One Perfect Summer

today the sun is shining. Something stirs inside me. Something I haven’t felt for such a long time that I’m not sure if I recognise it. Could it be . . . happiness? No. Hope? Maybe.
    I have a sudden urge to get out, so before the deep sadness sets in again I turn and hurry out of the door, grabbing my bag as I go. I jog down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor, keeping my head down so that I don’t have to speak to anyone, and then I’m outside in the bright sunshine. The positive feeling inside me grows stronger, and I desperately don’t want it to dissolve. So I walk, fast, towards the main road. On autopilot, my fingers curl under and I press my nails into my palms, causing me to wince. I flex my hands and try to stop myself from doing it. Pain has become so natural to me, but I don’t want it, not today.
    The Fitzwilliam Museum is straight ahead, the two stone lion sentries guarding the neo-classical building with its row of Corinthian columns. I turn left, away from the city centre. I take a right onto Fen Causeway, but the traffic is too noisy so I step off the pavement and cautiously climb over the cattle grid into the marshy parkland beside the river. I choose the grass path instead of the asphalt one, preferring the feel of its spongy softness under my feet. It reminds me of walking on the cliffs at Dancing Ledge, and then I’m transported back there with Joe.
    I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you . . .
    I halt in my steps as the pain debilitates me. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push out the memory of him.
    It turns out that my instincts were correct. I knew that he would hurt me. I just didn’t know how.
    When I came downstairs that day to find him gone I bolted, running out of the door and down to the road. I thought he might be waiting at the bus stop, but he was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, I tore back to the cottage and snatched Mum’s car keys, but my dad stood in front of her car, blocking me from leaving. I screamed at him to move, but he wouldn’t. Eventually my mum climbed into the car beside me and attempted to calm me down. I begged her to let me go to the train station, but she tried to convince me that Joe could be anywhere by now. I sobbed my heart out the whole way home. I still can’t speak about Joe to my dad. I know that he was only trying to protect me, but I don’t feel that I will ever be able to forgive him.
    I spent every day of the next two weeks searching fruitlessly on the streets of London, knowing that my chances of seeing Joe were next to nothing. I never did find him. Never did see any trace of him or sense that I was on the right path. Now any reunion is in his hands.
    He still hasn’t come for me. And I’m still waiting.
    I force my eyes open and the blurry yellow shape of a daffodil comes into focus. I concentrate on the flower, and slowly the pain dispels. I look around and see that I’m surrounded by the first flowers of spring. Winter has gone, and I’ve only just noticed. I wipe the hot tears from my eyes and then I straighten up and keep walking.
    I come out onto a road that leads to Silver Street Bridge and one of the main punting stations on the River Cam. I look down at the rows and rows of long, narrow wooden boats chained to each other. I still haven’t been punting. But as usual I put my head down to avoid being accosted by any of the scouts touting for business. I don’t know why. I should take a tour. Maybe I will. One day.
    I cross over the bridge, again heading away from the city, and then I follow the path that runs adjacent to Queens Road, with the backs of the colleges – known simply as the Backs – on my right-hand side. The sun is warm on my body and I’m hot from walking so fast, so I take off my black cardigan and tie it around my waist, before forcibly concentrating on slowing my pace to a wander.
    In my six months here, I have been looking, but not really seeing. Now I take in my surroundings. Small green buds have formed on the trees, and some are drenched with blossom. A female jogger in purple shorts and a matching vest heads in my direction. I automatically avert my gaze as she passes. Up ahead a man walks his dog. I try not to look away and, sure enough, he nods and smiles at me. Feeling strange, I nod and smile back.
    That’s it, Alice. That’s the way forward.
    The next time someone passes I even go so far as to say good morning. The corresponding friendliness of these strangers feels oddly