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Back Day of the Accident
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. What readers are saying about
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part One
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. Part Two
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. Part Three
  61. 52
  62. 53
  63. 54
  64. 55
  65. 56
  66. 57
  67. 58
  68. Epilogue
  69. Acknowledgements
  70. THE NEXT THRILLER BY NUALA ELLWOOD
  71. THE BEGINNING

I go into the kitchen and open the cupboard. There’s a bottle of red wine in there. Sonia bought it for me when I moved in last week, a sweet house-warming gift. I shouldn’t really be drinking while I’m taking the antidepressants but one won’t harm. I don’t have any wine glasses so I take a mug from the draining board and pour a good measure into it. Then I take it into the living room and go over to the pile of boxes. I pull one of them towards me – it’s marked ‘The Bitch: Office’ – and slowly pull the masking tape off the seal. When I open it up I get a whiff of Pomegranate Noir. The two scented candles that used to sit on the bookshelves in my study have been placed on the top. I take them out and put them on the floor beside me; relics from another life. Then I dig deeper into the box and lift out notepad after notepad. I flick through them. They are filled with ideas for new books, for short stories, even a screenplay. One of the pages is filled with messy handwriting. I look closer and see that it’s an early outline of my novel. It was initially called Afternoons with Virginia, then, when it started to evolve, I’d changed the title to Drowned Words. It seemed to fit with how I was feeling. The premise was the same though: a lonely young mother conducting imaginary conversations with a dead writer. I’d thought it up when I was sitting by the stones with Elspeth a couple of years ago. She used to love to count the stones; it was a form of meditation for her. That day she had been so lost in her counting she wouldn’t answer me when I tried to engage her in conversation. So I began to talk to Virginia Woolf in my head, remembering how her words had made me feel centred when I read them at the unit. Elspeth had stopped counting then and asked what I was doing – I must have been moving my lips. When I told her, she shrugged her shoulders and said, ‘Well, don’t expect her to answer you back. I’ve tried and she never does.’

My funny, eccentric girl. God, I miss her. I put the notebook back in the box then turn to one of the boxes marked Elspeth.