After You Left(93)

Evelyn’s eyes light up. ‘Well, it didn’t start off that way. I’m not really sure what it started off as. I think I always had the theme, I just needed the right story to hang it on. And when I met your dad again, I found my story. It was like it had always been there.’

I look at her tears and think, God, is it really possible to cry for an entire lifetime over someone? ‘But the title? You were the one who left, not Eddy?’

‘Yes. And yet you can never know how many times I’ve played over the vision of him walking away from my front door when he’d come to take me on our date. As I stood and peeked from behind those curtains . . .’

My brows pull together. I can’t bear to picture it. I flick through the first couple of pages. ‘Look! You dedicated it: For Eddy.’

I just want to disappear into a room and read. I quickly find the first page.

Northumberland. 1983

At first all she saw was the back of his head. He was on the other side of the vast laurel tree that divided two sections of the garden . . . I skip ahead. He always came on Tuesdays, her mother had told her.

‘After he would leave, after we had made love and I was glowing from him, I would scramble to get it all on to paper. Everything I’d done and felt and said, all day. Everything he’d said . . . I was always good at shorthand. I knew that abysmal secretarial training would finally come in handy.’ She smiles. ‘I’d like you to have it, obviously. You didn’t have the benefit of knowing him as a dad. So at least this way, you’re going to know Eddy, the man – more of an account than I’ve even been able to give you.’

I clutch it to my heart. She watches me, and there’s a vaguely self-satisfied expression on her face, and I love it. I am unspeakably grateful to her.

‘I walked away from Eddy. Justin walked away from you. Neither of us did it because we’d stopped caring. You and your father both lost the person they loved to someone else. You have more in common than you might have thought.’

I think, But I don’t want to be like my father. I don’t want to have loved and lost and never know love again. Yet I know life is long, and there will be good things ahead. They already have a face.

‘I’d like to read it to him, if you think it’s a good idea.’ As a child, I remember the curious tenderness of being read to. And now I think I’ll enjoy being the one to tell the stories.

‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’

‘Did you write any other novels, Evelyn?’

‘No. And, of course, this one is out of print. That copy might well be the only one left on the planet.’ She attempts a laugh. ‘I was commissioned to write a second book, but somehow I couldn’t pull it off. So I had to pay back some of my advance. I don’t think the publisher was very pleased.’

‘You could have written the flip side of events – what would have happened if you had chosen to be with Eddy and left Mark. Or, if you hadn’t watched him leave that day. If you had gone on that first date.’

‘I don’t think I was altogether clever enough to invent stories. They had to come from some place of truth in me. Besides, I hate what ifs.’

I fan through the pages, enjoying their draught on my face. And then I see something curious.

‘What’s this?’

Lodged in between the pages is a small airmail envelope. On the front, in writing that I now easily recognise, is written Evelyn Westland, and the address of Cosmopolitan magazine.

Evelyn gets up from the floor, and squints. ‘I have no idea. What is it? A letter?’

‘It’s addressed to you, Evelyn. It’s unopened.’

She stares at it, slightly daunted. ‘Good Lord! Open it. Read it to me.’

‘I can’t, Evelyn. I can’t read your letter. It’s personal.’

‘Please! You’ve read all the others. I don’t have any more secrets.’ She manages a humourless laugh. ‘One has definitely been more than enough.’

I slip my thumb under the tiny lip of the flap, which hasn’t stuck properly. The folded page inside is flimsy, so lightweight that I could probably read the words straight through it, if I didn’t want to drag out my suspense.

‘It was written on March 10, 1984, Evelyn.’ I start reading.

To My Love, Evelyn,

I wasn’t going to send this, in case unearthing the not-so-distant past might upset you, but lately you have been on my mind even more so than usual, if that’s possible, and I don’t quite know why. I hope there’s nothing wrong, and you are well. I hope that you have managed to put everything that happened behind you, without entirely forgetting me in the process.

I realised you might be left with the impression that I was disappointed in you, because I returned your letters. I don’t really know why I did. A knee-jerk reaction, perhaps: another example of me not thinking straight. But it certainly wasn’t because I was angry with you. I completely understand why you couldn’t go through with it, and I can promise you that I bear no ill feelings toward you whatsoever. Not now. Not ever. I could never think badly of you, and I hope you believe that, or our love will have failed somehow. You once said it a long time ago – our timing has always been off. I would have been a very lucky man if I’d managed to get you to stay here for me when you were that young, beautiful, go-getter girl I knew for only one day. Our paths crossed again in a way that I promise you I will never forget, and even when we get our bleak moments, Evelyn, we have to remember to be glad of that. I, for one, will always remember the happiness I’ve felt just to know you and love you, and not for one minute would I have wanted to miss out on that.