From here to home

I meet the little black notebook on my normal train.

It’s not a date per se. Instead, fate brings us together on the 17:58 express from here to home, and although the carriage is mostly empty, the notebook has chosen my favourite seat, my only seat, to lay itself down and wait.

It’s mildly troubling, to be honest, because surprises are not my cup of tea. They do not suit me half as well as my pink cable-knit sweater, but up close, even I must admit that this notebook is of note.

It has a slender spine and a smooth moleskin complexion, with an elastic strap worn taut on one shoulder, and a small silver heart pressed into its front like a brooch.

Inside are someone’s secrets or sketches or plans within plans, but I don’t pretend to leave the notebook where I found it, or hand it in unread.

Instead, I stare down my co-passengers in our dark, streaking reflection, then slide the notebook from my seat to my lap. The elastic slips free with a silent twang, and, suddenly, the notebook isn’t lost or stolen.

It’s mine.

The opening page is a casual monochrome of neat pen on nice paper, ink on ivory, and although I’m deadened by the work day and resigned to my same old dinner, there’s a sudden, strange thrill in finding a little black notebook that knows me better than I know myself.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah…’ the notebook drawls in its half-familiar running-writing, ‘It’s after six on a weeknight. You’ve got a microwave dinner waiting in the freezer, two daytime soaps to catch up on, and the last thing – like, the very last thing – you want to do, is step off this train and flip the script. But how about it? Just this once? Puh-leaaase! For me?’

The train slows to its final stop. An empty crisp packet tumbleweeds down the aisle, and I alight with the notebook fanned open at pages two and three.

It’s not deliberate. The wind has caught it there. A collage has tipped the balance. I drag a foot. Blink an eye. And all of this means nothing, because the little black book has me for a "Yes."

Hand-cut birds chirp. Hand-stuck bears dance. A beaming rainbow springs from a smiling cloud. And the notebook tells me that we're celebrating this special evening, this late dawn, with ice-cream.

Normally, I’d decline. This is no hour for dessert. There’s an impractical chill creeping in. And home is where my heart is. But "No." is not the order of this night.

I settle into a sticky booth at my favourite gelateria, order my usual flavours (lemon and vanilla), then flick to page four as I finish the cone.

I'm met with a small, pastel lemon that's rolling its eyes, and a lanky vanilla bean with hands on slim, brown hips.

‘Seriously?! You ordered lemon and vanilla again?' the notebook chides. ‘You're supposed to be going off-script! But it's cool, it's cool...' the handwriting sighs, 'You like what you like... I get it. Just promise me you won’t choose beige…’

'Beige?' I blink.

‘For your nails…’ explains the notebook.

The ellipsis at the end of that sentence stretches into a thin black pen line that runs to the very edge of the page, and does not stop. Instead, the line cuts a neat path across the next two pages, and I have to assume that the determined little figure that's cycling along it, is meant to be me.

In actual fact, I have not ridden a bicycle for two years.

A spectacular fall took my confidence on the main street between here and the harbour, but there is an appointment card glued to the page that says I have precisely 23 minutes to make it to the manicurist.

Her card is offputtingly luxurious. Time is cut too short. And I’m sorely tempted to cancel this adventure, two scoops in, with no skin lost.

I could call a cab, or catch a bus, or run late on foot. Any of those things are better, but instead, I turn the page.

‘You’ve got this!’ the notebook says, in a strong dazzle of red pen.

‘You want this!’ it promises, switching to amber.

‘GO GET THIS!’ it orders, signing off in an aspirational green.

The determined little figure is high on her pedals by now, reaching for a heart-shaped star that's well within grasp, and it seems wrong to let her reach alone.

I close the moleskin cover, escape from the sticky booth, and force myself forward.

Outside, there’s a rack of city bikes waiting to be borrowed, and a scuffed helmet in my size. I cycle through best-case scenarios in my mind and swing a slow leg over the frame nearest.

I take one deep breath, then three, and pedal bravely, unwaveringly, towards the posh nail studio that scares me, too. Cars streak past, beeping and braking. A black cat crosses without looking. My thighs burn in the cold night, but the star is mine, or me, or both.

I arrive at the salon with time to spare. My helmet hair and hangnails catch the light badly, but this manicurist is a kind brand of glamazon, trained in the art of glossing over life’s small embarrassments.

I choose easy conversation. I choose pale pink. I choose a piccolo of champagne as the top coat sets, then I weave my bike down to the harbour, to the site of the terrible tumble, and am pleasantly surprised that history does not repeat. The bike is safely parked and my skin’s unmarked.

The notebook and I sit together for a while in someone else’s seat. There's a weekend buzz on this woke boardwalk, and I'm people-watching. Dream-weaving. Cartwheeling across paper with the silver heart in my hand.

The notebook is thinking dinner.

‘Are you cool with Sushi-Go-Go?’ it actually asks.

Ordinarily, I’m not. The eatery is white bright, with chopstick etiquette at every table and the constant threat of wasabi in soy. Worse still, it’s the place my secret crush likes to go-go.

I make a habit of sneaking past this place, but tonight is different. For reasons unbeknownst to 7.8 billion people, this one cute technician is suddenly waving me in with a chopstick and clearing a space at his table for two.

‘I know you…‘ he smiles, ‘You work at West & Co.’

‘Uh, yeah…’ I blush, taking a seat.

‘August,’ he explains simply, 'My name, not the season.'

‘Jenny,’ I manage, ‘Or Jen.’

‘Easy,’ he beams. ‘So… at the risk of sounding clichéd, do you come here often?’

‘No, well … yes, sometimes…’ I lie. ‘How… how about you?’

‘Oftentimes,’ he laughs, ‘I’m a bit obsessed, but at least it keeps me off the ready meals.' He takes a long sip of Asahi. 'So, how's your night been?'

‘Different...’ because it is.

‘Yeah?’

August looks interested, so even though I’m not typically a ‘sharer’, I lay the notebook in the space between us, and show him the rainbow, citrus, cyclist and all the lines leading to this point in time.

‘Go on, then…’ he smiles, 'Don't leave me hanging. What's in your future?'

I want to say that it’s secret – the next page in my story – but we both know that’s not strictly true. In any event, the next spread deserves to be shared.

It’s an ode to metallic pen and 3B lead. There are no words, just a silver, heart-shaped balloon, suspended from a doorknob that I know is mine, with a red pencil dangling below it like a key.

‘I’ll see you at work,’ I decide quickly, seizing the notebook and standing up.

‘Um, ok. I'd like that. Cool!’ August recovers, and before he can stall me with sushi or escort me out, I’m rushing home on the 22.04 express, pedalling my borrowed bike like some kind of expert, with my pink nails lighting the way, and a smile that even the cold can’t erase.

I arrive home to find life imitating art.

There’s a large silver balloon pulsing at my door and a sharp pencil willing me to aim it.

The lead arrow finds its mark. The helium heart bursts. A cheque for $20k flutters to earth, and I know that my best friend has sold her Bitcoin and loves me like a strange sister, because the notebook explodes into colour and collage and everything wonderful, and the very last thing it says is, 'SURPRISE! You're living your best life! Oh... and happy birthday, J x’