‘Do you know how to read?’ I ask.
Wally looks affronted. ‘I have an IQ of 141.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘I used to read when I was a child,’ he says, almost thoughtfully now. ‘I stopped at some point, I guess.’
‘What were your favourite books when you were a child?’
He appears to think about this. ‘Let’s see, well, I enjoyed The Outsiders. The Chocolate War. To Kill a Mockingbird–’
‘I have the perfect book!’ I say, cutting him off and taking off toward General Fiction, where I snatch up a copy of Jasper Jones. ‘This will reignite your love of reading,’ I say, upon my return. ‘It’s won several major awards and been shortlisted for half a dozen others. And it was made into a film in 2017.’ I place the book on top of his notebook, which is next to his laptop. ‘And if you need me to set you up with a library card, I’d be happy to do that.’
He regards me for a longer than normal moment. Then something softens around his eyes. ‘I apologise, I didn’t catch your name?’
‘Fern. Fern Castle.’
‘I’m Rocco.’
He extends his hand as if to shake mine, I cross my arms in front of my chest.
‘Oh, I prefer not to touch people if I can possibly help it. Did you know that we carry an average of 3200 bacteria from 150 species on our hands at any one time? This includes faecal bacteria! If I shook hands with everyone I met at the library, I’d be constantly ill, not to mention contaminated with god-knows-what.’ I reach for my travel-sized antibacterial spray, which is attached to my overalls by a handy carabiner, and pump it into my hands. ‘Would you like some?’
‘Oh no, it’s okay . . . Oh, er, okay, thanks,’ he says, and I administer a squirt to his palm. He rubs his palms together. ‘So, shall we see if we can do something about this printer, then?’
Carmel is in the children’s section now, watching Linda making recommendations to a mother of four sons who look like they’d much rather be kicking a football than be in the library (perfect candidates for Paul Jennings or Andy Griffiths, or any book with ‘Fart’ in the title, if you ask me). As such, I know now is the time to make my exit. I prepare to tilt my head, frown into the distance and declare that I can hear someone calling me when I have an epiphany.
Wally is handsome, in an odd sort of way. If his IQ is to be believed, he has a few brain cells. Which means there’s only . . .
‘How is your health, Wally?’
The softness in his eyes is replaced with suspicion. ‘It’s excellent. I jog every morning, ten kilometres.’
I smile. For once, the library computer service has brought me some good fortune. He smiles back at me a little uncertainly, until I pose my next question.
‘Would you like to go on a date with me?’
His smile falls away.
JOURNAL OF ROSE INGRID CASTLE
My therapist told me I should keep writing while I’m away. Seeing Owen again is likely to bring up some big emotions, he said, about the marriage as well as my desire to have a baby, and it will be helpful if I get them down on paper. And since I’ve watched all the movies I care to on the plane, here goes!
I’m terrified about this reunion. I want to believe it will go well, obviously. I fantasise about it going well. In my fantasies, Owen will be happy to see me. He will explain that the reason he hasn’t kept in touch is because it is too painful to talk to me, knowing I’m so far away. But just because I fantasise about it doesn’t mean I expect it to happen. I’m not stupid. I’ve noticed Owen has been lukewarm about my visit. I’ve considered the possibility that he’s invited me to London to end things for good. Maybe I’d even arrive to find him on the arm of a beautiful English rose with an upper-class accent? The funny thing is, if that is the case, part of me will be satisfied. Because it’s what I think I deserve.
This, of course, links things back to Mum. Everything, if you dig down far enough, links back to Mum. She taught us early on that love was conditional. To earn it, we had to perform like we were in a concert. Smile, be cute, say something funny. Know exactly what she wanted you to do . . . and do exactly that.
She loved it when people found Fern and me charming because it reflected well on her. I remember being on an outing with Mum in the city when we were about six or seven. By this time, we had been granted a little public housing flat just outside of the city, and we’d often take day trips into the city so Mum could get away from our home, which she hated. This day, we were passing a busker playing the trumpet when Fern stopped and started to dance. Mum had been in a hurry, so didn’t notice and kept walking. I tugged Fern’s hand to keep her walking, but she just grabbed both my hands and spun me around, giggling.
‘Hey, look at those little girls,’ someone said.
‘Aren’t they adorable!’ someone else commented.
After just a minute or two, a crowd gathered around us, clapping and cheering. I’d never had dancing lessons, neither of us had, but even then, I knew there was something magical about Fern – her golden hair, her long limbs, the pure joy in her eyes. She was like an angel.
‘Who do these girls belong to?’ someone asked. People looked around expectedly. My stomach was already in knots. When Mum noticed we were missing, she’d be
