33

Leaving the Australian sun and returning to an England that was officially in mid-autumn plunged me into a perpetual state of mild discomfort. My toes were cold, even in boots, and I had to keep a scarf permanently clamped around my neck to ward off the chill. I had a tan, though, which made even a polo neck jumper look chicer, and it wasn’t until I was out of my oversized linen summer dresses and back into proper trousers that I realized I really had gained a dress size, maybe even two – and looked all the prettier for it. I suited more fullness in my face; I looked content and healthy. And when I’d gone to pick up a pizza from the Italian place for tea the waiter had called me bella. I knew I was supposed to rage against unsolicited compliments and that I’m more than how I look, but I’d been getting takeaway there for two years and it was my first time being called beautiful by the flirty owner. It felt like a sign: I looked different, I felt different, and even Giuseppe at L’Antica Pizzeria da Michele could tell. It was all I could do not to launch into a rousing chorus of ‘I’m Every Woman’ on the walk home.

Life was wonderful. I’d left feeling like the biggest loser in London, but I’d come home a happy winner, renewed with a sense of purpose. New Annie was triumphant and it was plain for everyone to see.

What you doing? Patrick’s text pinged once I’d eaten.

I would say I broke into a smile, but I hadn’t stopped smiling. I’d told Adzo that I didn’t think we’d flown home, I’d simply floated us. I’d had a body part physically attached to Patrick – my boyfriend! – the whole way; we’d held hands in the car to the airport, and stood enmeshed together at check-in and through customs, fingers outstretched and searching under the bar in the departure lounge. We’d talked about how we wouldn’t let the real world change what we’d become in our little Aussie bubble, but we’d still been clingy, right up until we kissed goodbye when he dropped me off at home, lingering over each other’s mouths until the Uber driver asked us if we were sure we didn’t just want to get out together, since we seemed attached at the mouth anyway.

Unpacking, I typed back. By which I mean making several piles on my bedroom floor because everything needs to be washed. How does sand get in the things that didn’t even go to the beach?? Then I added: What you doing?