One of the Girls(7)

She slipped her mobile from the pocket of her shorts. Damn, no reception. Didn’t surprise her with these thick stone walls. Through the open doorway, she looked west towards the cliff line. She’d try for signal up there.

She called to Ana and Eleanor, who were unpacking their things in the twin room, then walked out into the warm evening. She followed the goat track that hugged the cliff line, the ground hard underfoot. Her knees flashed pale as she marched up the narrow path, her breath shortening with the exertion.

It felt good to move after a whole day of travelling. It was such a long way to come for four nights. Weren’t trips like this part of the crisis the environment was facing – people like them zigzagging across the continent because a hen party seemed like a birthright? Once, a hen party had been about sharing food with your girlfriends the night before your wedding. How had it become so commodified, with hen party packs, drinking games, and pathetic quizzes? Did anyone even enjoy them?

Robyn hadn’t enjoyed her own, that was for certain. She’d foolishly agreed that her mother could come. She’d never been able to say no to her mother, who was always so kind, so appeasing, and who loved Robyn so much. But on her hen do, she’d constantly felt as if she needed to tone herself down.

There were at least three Robyns inhabiting her body. There was the Robyn she was for her parents: sensible, kind, level, strong. There was the one for work: determined, highly organised, with a streak of fierceness. Then there was the Robyn for her oldest friends, who showed up after a few drinks: spontaneous, brave, and a little sweary. Having all those selves in the same venue for her hen party was hard work, like she couldn’t quite remember which Robyn she was meant to be, and she was so busy switching roles that she exhausted herself and just wanted the hen party to be over.

A bit like her marriage, actually.

The problem was, she didn’t know which was the real Robyn. Not anymore.

Cicadas sang unseen in the low scrub as she pushed on, calf muscles burning, a thin film of sweat gathering under her arms. Somewhere behind her, she heard a scuff, like a shoe kicking the dirt. She glanced over her shoulder, spooked.

No one there, of course. An animal perhaps, or a loosened rock shifting. In the softening light, the surrounding landscape had lost its definition. The villa looked lonely, crouched on the cliff edge and she had an uneasy sensation, wondering if she should turn back.

She glanced at her phone. Still no signal. If she wanted to catch Jack, she’d have to climb higher.

Her arms pumped at her sides as she ascended the cliff path, her breathing shallow. God, she used to be so fit. At school she had been on all the sports teams. Scabby knees, bruised shins, and strapped fingers were the look of her teen years. She and her brother, Drew, had spent their weekends climbing trees, building dens, and playing Manhunt in the woods. She missed those easy days.

Missed him.

She reached the top of the hill, out of breath, but with one bar of signal flickering in the corner of her phone. She pressed call, picturing Jack in his dinosaur pyjamas, the nape of his neck still damp, hair smelling of baby shampoo.

‘Robyn!’ her mother answered warmly. ‘You’ve arrived?’

‘Yes, we’ve just got to the villa. How’s Jack?’

‘Wonderful! We’ve had the loveliest day. We took the train to Brockenhurst for the afternoon. You should’ve seen his face when we saw the New Forest ponies!’

‘Could I speak to him?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling. You’ve just missed him. He’s already asleep.’

Robyn remained on the clifftop a moment, trying to swallow her disappointment.

Somewhere behind her, a goat cried. She turned, searching for it. As she did, she saw someone running along the cliff track, nimble, sure-footed. She watched for a moment, the broad shoulders, the short bleached-blonde hair. Bella’s girlfriend. They’d been introduced briefly in the boarding lounge but hadn’t exchanged more than a few words. She tried to recall her name – and finally landed on it.

Fen.

She ran effortlessly, like she was gliding, legs muscular yet lean. The lowering sun gilded her in a stream of golden light. Her shoulders were tanned and she wore an expression of easy, full focus. Robyn had recently listened to a podcast about being in a flow state, which was when you were fully present in the moment, pushing your edge, ceasing to be aware of the environment around you. Top athletes, artists and writers could access it – so could everyone – but it was fleeting. Something to be learned. Fen of the flow state.

She watched Fen with a rising sense of nostalgia, remembering the Robyn who was once athletic and strong. When she’d fallen pregnant, her muscular, lithe body had bloomed into an entirely new shape, and she’d felt like a spectator, watching it happen. When she went into labour, she was ready. She had every confidence in her strength, her physicality. She’d read a birthing book about wild women letting themselves roar, moving with the pain, not fearing it. But her body had had other ideas. After labouring for twelve hours, she began to vomit blood. An infection meant she had to be hooked up to a monitor on a hospital bed. She could no longer writhe on the floor – but she could still yell.

‘Honey, not so loud.’ That from Bill.

Not so loud?

She was bringing another human being into the world. ‘I will fucking roar!’ she’d told him, and honestly, it was the coolest thing she’d ever said.