After You Left(68)

I am usually so good at putting on a smile. ‘I’m . . . coping,’ I tell him. I’m sure he must think I’m a little mad.

He looks at me kindly and says, ‘Well, I hope you feel better very quickly.’

He’s dressed more smartly today, in a black T-shirt and a loose, light-grey jacket. He’s had his hair cut, and must have finally found a stylist who knows how to work with crazy curls. ‘How is Evelyn doing?’ I ask. Then I realise: he’s popped in twice looking for me. ‘I hope she’s well?’

His limpid brown eyes latch on to mine again. ‘She’s fine. She’s been clearing out some things in her flat. She wanted me to give you something.’

He holds out a bulky brown envelope.

‘What is it?’

‘Letters, I think.’ He studies me closely. I know I have dark shadows under my eyes, and that I’m extraordinarily pale. It’s as though he notices this. ‘She told me to say these were what she was looking for the day you talked on the phone.’ He shrugs. ‘If that makes sense.’

‘Really?’ I take the parcel from him. ‘How intriguing. Letters, huh?’

‘We could find out who they’re from if you open them.’

I chuckle. ‘We? They’re meant for me!’

‘My mother brought me up to share.’

‘I bet you’ve read them already!’

‘No!’ His eyes smile into mine. ‘I must admit that on the way over here I was tempted to take a peek, but deep at heart, I’m really not that kind of low-life human being. You know, haven’t got a life yourself, so you steal somebody else’s?’

‘Ha!’

Still smirking, I slip a hand inside the package and pull out a stack of white, letter-sized envelopes tied with string. The top one bears Evelyn’s name and a London address – the address of a magazine. They’re definitely old: well handled, but clearly cherished, too. When I look up, Michael is observing my face, as though he actually couldn’t care less what’s in the package.

I skim through them. The ones that are addressed with a more cursive writing – Evelyn’s presumably – are to a man named Stanley. ‘Thanks for these,’ I tell him. ‘You can’t imagine how touching it is to me that she’d do this . . .’

‘If you want to know the truth, I think Evelyn is a little starved of female company. I mean, she sees a lot of women in the home, but most of them don’t even know their own name, let alone hers. She’s probably bonded with you because you’re the first compos mentis female who has paid her any attention in a very long time. And you’re kind, and she can tell.’

‘How do you know I’m kind?’

‘Aren’t you?’

I put on my best growly face.

‘Okay, then she knows you’re not kind, but she doesn’t care. She’s desperate. She’s going to foist her business on you, anyway. Because you’re there.’

I laugh.

‘Of course, if you ever get the burning compulsion to share what’s in them, I’m your man. In fact, maybe I’ll give you my contact details and my national insurance number before I leave. Just to make sure you can find me.’ He thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets, looks over his shoulders, sassily, and whistles, as though he really is looking for his ID in his pocket.

‘Ha! Thoughtful of you! Trust me, if I get the calling to blurt out Evelyn’s personal business, you’ll be the first person I’ll ring.’

He winks at me.



As I’m arriving home, oddly cheered up, I receive a text from Justin that sinks me all over again.

Deposited ￡￡ into your account. What you spent on wedding + my share of rent for next 6mths until lease is up.

Ten minutes later, another comes in.

I hope that one day you will be able to forgive me.

I deposit my pack of Marks & Spencer’s Food Hall Scottish salmon on the counter, no longer feeling like eating it. I check my bank statement online. The money is there; he’s right. I hadn’t even thought about the flat, or where I’m going to live next. But this text suddenly puts it on the agenda. For some reason, I think of all the houses Justin and I visited – ones we thought we might see ourselves buying after we moved out of here – how exciting it had felt. None we had fallen in love with, though. Perhaps it had been a sign. I can’t stop staring at the money. It’s a bit like being paid off.

Snap out of it, I can almost hear my mother saying. On this note, I pour myself a glass of wine, and shove the salmon under the grill. Sally texts to ask if I fancy a night out, and my first instinct is to say no, but I type, You’re on, instead. I eat my meal, sitting at the breakfast bar, with some pre-washed rocket I shake out of a bag. It’s surprisingly edible. After, I top up my glass and take the letters over to the window chair. Since Justin’s visit, I haven’t been able to sit in my normal chair and stare at the sofa where he sat, looking so distraught. I move around it, glancing at it, like it’s alive.

I start with the first letter – they have been arranged in date order. The one from Eddy begins:

I hope you will forgive me writing to you like this. I remembered the name of your magazine, and I enquired in a bookshop and found the address.

I read Evelyn’s reply, and the letters that follow. Several of them. Eddy talking about his dreams, his routine, his visits to tend to her mother’s garden, his seeing her there every time, in his mind’s eye. Evelyn describing her London life, signing herself as Your Constance Chatterley. What is it about the ability of letters to elucidate so much more than just words? I can feel Eddy’s impatience, his frustration, his suspense, his relief, his grace and gratitude. Somehow, in their handwriting, I see Evelyn and Eddy so vibrantly on those pages; I can almost hear their voices as though I have travelled back in time.