Chapter Text
It was the way the oak leaf crumpled beneath her shoe, its brown flesh crumbling to nothing. Bette loved that sound. She loved the feel of the weight of her foot pressing into the ground. It was like being five years old again, not 55. In her mind’s eye she could see herself in Melvin’s yard after he had swept up the leaves into one humongous pile. Bette would slip on her boots and stomp around the yard like a miniature Godzilla, seeking out only the crunchiest and most colourful, and grinning with satisfaction as she heard the crackle of the dying leaf under her heel.
There were so many shades at that time of year. Bette wondered if that’s where she first fell in love with colour and form. Maybe it was how the red maple leaves floated down as she walked down the sidewalk to and from school, or perhaps it was the dogwood trees that would shower her with berries as the winds grew in strength. Whatever it was, colour captured Bette’s attention like nothing else. Pencils, markers, crayons… She experimented with them all as soon as she was old enough to close her fist.
Fifty years later and Bette still loved fall.
Or, rather, autumn. She was in England after all, where the words were sometimes different, but the colours of the leaves enchanted her all the same, especially the teardrop horse chestnut leaves that were yellowing day by day. On one of her first days out walking across a carpet of chestnut leaves, Bette had spotted the shiniest conker peeking from within its fleshy shell. She had been unable to resist prying it out and stowing it into her coat pocket as a keepsake. It was soon forgotten however, when she continued along the trail and became distracted by seeds fluttering down from a sycamore tree like tiny helicopters. It was some hours later when Bette fished into her pocket for the keys to her cabin and found the conker nestled inside.
With a glass of red wine in hand, and a fire roaring in the hearth, Bette laid out the leaves and seeds she had collected into a neat line on the coffee table, alongside the detritus she’d been gathering from previous days’ walks. Behind them sat a fruit bowl overflowing with apples, plums, and clementines. Citrus notes filled the air, mixing beautifully with the bouquet from the wine. All of this just to awaken her senses and, hopefully, the creativity that had been eluding her for some months.
*
“Why don’t you get out of LA, sis?” Kit had asked over coffee in The Planet one morning some weeks prior.
“Because my studio is here. My work is here. You’re all here, although I’m not sure that’s a comforting thought right now.”
Kit smiled wryly.
“Maybe that’s the problem,” Shane challenged gently, leaning onto the back two legs of her chair. “Maybe you need a change of environment.”
Bette shrugged her shoulders as she sipped on latte. Asking for advice felt like an admission of failure, and this was a conversation she was already tired of having.
“Familiarity is comfort.”
“Yeah, but that’s the other problem, Bette,” Alice had continued, joining Shane’s line of argument with typical forcefulness. “You’ve had this amazing career and now your brain has hit a brick wall. Kaput. Frozen. Stopped.”
“Get to the point, Alice.”
“Well, when I hit writer’s block, I do something crazy. Something totally out of the ordinary. It’s like… flipping a switch in your brain. You should get out of your comfort zone.”
“And go where exactly?”
“I don’t know. How about New York? London? Like Kit said, just somewhere that isn’t LA. Somewhere with new sights and sounds and energy. Ooh, I could come with you!”
Bette balked. “Absolutely fucking not.”
“You’re as stubborn as a mule,” Kit smiled. “It doesn’t have to be forever, girl. Just a few weeks away from here, away from what you know.”
With a pout, Bette finished her coffee and meditated on their words. This creative drought showed no signs of ending, and she reluctantly agreed that perhaps her friends and sister were right. With past investors and sponsors circling like vultures, Bette knew something had to change.
“Hmm. I do like London.”
“Now we’re talking,” Alice nodded enthusiastically. “And if you wanted company—”
“Al,” Shane groaned. “We’re supposed to be helping Bette, not planning a vacation for you.”
“I already said no thank you,” Bette added firmly. Alice sighed.
“Can I offer one more bit of advice?”
“Sure, Shane, why not,” Bette replied wearily.
“London, New York… these places are all great, but they’re not that different to LA. What you really need is peace and quiet. Strip back all the distractions. Get back to what’s real and simple.”
“But think of all the cute women she could meet in those cities, Shane. She hasn’t dated in months. A girl can only take so many droughts—”
“Can you not talk about me like I’m not here?” Bette cut in. “I’m not interested in meeting anyone. It’s a distraction from my work and I learned that lesson a long time ago.”
“Sorry,” Alice muttered. “Just sayin’... A little lovin’ might get the creative juices flowing.”
Ignoring Alice, Shane continued. “No bright lights. No phone signal. Mountains, lakes, that kinda shit. You haven’t taken a vacation in years.”
Bette chewed her lip.
“I’ll think about it.”
*
Bette smiled as she recalled that conversation two weeks ago, how she had been pigheaded about the whole idea of finding inspiration on a different continent. And now here she was, sinking into the cushions of a sofa in a cosy lodge on the edge of a lake in rural England. She glanced at the fruit, the leaves, and the sycamore seeds laid out before her.
Come on. Help me out.
In her lap was an open sketchbook, the blank paper taunting her. To one side were Bette’s trusty Faber-Castell pencils fanned out in a rainbow.
She waited.
And waited some more…
…Until the fire had died to ash and the bottle of red was empty.
Still the page remained blank.
*
It had rained heavily overnight. Greeting Bette the morning after was a thick mist hanging over the lake and thin rain that seemed to coat everything. It was a far cry from the endless blue skies and sunshine of West Hollywood, but this is what she had come to England for: a change not just of scenery but of climate too.
With her curls frizzing in the damp air, Bette set out on her usual morning trail, snaking through woodland and following a ramshackle path close to the shoreline of the lake. Each day she wondered how many other people had tread this route and what lives they had lived. Walking beneath gray skies and along rocky paths, her upbringing in Philadelphia and her bourgeois life back in LA felt a million miles away.
But life has a way of reminding you of where you’ve come from—and how unprepared you are, sometimes, for such a dramatic change—when you least expect it. As she rounded a corner, Bette’s attention was drawn to an unexpected sunbeam that had poked through the gray clouds like a torchbeam in the night. In her distraction, she didn’t see a camouflaged puddle of mud in her path and managed to step right into it.
“Fuck,” she grunted as her feet sank into its depths. Her voice echoed through the woods and scared a few robins into flight. “Goddamn it.”
Prying her feet out of the sludge with some effort, she noticed with not a little disdain that her Hermès boots were slathered in a thick layer of brown mud. With a loud sigh, Bette decided that she’d had quite enough nature for one day and turned to make her way back to the lodge at a rapid pace. Once home, she swapped her muddy boots for sneakers, and decided a trip into the local village was in order, hopeful she would find more suitable footwear for the remainder of her visit.
The village itself was more than a hamlet but decidedly less than a town. Cobbled streets outnumbered concrete. A sloping hill through the centre of the main street was dotted with cafes, shops, boutiques, and the occasional pub. In the gloomy weather, each offered warmth and shelter from the elements and beckoned visitors to come inside. Rodeo Drive it wasn’t, but this place held a quiet, idyllic charm all of its own, and even Bette, in a grumpy mood that matched the weather, couldn’t help but be delighted by it. As she strolled along the thoroughfare, she even found herself smiling at passers-by, finding the English much less reserved than the stereotype would have had her believe.
After stopping for coffee at an independent roaster, Bette set off again on her mission to find shoes more fitting for her new environment. Forgoing some of the more obvious chain stores, she was about to give up entirely when a small, picturesque shop caught her eye down an alleyway. Outside shone a Victorian street lamp, casting an inviting glow across the damp cobbles. The shopfront was painted forest green to blend with the surroundings. The window display showed an impressive array of camping gear, walking boots, and other paraphernalia needed in these parts. Bette’s eyes lit up. Beneath the awning that sheltered her from the rain was a sign where the shop name was written in looping gold letters.
Hikers’ Haven.
A small bell signalled Bette’s entry. Inside was as welcoming as the window display suggested. Incense must have been lit somewhere, because the smell of cinnamon and cloves drifted through the air. On one side of the shop were beautiful artworks and photographs showing off the local landscapes: mountains bold against black skies, the lake shimmering in dawn sun, and the main street Bette had just walked decked out in Christmas garb. As she looked closer, she noticed all the works were made by local artists and photographers. No mass produced garbage would be found here. Far from her house in LA, but Bette suddenly felt much closer to home.
“Hello?” she said aloud, but there didn’t appear to be anyone available to respond.
Eager to explore more, Bette continued to move through the store. Waterproof clothing, hiking poles, torches, bicycle repair kits… Everything you could think of for any kind of outdoor adventure was here. She smiled at the children’s section, seeing pairs of tiny walking boots and gloves arranged into rows, throwing her mind back to those falls she’d spent in Philly. Further along, Bette found what she had been looking for, but her eyes widened at the vast selection of boots available to her. There were heavyweight boots, lightweight boots, ankle boots, insulated boots, Wellington boots… Every single kind of boot any walker, from amateur to Everest-level expert, could possibly need. Even a fashion-conscious woman like Bette hadn’t expected such variety. Spotting a stylish pair of Berghaus boots in brown leather, a voice suddenly interrupted her mid-movement as she bent to get a closer look.
“Overwhelming, isn’t it?”
The voice was soft. There was not a hint of derision nor haughtiness, as Bette might have expected from someone significantly more informed about all things outdoorsy. Bette knew she probably stuck out like a sore thumb around here with her oversized sunglasses and high-end coats, but the voice offered only comfort and kindness. Even more curiously, the voice did not sound local. In fact, if her ears weren’t clogged with rainwater, it sounded distinctly American, with maybe just a hint of an English accent threaded underneath.
When Bette finally turned to face the woman, she was met with an outstretched hand and the most beautiful smile.
“I’m Tina. What are you looking for?”