‘What do you reckon, Alfred?’ I say to the cat, since no one else is around to ask. ‘Should I open it or not?’
He continues to stare at me, so I thank him for his insight and put the letter to one side for a bit.
It feels strange to be home, particularly because I’m by myself now, rather than surrounded by other people like I was at the hospital. There is a small part of me that’s anxious about this, which is probably natural in the circumstances, but I push that feeling to one side rather than engage with it.
I’ve no idea whether or not this is a good way to deal with my hang-ups, as no appointment with a counsellor, therapist or whatever has materialised so far. I’d probably self-medicate with a beer if there were any cans or bottles in the fridge, but unfortunately there aren’t. So I settle for a cup of tea instead. Alfred follows me to the kitchen to watch me make it, jumping straight back on my knee once I sit down again.
‘Wow, you are pleased to see me,’ I tell him, stroking the soft fur on his little head. ‘You haven’t even pestered me for food yet. Has Aunty Meg been overfeeding you?’
As much as I try to ignore it, the unopened letter won’t leave my mind. It may as well be lit up in bright neon. My eyes keep landing on the small rectangle of paper, scrutinising the familiar script detailing my name and address; wondering if it holds any clues as to Helen’s mood when she gripped the black ballpoint pen to write it. If it does, they’re lost on me.
The only sure-fire way to find out what Helen wants is to read the damn letter.
Right then.
I grab the envelope and rip it open in one movement to make sure there’s no opportunity to change my mind. I pull out the contents: three sheets of plain A4 paper, each covered with the same handwriting. I take a deep breath and start reading.
Dear Luke,
How are you? I hope you’re well. You’ve been in my thoughts a lot recently. I’ve been meaning to contact you for a while. I’ve almost phoned you on countless occasions but always ended up chickening out at the last minute.
I’d love to chat to you, but I’m afraid the feeling won’t be mutual. Hence my decision to contact you by letter. I could have messaged you or sent an email instead, which would probably have made more sense in this day and age, but that didn’t feel right somehow.
A handwritten letter felt more appropriate – more personal.
I can’t remember the last time I sent a letter like this to anyone. I think that’s probably the point. I want it to stand out and for you to see how much this matters to me.
So what’s going on? That must be what you’re wondering. Why is Helen contacting me out of the blue like this?
You probably hoped never to hear from me again after everything I put you through. I’m right, aren’t I? It’s fine. I totally understand. To be honest, I wouldn’t blame you for hating me with a passion, the way I abandoned you while you were still grieving for your parents.
I hated doing it even then, especially right before Christmas, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry to say this, but I was head-over-heels in love with another man, and I desperately wanted to be with him. I’d stayed with you for as long as I possibly could, because of your grief, but the time had arrived, difficult as it was, to come clean and stop lying to you. It felt like the lesser of two evils by that point.
I don’t expect you to understand, but I honestly thought I was doing the right thing by everyone in telling you.
You must be wondering why on earth I’m spilling my guts to you now about all of this. There’s a reason, which I’ll come to in a minute. But first I want to apologise to you for never properly clarifying this before.
I don’t remember us ever really talking it through. I told you about Adrian; you were angry, understandably, and needed time alone to process it. Then I was gone. The only real conversations we had after that were about practical matters to do with the separation and then the divorce, which I can only thank you for making as painless as you did when you could have dragged your heels. That was far better than I deserved.
Anyway, recent developments in my life have given me a new perspective on what happened, making me realise that you were the one who deserved better. For a start, I should have given you a clearer explanation. I also should have told you straight away, rather than dragging it out because I feared you wouldn’t be able to handle it. I genuinely thought I was being kinder that way, but now I know the truth is always better than a lie, no matter the circumstances.
It wasn’t you, Luke, it was me. I’m very aware of what a cliché that is, but it also happens to be true. You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s not why I left – and I don’t think I made that clear enough.
Yes, you were consumed by grief throughout the end of our time together. Of course you were. But that wasn’t the reason I fell out of love with you. It happened before that, gradually, over a long period. It wasn’t an overnight thing. It wasn’t even caused by me reconnecting with Adrian. I’d never have done that in the first place if something hadn’t already been missing.
We grew apart, that’s all. Me in particular. The love I felt for you at the start and when we got married was genuine. It truly was, Luke. But that faded – and one day it dawned on me I was unhappy. I felt like there was a gaping hole in my life and, for some reason, I couldn’t talk to you about it. I should have. I see that now. Maybe we could even have worked things out if I had … maybe.
But that’s not what happened, is it? We both know what I did instead and where that left us.
One thing that’s always bothered me is what your take must be on my change of heart in terms of having children. We both agreed that we didn’t want them, and then look what happened when I got together with Adrian: I fell pregnant in no time.
I remember calling you up to tell you the news as if it was yesterday. I felt like I had to, but the conversation didn’t go as planned. I’d intended to assure you then that it wasn’t any reflection on you; to admit it was an accident. I was all ready to confess that my first reaction to the positive test had been one of horror, only for Adrian to talk me round, convincing me to keep the baby. I wanted to tell you, knowing that you’d understand better than anyone how terrified I was feeling about the idea of being someone’s parent.
But I couldn’t do it. My pride kicked in, together with a sense of not wanting to betray Adrian. So I found myself lying to you – saying the pregnancy was planned, when that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
I’m so sorry for doing that, Luke. I really hope it didn’t make you feel like I’d always secretly wanted children – just not with you – because that wasn’t the case at all. You’d make a wonderful father, if that was something you wanted. I know you would.
Personally, I don’t regret becoming a mum. I fell in love the moment my eyes landed on Euan’s little face; all my fears and doubts about parenthood soon ebbed away, to the point where our second child, Gwen, really was planned. I adore them both and can’t imagine life without them now.
As for Adrian, karma’s a bitch, isn’t it? I don’t need to imagine life without him because that’s been my reality for several months now.
Yep, you’ve guessed it, he left me for another woman. Well, more of a girl really: Jess, a twenty-something former postgrad student of his from the university, who he’s currently shacked up with and thinks is his soulmate. The only time I see him now is when it’s his turn to take the kids.
I won’t bore you with the rest of it. Not your problem. And I’ll forgive you if you’re thinking I got my just deserts, because you’re probably right.
I certainly don’t expect your sympathy. That’s not what this letter is for. It’s about me being able to see things from your perspective, having gone through a similar experience myself, and wanting to make amends; to set the record straight.
As I wrote at the start of this letter, I’ve been meaning to contact you for a while. The thing that finally sparked me to do so was when my mum mentioned seeing an artic
le about you in her Sunday newspaper supplement, which she made a copy of and emailed to me.
I was so proud of you when I read about what you’ve been doing for the homeless in Manchester. It sounds like you’ve found your place in life and that things are going brilliantly for you and the business. I’m really glad, honestly. You deserve it.
That said, how awful what took place with you and that poor young doctor who died in the scaffolding accident. I’m shocked not to have heard anything about this previously, especially considering how close we once were. It feels dreadful to think what you must have gone through. Still, it’s amazing that you’ve turned what happened around and built something so positive out of such a tragedy.
Lastly, I pray you can find it in your heart to accept my apologies for everything I did to you. I hope you have a wonderful life and that one day we can perhaps meet up as old friends and reflect on the good times we had together.
Love and best wishes,
Helen X
CHAPTER 30
Wow, that letter. Not what I was expecting at all. Although, honestly, I’m not sure what I was expecting. It’s not like I had any idea Helen was going to write to me until she did.
I’m confusing myself now, but that’s how I feel – utterly bewildered – and I’ve read it through several times, one immediately after the other.
I’m tempted to go straight in for another read, but taking some time to reflect on the letter’s contents seems like a better idea, all in all.
It feels downright weird to have heard from my ex-wife after all this time – and in such detail. I’ve not had this kind of insight into her mind in forever. It’s a lot to take in, particularly considering what she’s written; how honest she’s been at last.
The detail that strikes me most, apart from the shocking revelation about Adrian having left her, is her confession about that first pregnancy. So it wasn’t planned after all. And it wasn’t some inherent fault in me that stopped her from wanting children when we were together.
That’s huge, because I think it’s something that’s weighed heavily on my mind, consciously and subconsciously, ever since we had that telephone chat about her being pregnant. Prior to the call, I didn’t think there was anything more Helen could do to hurt me than she already had; it surprised me how injured I felt afterwards.
I analysed the breakdown of our relationship against the backdrop of that single conversation and deduced that it was probably all my fault.
My conclusions: I wasn’t good enough for her; I wasn’t the kind of person with whom anyone would want to have a family; I was fundamentally flawed and unlovable.
Had Mum and Dad still been around, I’d have discussed it with them and they’d have no doubt helped me to see things from a more reasonable, detached perspective. But they weren’t. They were gone. I should probably have talked about it with Meg or someone else instead, but I didn’t, for whatever reason. Foolishly, I convinced myself I could handle it alone and accepted my skewed interpretation of events as fact. I used that as the foundation for a new hardened, bitter version of myself, created with the prime purpose of protecting me from ever getting hurt by anyone in the same way again.
Helen really did a number on me, didn’t she?
And yet I don’t feel even the slightest bit happy about what’s happened to her. I don’t think for one minute that she got her just deserts. Mainly I feel sorry that Adrian let her down so spectacularly when she gambled everything on him being the right guy for her. I know exactly how that feels, although it’s probably even worse for Helen than it was for me when you factor in the children too.
Poor things, having to grow up in a broken family. That’s bound to affect them in one way or another for the rest of their lives. They’ll probably end up believing it was partly their fault; that their father didn’t love them enough to stay, perhaps. Or maybe they’ll even end up blaming their mum, thinking she drove him away. Not fair, of course, but that’s the kind of polarising fallout you get from breakups.
No, rather than being glad about this, I genuinely hope Helen and Adrian manage to work things out. It is still possible, I guess, although the odds don’t sound particularly high at the moment. Hopefully he’ll wake up one morning, realise what a huge mistake he’s made and head home with his tail between his legs. Whether she would take him back at that stage is another matter. But like she wrote in the letter, none of that is my problem.
When Helen first left me, I used to consider what I’d do if she came running back, full of apologies. My predicted response varied from one day to another, depending on my mood. Sometimes I was convinced I’d tell her to sling her hook and never to darken my door again. On other occasions, I imagined making her beg and then, perhaps, after a long period of penance, giving her another chance.
That all changed after she had kids. It ended once and for all for me at that point, not least because of my perception that she considered wife-stealing Adrian more suitable, capable or whatever to father children with her than me.
Now, even though she’s blown that theory out of the water, my feelings about this – about the possibility of us ever being a romantic couple again – haven’t changed. That door remains permanently closed. And yet after the way she poured her heart out to me in this letter, I wouldn’t mind speaking to her. I think I could be ready at last to forgive her and be her friend. I’d also like to thank her for finally providing this explanation and, in doing so, giving me the closure I didn’t know I needed until I got it.
It does surprise me that I’m not at least a bit angry with her. Particularly for lying to me about that first pregnancy, bearing in mind how much it’s affected me.
But do you know what? Life’s too short. I’ve twice looked death in the face in less than two months – and yet, somehow, I’m still here.
It puts things into perspective.
Why be angry at Helen now for something she did so long ago, which she clearly regrets and told me about of her own free will? Especially considering the pain she’s already going through, thanks to that idiot Adrian. Why choose hate when I can rise above it and choose love instead?
Wow, I sound like Iris now, or at least the version of her I’ve got to know in my dreams.
I look down at my bandaged arms and hands, still holding the letter. Weirdly, I’ve not noticed my injuries once since I started reading and considering Helen’s words. How strange to think she doesn’t even know about them or any of what happened with Moxie. But still she chose to send her letter at this particular time. I have an eerie sense that she may even have been writing it while the incident with Moxie was unfolding.
She thinks my life is going well, which couldn’t be further from the truth. How far apart we’ve grown from the time when we used to share everything with each other.
I’m woken up the next morning, having allowed myself to sleep in, by the sound of someone knocking on my front door. It’s 10.03 a.m. on Saturday. Since whoever’s there is already inside the building, I assume it must be one of my neighbours: Doreen, most likely.
Feeing groggy and sore, I’m tempted to ignore the noise until it stops, so I can catch some more Zs. But then I picture Doreen panicking and calling Meg or even the emergency services, worried that something might have happened to me. Keen to dodge such hassle, I throw on my dressing gown, narrowly avoiding tripping over Alfred, who’s curled in a ball in front of my bedroom door, and go to see who’s knocking.
‘Luke Craven?’ a young man’s voice snaps at me the moment I swing open the door.
‘What? Who are you?’
I’m looking at a short, wiry chap with pockmarked skin. He has dark, slicked-back hair and a smattering of stubble on his chiselled jaw and upper lip. He can’t be much older than early twenties and I’m sure I’ve never clapped eyes on him before. Dressed in smart trousers and a thick grey coat, he grins at me with the brash bravado of a car salesman, before flashing a press pass.
‘I’m Billy,’ he says. ‘
From Billy Broome Media. I’m here to make your day.’
Seriously? I really don’t need this right now.
‘I’m not interested,’ I reply. ‘I don’t know where you got my details from, but I’d appreciate it if you could leave me alone.’
‘Please could you hear me out for a minute?’ he says, eyes wide and arms apart with his palms facing up. This makes him look a bit needy and pathetic.
I sigh. ‘Fine, you’ve literally got sixty seconds, but that’s it. And I’m not inviting you in.’
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘So I’m a journalist. I run my own press agency and I work with all the big media names. I know for a fact that some of them would pay good money to publish your story after the terrible ordeal you went through the other night. I’m here to facilitate that in one go: no need to deal with anyone other than me. How does that sound? You deserve some cash after what you went through, right?’
‘Still not interested,’ I say. ‘Thanks but no thanks. Have a nice day.’
‘Listen,’ he continues. ‘I’ll be completely honest with you. If you don’t talk to me, there will be a sea of other people hounding you. And if you don’t talk to them, things will probably get made up. Not by me – I don’t work that way – but there are some people in this business without my moral fibre, if you know what I mean.’
‘I’ll take my chances,’ I tell him.
‘Okay, I’m sorry to say this, but there are rumours circulating about you selling drugs out of your barbershop. I’m sure they’re not true. I don’t believe them for a minute. But don’t you want the opportunity to respond to them and set the record straight?’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. What the hell is this guy on about?
I’m so shocked and disgusted that I try to shut the door without saying another word, only to find he’s placed his foot in the way. It’s a tan brogue this time, rather than the black army boot Moxie wore, but it’s more than enough to cause a flashback to the other night and the start of my nightmare ordeal.
How to Save a Life Page 23