The Turning Point: A gripping love story, keep the tissues close.... Freya North

twenty-five when she was born.’

      So he’s four years older than me.

      ‘Your wife?’

      Was there a wife?

      ‘We split when Jenna was small,’ he said. ‘Really small.’ He paused. ‘She had – has – problems with alcohol. She – Lind – and I were in a band. You know, when there’s music and alcohol and drugs and you’re on the road, that’s just how it is. It’s about dangling yourself off the edge of life just for the heck of it. But those who know it’s mainly bullshit and temporary – they end up like me. Those that don’t – so, they end up like Lind. She wanted to seize the day, I wanted to live for tomorrow. So it’s been just me and Jenna.’ He paused again and regarded Frankie levelly. ‘And it still is.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to single parenting.’

      There’s no such thing as soulmates and love at first sight, they both knew that from the experiences that had led to their acceptance that life not in a couple was OK. Really, after all this time, it was fine. Nothing lacking, nothing to be craved. Best for the kids. It is what it is.

      But as their eyes locked again for another caught moment, they sensed a surging inevitability that outweighed any cliché of finding each other in a crowded station, any coincidence that had thrown them back together right here and which overruled any tastelessness that the anonymity of a hotel far from home insinuated.

      How could a new face be known so well so quickly? It was all unfathomably liberating and dangerous and comforting and nonsensical. In this vast city, in which neither of them lived, they’d managed to meet and somehow they knew they’d now never not know each other.

      Frankie scrolled through the photos on Scott’s phone, his face close to hers as if guiding her to see exactly what he saw.

      ‘So this is Jenna outside her apartment in Whistler which is around fifty minutes from me. You’ve heard of Whistler, right? She has a job there before starting university in Vancouver this fall.’

      Frankie enlarged the picture, Jenna and a friend; their arms outstretched, roaring with laughter. She imagined them larking about while Scott had said hey, come on girls – just one picture. Come on – stop goofing. Just smile for your old Pa, will you?

      ‘And this is my home. I live around twenty minutes from a village called Pemberton.’

      Jenna, Scott and a dog. A majestic mountain, its ravines and peaks slashed with snow, fir trees scoring dark trails through its sides, like mascara tears. A broad veranda wrapped around a home made of huge logs set in an extraordinary landscape whose vastness couldn’t be compromised by a phone screen.

      Frankie turned to face him. He was very close. Aftershave. A neat nose. Bristles dipping into the vertical laughter lines on his cheeks. Eyes the colour of the rock on that mountain outside his home. ‘Wow.’

      ‘Pretty much sums up my life, that picture,’ he said.

      ‘What’s the dog’s name?’ She liked the look of the brown Labrador, he appeared to be grinning.

      ‘Buddy. He’s a Seizure Alert Dog – and his name fits. He’s older now, a little arthritic. It’s our turn to look after him. Actually, he’s English – he came from this incredible center in Sheffield.’

      ‘How does he help?’

      ‘He can sense tiny changes in Jenna’s manner, in her behaviour or mood – sometimes up to fifty minutes before a possible seizure. He’s trained to let her or me know.’

      ‘Where’s Buddy now, though?’

      ‘So he’s with Aaron. Here,’ Scott found a picture of Aaron with Buddy in the cockpit of the Cessna. ‘Aaron’s as close as I have to a brother. We grew up together, went to school together and we still live close by. He’s a First Nations man – a native. Aaron’s people are the Ĺíĺwat – they’ve been living in the territory for over five thousand years.’ He observed how intently Frankie was looking at the photo. ‘He’s a crazy, beautiful guy – he has his own plane and runs a skydiving business. He flies me to Vancouver when I have to go abroad.’

      ‘Does Buddy fly too?’ Frankie hoped he did – there could be a story in that. Buddy Flies to the Rescue, Buddy Takes to the Skies, Buddy and the Eagle’s Nest.

      ‘Oh sure,’ said Scott, ‘he loves it.’

      ‘What about when Jenna goes to college – could she take Buddy?’

      ‘She could – but she won’t. She wants to be seen as normal. She doesn’t like people to know, really. There are still a lot of misconceptions about epilepsy despite the fact that it’s the most common brain disorder worldwide. Unfortunately, we’re still on a bit of an expedition finding the right medication for Jenna. She’s one of the twenty per cent who don’t have much luck on that front.’

      Frankie looked at Scott. ‘When Sam was a toddler we were out in the park and a man started having a fit.’ She paused. ‘It frightened me. Somebody else went to his aid.’

      ‘It is frightening. It still scares the shit out of me and I know how to deal with a seizure.’

      Frankie thought of Sam. Taller than her now, his voice swinging from childlike to croaky; a boy-man in the making sometimes battling with himself to figure out if he was to become a rebel or remain a geek. She thought of Annabel with her button nose that was just the same as when she’d been a toddler; a contrary yet thoughtful child with a vulnerability she kept hidden behind liveliness. She thought of how they loved their bedrooms, their things, the chaos and clatter, the tempers and laughter. She’d never had to worry about their health. On those blessed occasions when all went quiet in their rooms, she always thought thank God for that, a moment’s peace.

      ‘I just can’t begin to imagine,’ she said quietly.

      ‘Well, my theory is you have to live life to the full, whatever is thrown at you. It’s like a ball game really, keep batting, keep playing, keep believing yours is the winning team.’

      ‘I like your philosophy, Scott,’ said Frankie. ‘I ought to pin it up on my fridge. Don’t laugh – I’m serious! Authors can be introverted and overemotional souls.’

      Scott was grinning. ‘I can’t believe you told me you were an accountant.’ Frankie reddened. He nudged her. She nudged him back. She thought, I’ve just smiled coyly, on purpose. She thought, he’s not letting my eyes go.

      But the hotel lobby was emptying. Sharp-suited businessmen, previously lairy, now just dull drunk, slumped around the bar like scrunches of rejected paper at the end of a brainstorm. In a corner, a couple engrossed in a hungry snog, only half-hidden by decorative bamboo. At a neighbouring table, an elderly lady sipping tea as though she’d quite lost sense of what time of day it was. And still Frankie and Scott sat side by side.

      ‘How long are you staying?’

      ‘Another night,’ said Frankie. ‘You?’

      ‘I fly out Sunday afternoon. I’ll have been here a week.’

      ‘Are you working all that time?’ Shall I say something? Shall I try? ‘Are you working tomorrow?’

      ‘Yes, I’m in the studio. You?’

      ‘I have a couple of meetings. Dinner with my agent.’ Try and make it happen. ‘Where’s your studio?’

      ‘Abbey Road.’

      ‘Well that’s a good address for a studio,’ said Frankie guilelessly. ‘There’s a world-famous one called just that. The Beatles – the zebra crossing.’

      Scott laughed. ‘There’s only one Abbey Road, Frankie.’

      ‘And you’re there?’

      ‘British session musicians are the best in the world when it comes to sight-reading and playing to a “click”. I think it’s down to a lack of funding