache but Aria knows how to apply quickly and efficiently and which places to avoid that have fussier rules and regulations and are likely to decline us.

As I check my bank balance, which has taken a hit from all the extras for Poppy, my email beeps. I open it to find a message from Oliver.

Briefly, I worry he’s going to ask me to sign up or join, and my funds will take another beating. He’s been handy when I’ve had lots of little incidental queries crop up that I didn’t want to keep bothering Aria about. So I suppose it’s fair if he expects to recoup financially from all my questions.

Hi Rosie,

Just checking in to see how you’re enjoying Bristol? I’ve been busy with work, I had two weddings to shoot over the weekend and now I’m editing the pics which is the most time-consuming aspect of it all.

I wait for his sales pitch, join today and get the fee fifty percent off! I keep reading.

After that I’m going to hike Llanberis Path, to the summit of Snowdon, which I’ve always wanted to do. It’s meant to be like a little lost Eden. I get cabin fever if I’m cooped up in the van too long, so this should do the trick.

Safe travels,

Oliver

No sales pitch. No join now. No sign up for this or that promotion. Maybe Oliver is just interested in other people’s journeys? But what is it about all these nomads who want to climb the summit of rocky outcrops, and see the world from the highest perch? Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the kitchen on my feet. In my opinion, the best method of relaxation is of the horizontal-on-the-couch-kind. I grab at my muffin-top (a mere side effect of being a chef!) and wonder if I need to partake of a bit of one-foot-in-front-of-the-other action?

I type Llanberis Path, Snowdon into a search engine and my enthusiasm flees. It’s a six-hour return hike for a 14.6 kilometre trek to 3300 feet. It’s practically Everest in my opinion. And I couldn’t imagine myself taking on such an arduous climb.

Hi Oliver,

Haven’t seen much of Bristol yet (besides the hardware shop!) but Aria mentioned something about visiting town later for a wander. Getting my head around all of the logistics of travel and all that entails. Aria has been an enormous help. We leave Monday for Wales. Can’t believe I’m doing this but here I am!

Good luck with the hike, sounds like an epic journey.

Rosie

After I’ve sent the email and tidied the tiny space I use for a desk I head outside to find Aria. Her van door is wide open and she’s in her usual repose, feet up, nose in book, half cups of tea circling her as though she’s incanting a spell with them. A pot of baked beans bubbles on the stove so I go and give it a stir, not surprised to find them sticking to the bottom already.

‘The bookworm in her natural habitat,’ I say, envying her ability to immerse herself in reading the way she does. For some reason I always feel this strange guilt if I read for too long, as if I should be doing something more constructive with my time. It eventually gets the better of me and I pack the book away and clean and tidy, sort my things, whereas Aria can lose an entire day between the pages of a book. I make a note to schedule some time expressly for reading, no interruptions, no excuses.

She yawns and stretches herself languorously, before setting her book down.

‘This bookworm needs a bit of fresh air. Want to go to Clifton Village?’

‘What about your erm … lunch?’ The congealed mess doesn’t look very appetising to me but Aria doesn’t seem to mind that sort of thing.

‘I’ve burnt it again, haven’t I?’

‘Yes.’

She laughs. ‘Let’s go out instead.’

I settle in the passenger seat of the little bookshop and find it comforting that Aria’s van belches and backfires just as much as Poppy does. Maybe these old vans all have their quirks and it’s just a matter of translating their meanings.

As we chug along, I relax into the seat, watching the world flick by, so different to the vista I had in London. A silence falls between us, and I debate whether to fill it with something inane or just let it be. Aria doesn’t seem the type to mind either way, so instead of mumbling and bumbling I keep quiet and enjoy the scenery. As I look up my breath catches, the sky is a riot of colour.

‘Look!’ I say, pointing to the bevy of hot air balloons that float gracefully in the air.

‘Aren’t they beautiful?’ she says. ‘You know there’s an actual hot air balloon fiesta in August? Balloonatics come from all over the world to fly right here in Bristol. Hundreds of them.’

‘Wow, the sky awash with floating barometers.’

She giggles. ‘That’s what they look like from here, right? Gosh, Rosie you have to go on one. Looking straight up from the basket into the belly of the balloon is like starting into a kaleidoscope with the different layers of colour and the lick of flames. A spectacular sight.’

‘I’ll stick with watching them from ground level. Hell will freeze over before I risk life and limb to ride in a hot air balloon.’

She lets out a cackle. ‘Rosie, you’re not super adventurous, are you?’

‘The exact opposite.’

‘That’ll all change, mark my words.’

I shoot her a look that says, not on my watch.

When we come to Clifton Village, Aria pulls into a carpark and I’m immediately assailed with the vinegary scent of fresh fish and chips.

‘A girl’s gotta eat, right?’ She arches a brow.

‘You know the way to my heart, obviously.’

We order beer-battered fish and chips and munch away, lightly debating about whether minted mushy peas adds or subtracts to the meal. ‘But how can you not have mushy peas?’ I ask, bewildered.

She grins. ‘I’m as British as they come, but you know, I really don’t like them. They remind me of baby food! And I don’t think they pair with fish and chips. They just don’t.’

My mouth falls open. ‘I’ll have to take this under consideration. I’m fairly sure that’s treasonous and I don’t know if we can be friends.’

‘Take your time, think about it. I promise it’s my only foodie qualm.’

‘Pass your peas over then.’

She screws up her face, handing the offending side over.

‘So, after this shall we wander over the bridge? I’ve heard the vaults are pretty spectacular. We can do a tour through them.’

‘Sure.’

Half an hour later when I see the bridge up close I have second thoughts, remembering now the picture Oliver sent of this very same bridge. A suspension bridge. ‘Is it just me or is that bridge swaying?’ Holy moly, the bridge seems so high, the dark tea river running perilously fast way, way underneath. Of course I’ve crossed many a bridge in my time but not one of such epic proportions as this. And on foot.

Aria’s machine-gun cackle startles me. ‘Yeah, apparently the bridge deck moves and everything! Sometimes they have to close the bridge to traffic when it’s too squally.’

‘You say that like it’s a good thing.’

‘It is! It’s almost like a living being, bending and blowing about like it’s got something to say.’

‘And it’s saying “Stay the hell away”, I believe.’

Before I can make excuses, she grabs my hands and propels me forward and just like that I’m on the walkway of the bridge. As cars whoosh past, I feel the ground move under my feet. It’s so damn high, it takes my breath away.

‘You big tough Londoner, you!’ Wind whips at our faces and Aria calls out, ‘Doesn’t it make you feel alive?’

‘Well, yes, only because I’m picturing my imminent death …’ but my words are whipped away by the gale. ‘Which does make me appreciate being here, right now, alive and well and on a crazy adventure with the first British person I’ve met who doesn’t like mushy peas!’

‘I’m so glad you’re here, Rosie.’ She lets out a laugh and then pauses before speaking with a nervous lilt. ‘A couple of days ago I had this silly idea that I’d cross this bridge for the last time.’ She averts her gaze. ‘Not Thelma and Louise it off or anything, just say goodbye, pack up and head home back to my parents. Give up on this whole van life. Back to the grind of nine-to-five, you know?’

Shock must register on my face because she shrugs, and gives me the ghost of a smile and continues. ‘Things haven’t been great, and I sort of made this deal with the universe, to send me a sign, give me some sort of reassurance to stay and at that very moment you tore into the parking lot, nearly ran me over, and then opened the door and fell straight into the mud. I knew instantly, that you had come tearing into my life for a reason.’

I’m lost for words, but scramble for some. ‘Were you really going to give up the van life for good?’ I can’t picture Aria doing anything nine-to-five, she’s too ephemeral, too different to live such a mundane, regulated life.

‘Yep, incredible, right?’

‘Why though?’ What would make her consider such a thing? If Aria can’t handle van life, how can I?

She grabs my elbow and carries me along, tucking her chin against my arm. With a long sigh she says, ‘I felt like there was no sunshine anymore, you know? Like I was trudging through interminable darkness. Have you ever considered why you’re here, Rosie? Like right here, right now? This moment.’

I had, only mere moments ago, and it strikes me it’s because of Aria that already I’ve jumped far, far out of my comfort zone and relished it, even though it scares me. ‘Meaning of life type of scenario?’ I ask.

She nods.

‘Oh, Aria I am probably the worst person you can ask. My life imploded in London and I spend almost every second of every day wondering what the hell I’m doing. I shift between abject terror, and horror, with occasional bouts of hysteria. But already, you, with your gutsy attitude and go-getting vibe, have opened my eyes. I wish I could say the right thing to make you realise how wonderful you are, how I aspire to be a girl just like you, but I’m not good with words. I’m not good really at anything except cooking.’

‘You undersell yourself, Rosie. You just happened to show up right when I needed you most. And now look, we’re walking across this bridge, instead of me packing up and going home to a bleak, boring life, and I wonder how I ever thought that was a good idea.’ A stray tear welds its way down her cheek, and I know there’s more to her story. Much more, but I don’t push her for details. Whatever the reason, for once in my life I feel as though I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, if that means being here for Aria. I look at the water rushing beneath and squeeze her hand tightly. ‘So you’re staying?’

‘I can’t argue with the universe when they send me my very own Rosie, now, can I?’