‘Isn’t thirty-eight a bit old for dating apps?’ I suggest.
‘Too old? You know Nicky Sales is getting married next year because of Tinder.’ My best friend Leanne barely looks up as she swipes and types on my phone. I’d given it to her to get me on their new WiFi, but she apparently saw an opportunity to take my life into her own hands.
‘I’m just not sure. I’m trying to nurture a gentler phase in my life after the last few years. You know how crap it’s been. I think I just want to exorcise some demons and be happy. Learn to love myself.’
‘Alright, Yoko Ono,’ she says, cynically. ‘Exorcising demons suggests you’re going to start unpicking all that’s gone off and I’m telling you now, no good can come of reliving the bad stuff.’
I shift uncomfortably because it’s almost like she can see the state I got in when I wrote the letter to Ben. I hadn’t anticipated how painful it would be, how much I’d relive all the moments I felt I wanted to say.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ she continues, not looking up. ‘I’d like to see you love yourself, even the messed-up bits. Because if you’ve not messed up in life, then you’re not living it right. But I also know you. Loving yourself won’t happen overnight. Maybe a bit of positive male attention might help in the meantime.’
‘Is that not the very opposite of what I’m supposed to be doing?’
‘Who says what you’re supposed to be doing? Also I’m not saying you need a man to make you happy…’
‘Right!’
‘But maybe a bit of flirting and a few dates might make you realise you’re not a total lost cause.’
‘Flirting and dates? Oh God. I can’t even…’ Leanne ignores me, so I raise my eyebrows at my brand-new, tiny goddaughter instead. Elsie Alice. She lies in my lap and doesn’t respond. She probably doesn’t have an opinion on Tinder. She’s three weeks old but still a bit scrunched up, like, if she could, she’d climb straight back in the womb and nestle there for a few more months. I can relate to that. A womb is safe and away from reality. It’s warm. You can mostly sleep. Nobody requires you to be a grown-up. Or join Tinder.
‘You might meet the man of your dreams.’
‘I don’t think I’m ready.’
‘You may not feel ready, but I’m here to tell you, you are. This is exactly what you need, the motivation to move on. Let’s face it, you’ve never been that good at realising when it was time.’
I’ve known Leanne for years. Since school, though we didn’t hang out much then. But we’ve been inseparable since meeting back up at work a couple of years ago. Recruitment. A job she got out of way before I did and, frankly, I wish I had followed her lead. At least then I might not have got the sack. She’s seen me at my best and worst and whilst she has no problem in telling me if she thinks I’m being an idiot, she also seems to accept that mostly I’m not a bad person.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I say, uncertainly.
‘It may not be the perfect solution, but something’s got to give. Like I say, you can’t keep looking back, Jem. So, what shall I say about you? In your profile bit. We need something funny, something sharp and sassy. Something that will make you stand out from the crowd.’
I smile. ‘That I’m doing this under duress? That my life is a mess and I should probably be avoided at all costs. That I am broke, single and living back with my mum?’
‘You can’t start with that. You need to be open, but not too open. You need to seem keen.’
‘How keen?’
‘Keen enough to shave your legs before you go on a date.’
She looks pointedly at the bit of ankle poking out of my jeans, so I pull my leg out of view. ‘I will shave my legs if and when I want to. It just hasn’t really been a priority of late, is all.’
‘No. I can see that.’
‘In case you’d forgotten, there’s not been much call for a shaven leg round these parts. And I’ve been a little busy here, helping you. Besides, Elsie Alice doesn’t care about the state of my leg hair, do you, baby? Hey? No. No you don’t.’ I tap my finger from her chin to top lip to nose. Something I always do to babies and for some weird reason, it usually makes them laugh. Not this time. ‘Nothing. Tough crowd.’
‘She won’t be laughing for weeks yet.’
‘She could at least smile.’
‘She’s not a performing monkey! Right, I’ve said you’re: often wrong but never in doubt.’
‘Wow! Thanks.’
‘It’s a joke.’
‘It makes me sound high maintenance!’
‘Alright, what would you put?’
‘I don’t know. That I like reading, watching TV, and holidays abroad?’ Leanne mock yawns. ‘See! This is why I don’t do dating apps, what the hell are you supposed to say? Maybe it’s time I was single for a while.’
‘You’ve been single for a year, Jemima Whitfield. And, whilst there’s nothing wrong with that per se, I think you feel stuck, don’t you?’ I half nod, mildly irritated by her powers of observation. ‘This could be a little kick-start.’
‘But don’t you think I need time to process it all? And what about Mum? She needs me.’
‘She’s on the mend, Jem.’
‘In theory. But everything feels so raw. Since Ben left, at the risk of sounding over-dramatic, I feel like life has gone from bad to worse.’
‘It went bad to worse a year ago. And now it’s getting better. You’re just testing the waters, that’s all.’
‘What does an almost forty-year-old, recently bankrupt, emotionally unavailable woman have to offer anyone?’
‘You are only two of those things – thirty-eight is not almost forty. Not in my book anyway, I’m not owning that until I absolutely have to.’ I scowl at her. ‘It’s exactly why I think this would help though, love. Give you some confidence that you are worthy, that you have something to offer.’ She breathes in. ‘Make you stop obsessing over Ben.’
‘I’m not obsessing over him.’ This is a lie and she’ll know it. I never stopped thinking about him, despite everything that went on. All that I did. All that’s happened since he left. I should stop hiding and beating myself up for past me, and all the things she did. It’s time to acknowledge my flaws, own them, then move on. Be new. Be better. Be the person Leanne seems to think I can be. ‘I wrote him a letter.’
‘Who?’
‘Ben!’ Leanne looks at me and it’s a bit like people who peer over their glasses, except she doesn’t wear glasses. ‘I thought it would be cathartic. Put some ghosts to rest, you know? I put everything in there. I told him everything.’
‘Everything?’
She sounds surprised. I suppose because I’ve told her so many times that I just don’t want to talk about it. And because she knows it all, she’s never really pushed me to open up further. Just suggested that at some point, it might be a sensible option. But I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s hideous and just reminds me what a terrible person I’ve been.
‘Have you posted it?’
‘Of course not! I’m not stupid.’ Elsie Alice wriggles, so I pick her up, resting her against my chest. She nuzzles into my neck and for a second I close my eyes and imagine what it might have felt like to have my own small person wholly and solely reliant on me. I think probably I’d be a terrible mother. Leanne does it so well, but I’m just not that selfless. I snap myself out of the unnecessary daydream. ‘Ben always had this thing about writing things down then burning them.’
‘Ben did?’
‘Yes. He said it helped. You write stuff down then you burn it. It’s supposed to rid you of guilt and trauma.’
‘Could work.’
‘Can’t make it any worse.’
‘No.’
‘So, I went back over everything. Wrote it all down. Hated on myself a bit then folded it up and popped it in an envelope. I’m gonna pick up one of those mini garden incinerator thingy’s from Geoff’s DIY, the ones that look like a metal bin with a chimney. I’ll burn the lot on the patio. Maybe, after the smoke has gone, I won’t be a terrible person any more.’
‘There, you’re all set. Let’s get swiping,’ she says, not passing me my phone back. ‘And you are not a terrible person. You are my brilliant best mate who makes good tea.’
‘You want tea?’
‘I kind of want tea.’
I roll my eyes but don’t really mind Leanne’s request. Let’s face it, she gave birth to a giant, tiny baby and has struggled to sit down ever since. She winces when she walks and cries whenever she breastfeeds. Something about her uterus. I grimace a little at that bit. But I am interested in Leanne’s mental health and wellbeing, so tea is a small price to pay. Besides, I need her to be okay. I need her. ‘Right, tea coming up. I think you might be required to feed,’ I say, handing an increasingly agitated Elsie back to her.
‘Probably. Doesn’t stop eating, this one. You make tea whilst I feed her, and swipe for the future love of your life for you.’
From the kitchen I can hear her, in between complaints about her uterus, or breastfeeding in general, shouting out about people she’s finding. ‘Oh, nice.’ Or ‘I’d ruin him!’ Before I hear a, ‘No way!’
‘What?’ I shout, spilling milk on the side.
‘Isn’t that the lad from school, the one from a couple of years above who used to follow Fleur Andrews around like a lost puppy?’
Fleur was Leanne’s best friend at school. She was cool and beautiful and everyone fancied her. I wipe the milk up and head through.
‘That’s deffo him. Look.’ She holds my phone up for me to check and I peer at it. ‘Mitch! That’s his name. Mitchell… Black! Failed his GCSEs, so had to hang back and do another year.’
She zooms in on the photo.
‘Christ, Mitch Black. Yes. That is him.’ I get a second to study his face before she pulls it back to take a closer look herself.
She cocks her head to one side. ‘I was never sure about him really, but he does look good.’ I make a noise that was supposed to sound indifferent, but I think comes out a bit eager. ‘Oh yeah?’ she says, grinning at me. ‘You like a man that’s grown into his face, don’t you? That weathered, lived-in look.’
‘Weathered and lived-in? He’s not Alan Rickman.’
‘No,’ she grimaces. ‘Mitch Black looks pretty hot.’
‘If you like that sort of thing,’ I say, holding my hand out for my phone. ‘And there was NOTHING wrong with Alan Rickman, I’ll have you know.’
‘Hmmm. He could be your very own Alan Rickman. Only better. And alive.’
I’m about to point out that I still grieve the loss of one of my favourite actors but she’s not paying attention and has, instead, swiped right before handing back my phone. My mouth drops open. ‘No way, you did not just do that.’
‘If it was left to you, you’d be moping around single and morbid for life.’
‘I wouldn’t, I just need time. And besides, didn’t you say Mitch Black was weird?’
‘No. I said I wasn’t sure about him. Which I wasn’t. But that was over twenty years ago. We all change. Besides, Ben left yonks ago, you need to get out there.’
‘Need? I don’t need anything.’
‘We all have “needs”,’ she says, labouring the point.
‘Needs I can satisfy perfectly well by myself, thank you very much. I don’t need a man.’
‘You don’t. Of course you don’t. But that doesn’t mean to say you actively can’t have one.’
‘What? Mitch Black from school?’
‘If he swipes right, too?’
‘I think I want to die.’
‘Not before he’s swiped right, you’ll not!’
I groan, dropping into the chair opposite her, just as Mum sends me a text.
I assume that letter in your room was for posting. So nice to see you two have been in touch. I’ve popped a stamp on and dropped it in the box. Give my love to Leanne. X
My heart stops. ‘No, no, no, no!’
‘What?’
I cough, trying to restart my pulse, apparently to no avail. ‘The letter… Mum’s posted the letter…’
‘What letter?’ Leanne leans away from Elsie Alice so she can blow across the top of her tea. ‘I will drink this whilst it’s still warm!’
‘The letter. THE letter. The LETTER!’ I get up and pace to the window.
‘Oh no… not—’
‘The one I was going to burn later. So nobody had to read it.’
‘Where was it?’
‘In my room. Mum goes in sometimes if she’s putting a wash on and hasn’t got enough of her own stuff. She saw it on the side.’
‘But… shit.’
I spin to face her, hands on head. ‘Oh God, this is bad. This is really bad. I thought things were bad before, but this is…’
‘Bad?’
I grab my bag. I plant a kiss on Elsie’s forehead, which means my nose brushes Leanne’s boob. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. Most action I’ve had in months. You too, I’d imagine. Tinder could sort that!’ I shoot her a look because now is not the time. ‘Okay, don’t panic. Go. See if you can get it back. It’s all going to be fine.’ I blow her a kiss and run out of the door. As it slams behind me, I just about hear her shouting, ‘DON’T PANIC!’
Too late. I’m panicking.
I drum my fingers on my steering wheel, looking up and down the street for a glimpse of the tiny red van driven by the postman that has the key to open the post box that contains the letter. If I can just get it back. If I can just… I look up at the sky as if cursing the universe.
Am I a glutton for this kind of punishment, just really unlucky, or am I entirely and wholly deserving? Is this karma in all its glory? Come on now, Jem, pep-talk time. Be realistic. Is this the worst thing that’s ever happened? Is it worse than the time you emailed your boss with some juicy gossip when you meant to email your colleague? Is it worse than the time you meant to text someone you were flirting with but accidentally sent it to the next-door neighbour who happened to share the same name? What can I say? There are too many Daves in my phone. Is it worse than when you left a voicemail on what you thought was Leanne’s sister’s phone slagging off the boyfriend she had before she met and married Andy, but instead it was Leanne’s phone you called? I mean, sure, it all worked out in the end, but at the time?
Is it worse than the love of your life leaving you? Or losing your house? Or job? Going bankrupt? All in the space of the last twelve months.
On balance, I fear this leapfrogs all the above.
I poured everything into that letter. I apologised for every awful thing I did to him; some of which he knew, much of which he didn’t – because I am a horrible human being who totally did not deserve him. And like I said to Leanne, it wasn’t really a letter for Ben. It was for me. Something to release me from my demons. Demons that have so far seen me stuff up lots of the good in my life and encourage – indeed positively welcome – some really stupid, bad stuff. Stuff that I should have been grown up enough to walk away from. Stuff that has pissed all over multiple bonfires in my life… and by bonfires I mean friendships, relationships, jobs.
Oh Jesus, he cannot read that letter.
And that is why I’m sat by the post box on Highfields Road. Outside the old post office I used to spend my pocket money in – a bag of penny chews and some of that fine pink sherbet stuff I used to like… what was it called… American Cream Soda! That’s it. American Cream Soda. A quarter of it for ten pence. Scooped out of a paper bag on sticky fingers. Occasionally shared amongst friends when I was feeling generous. Or wanted one of their strawberry bonbons.
I digress.
Yes, that’s why I’m sat outside the post office, waiting for the postman to arrive so I can try and intercept the letter and burn it in the back garden like I had every intention of doing in the first place. Before Mum, bless her beautiful heart, saw it on the side in my room and placed a stamp on it. A stamp from the many (many) packs she has in her purse – ‘just in case’ – and dropped it in the letter box before, I imagine, passing a few moments chatting with Vic, the guy who lives next door to the old post office in what used to be the greengrocer’s. Vic who has twitched his curtains several times, watching me watching the post box in the £500 Vauxhall Tigra the Official Receiver gave me the funds to buy when my bankruptcy went through. It wasn’t a Tigra he specifically said I could buy; he really meant any car that might get me from A to B in the hope it would get me a job. I merely went for the Tigra because I once had one as a company car and thought it might make me feel a little more like I hadn’t entirely failed at life.
The postman’s running late. It’s 11.05 a.m. He was due at 11.00. My palms are sweaty and I am hungry after skipping breakfast, but this letter can’t go. I cannot ruin things for Ben all over again by showing my face in a life that he explicitly – and perfectly rightly – cut me out of. A letter that says I love him. Have always loved him. Might always love him. A fact that will mean nothing to him. Nor should it. He found the strength to walk away and somehow I let him. But I did not intend to open up old wounds. Especially not wounds like these.
My bag starts vibrating on the passenger seat and my heart rate spikes. I dig out my phone, the only thing I have taken from my pre-bankruptcy life. If I can just keep paying this monthly phone bill, without any help from Mum, I have a chance of restoring some dignity in my life. Speaking of the devil.
‘Mum, hi.’
‘Hey, love, I was just wondering if you were going to be back for lunch? That skate needs eating and I thought I was going to be back, but it turns out I’m not.’
I shudder at the thought of skate. I’ve never been a fan of fish, but skate is the worst. ‘Erm, yes, I should be. Why, where are you?’
‘Oh, I booked a last-minute Pilates session with Clare.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah, well, she had time. I had time… We all had—’
‘Time? Okay, great. Good for you. That’ll be nice.’ Mum’s new-found passion for all things health and wellbeing has come as something of a surprise, but then I guess cancer treatment can do that to a person. She was diagnosed nine months ago. It was a shock, but the hospital got on it straight away, surgery, treatment, all booked in within weeks. I moved in to care for her, maybe that’s why the house repossession didn’t smart quite as much. Maybe. Either way, we’ve both changed.
‘Thanks, love. I need to pop in and see June too, so I guess I should be back around two. Ish. Unless we pop out for coffee. You know how she likes a coffee. Anyway, if you can make sure you eat it, that’d be great.’
‘Right. Okay. Do you not want some saving?’
‘No, no. Percy’s playing up.’
Percy’s the name she gave her stoma. The cancer treatment left her with barely any bowel and a brand new bag on the front of her tummy. She’d been determined they wouldn’t take so much away that she would need one but was oddly calm when she learned they’d had no choice. I think she was just relieved to still be alive, to be honest. ‘Oh right. Okay.’ I picture her sat on her spot on the sofa, gazing out of the bay window, across the fields, towards the dual carriageway. ‘Well, I’ll get off then.’
‘Was Leanne okay?’
‘Yeah, yeah. She was fine.’
‘You still there? Send me a photo of that little Elsie Alice.’
‘No, no. I left. I’m not there.’
‘Oh, that wasn’t long. I thought you said you’d be there all morning.’
This is where it gets awkward. Do I confess or say nothing to protect her from the inevitable guilt she’ll consume herself with if I tell her what dragged me away? I glance through the rear-view mirror, there’s no sign of the elusive little red van. I stifle a sigh. ‘I came out to get a few essentials. She’s low on shopping. Thought it’d be easier if I got them in.’
‘Ahh, you should have said. I could have done it when I went to post your letter.’
Mention of it brings me out in a cold sweat. Again. ‘Well that would have been out of your way, wouldn’t it?’
‘No, no. I was down at the Civic Centre. I needed cup hooks from Geoff’s DIY.’
‘Geoff’s DIY? You should have told me, I was going there on my way back.’
‘Were you? Oh, I didn’t realise. I just thought I’d put some of those new mugs up above the kettle. That’ll look nice, won’t it?’
‘I assumed you nipped round to the old post office.’
‘No! God no, I avoid there. Vic always collars me for a chat and he’s lovely and all that, but very lonely and I can only say no to a cuppa in his day room so many times.’
‘So you went to the civic?’
‘Yes, to post your letter. Then I went to Geoff’s DIY. Actually, I stuck my head in the charity shop too. Picked up a lovely Marky Sparks blouse with the label still on. Never been worn. Fifty pence. Bargain!’
As she chatters about her shopping, I scrabble for my seat belt, overturning the key in the ignition, which makes my engine do that painful screechy please don’t turn me on any more thing. ‘Cup hooks. Blouse. Lovely!’
‘I want to get organised. In the house. You know?’
‘Great, yes. That’ll be good. Lovely. Look, Mum, I need to… Can I call you back?’ I bite my tongue. It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault. I just assumed. What is it they say about to assume? It makes an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’? ‘Look, I’d better go, Mum. My hands-free kit is in my bag on the back seat.’
‘Okay, love. Drive safely. Send me a photo of the baby when you get back to Leanne’s. They grow so much at this age.’
‘Yep, will do.’ I strain to look over my shoulder whilst holding her on loudspeaker, pulling out just as the postman arrives. At the wrong bloody post box. ‘Say hi to Clare.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Clare. Pilates. Say hi to Clare.’
‘Right. Yes. Okay. Don’t forget to eat the skate.’
‘Okay, no. No problem.’
‘Love you!’ she shouts as I drop the phone into my lap just in time to avoid the police car that passes in the opposite direction.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I fly down Highfields onto Hollins Spring. I narrowly avoid a Vauxhall Cavalier that cuts the turning as I make my way onto Gosforth Drive; roads I know explicitly. Every semi-detached, every topiary bush, every blind parking spot and old schoolmate’s home, it all goes by in a blur as I race to the Civic Centre and hope more than I’ve ever hoped for anything in my life before… I hope that I get to the post box before the next collection is made.
Of course I didn’t get there before the next collection. I mean, why would I? That would just be too easy.
Shit.
Okay. What do I do? What do I do? In any other circumstance, I’d probably call Mum, but she’ll be mortified about what’s happened. Leanne though, Leanne’ll know what to do. She’s the sensible one of us both, practically a bone fide grown-up, she’ll tell me exactly what to do. She’ll know what to say.
‘Well, if I was you, I’d do something perfectly rational like withdraw any savings you might have and move to another country, just to make sure you never have to run into him again. Mind you, since he’s moved, it’s not like you can just pop round his house any more.’
She underestimates me. Ben may have relocated a massive six hours’ drive from here, but if needs must… ‘He can’t read that letter, Leanne. He can’t!’
‘Well, why the bloody hell did you write it then?’
‘I told you. I was going to burn it.’
‘I still don’t really understand why though. Ah! Wait a minute! You were procrastinating.’ Leanne is well aware that I am not entirely loving the freelance admin company I’ve set up in a bid to ensure I can afford to live. It’s why I’ve been more than happy to help out with Elsie, or drop Leanne’s older boy, my godson Harley, off at school since Andy, her husband, started working away all week – basically any excuse to get away from my desk and avoid what little work I actually have on. ‘I’ve told you, just put your bum in the chair and get on with your work. New clients will come. Interesting projects will turn up.’
‘If I was going to procrastinate, spilling my guts onto Moomin letter paper is the very last thing I’d do. I can literally think of a million more appealing options. So stop judging and tell me what I do about it?’
‘Well…’ She thinks. Hard. ‘You want to move on, get over things, find a new future, right?’
‘I really do.’
‘Well, first off, you’re gonna have to stop beating yourself up for being a dickhead.’
‘Thanks.’ Such a way with words.
‘I mean it, Jem. This self-flagellation has to stop. Focus on you. On life. Get out there, reconnect with people. You’ve had a rough year. Most would have keeled over by now, but you? You’re here. Somehow, you’re still standing. That’s why I set you up on Tinder… well, that and for a bit of vicarious living because Tinder came out after I met Andy and I’ve always wondered a teensy bit what it was all about. Look, don’t panic about it. Shit happens. Let go and move forward. Has Mitch messaged you back yet?’
‘Not that I’ve seen? Would I see?’
‘You’ll get one of them push notification whatsits.’ As she says it, my phone dings in my ear and I glance to see the Tinder logo.
You’ve got a new message from Mitch.
‘Oh my God. He’s literally just responded.’
Leanne squeals. ‘Yes! I knew this would be good for you. What’s he say?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not read it. I’m talking to you about getting a letter back in which I told my now-ex, and soon to be very-very-ex – when he reads the letter – everything he didn’t need to know. Christ, I was just venting!’
‘Jem! That’s what I’m here for. You are supposed to vent with me, over a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.’
‘I’m still off the gin.’
‘Oh.’
Leanne is well aware that this is wholly and entirely her fault, given that it was at her house, last year, just after Ben had gone and I was a mess. That night will forever be known as the night of the ‘gincident’. That is to say, after several drinks and a takeaway, Leanne made me the longest, dirtiest, strongest gin (and allegedly tonic, but a court of law would question the evidence) known to woman. As such, I spent the rest of the night on the tiled floor of her conservatory extension, wishing myself dead. The only reason she didn’t find me there in the morning was because I had a sliver of wherewithal to move in case it was in fact Harley who toddled in to find me flat out amongst her (wilting) orange trees.
‘Hey, what if I asked the post office to locate it and give it me back? Do you think they would?’
‘Oh, probably. If you asked them nicely with a cherry on top.’
‘Really?’
‘No! Of course they won’t!’ My despair finds new levels. ‘Look, chuck, I think you need to chalk this one up to experience.’
‘I can’t do that, Leanne. I have to stop him reading it.’
‘Even if you managed to be at his house as the postman arrived to deliver it, you’d not be able to persuade him to hand it over. They have a legal obligation to deliver all mail in their sacks.’
‘Do they?’
‘Okay, I’ve no idea if it’s a legal one. But I think it’s unlikely they’ll give a letter over to a desperate woman begg. . .
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