by Lynsey James
‘Well, sure I had a couple of ideas but–’
‘Then start there. What have you got to lose? You’re a bright young woman, I’m sure you’re more than capable of tracking down the man who wrote you those letters.’
‘It’s not that easy, Ivy; I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count. My dad wasn’t exactly a great male role model: he ran off when I was nine because he couldn’t hack fatherhood and sent me a letter saying he didn’t want to see me ever again.’ Tears brewed in my eyes and my throat became tight and itchy. Reliving the most painful events of my life wasn’t something I relished doing.‘Then there was my first and last serious boyfriend, Dave. He decided that buggering off round the world with his job was more appealing than a life with me.’
‘Honey, I can feel it in my bones: the guy writing these letters is different. You can ask anybody, I ain’t ever wrong. Get looking for him and find your Prince Charming, girl!’
‘You know, I might just do that,’ I replied. My insides buzzed with excitement; this meeting with Ivy had been just the push I needed.
By the time I left Starbucks, the sun was already disappearing behind Manchester’s red brick giants that loomed over the city like guardians. I’d already made my mind up to mount a full-scale search for Mr Writer. Not only that, I was going to find a certain Leo Browning too.
Chapter 8
The battered shortbread tin sat opposite me on the couch. It looked a lot worse for wear than it had on its last outing. Its lustrous bottle green and red tartan was scuffed and the lid had a huge dent in it from when I’d shoved it to the back of my wardrobe, seemingly for good, six years ago. I looked at it, slurping my slightly cold coffee for courage. I had the flat to myself; Gwen had stayed the night at Tom’s again. To distract myself, I craned my neck to look out of the window; Manchester at five a.m. was quite a sight. The houses beyond the back garden wall were shrouded in a thick fog. It gave them a mysterious Victorian London look. A shimmering frost had been sprinkled on the leaves in the back garden, making them look like they were covered in icing sugar. Manchester in the early winter was always beautiful.
The contents of the shortbread tin weren’t the only thing stopping me from sleeping: I couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy and Leo. They’d fallen in love at a time where difference wasn’t celebrated, where everybody stuck to the status quo and didn’t dare deviate. It was criminal that they’d ever been separated. From what I knew about them, they seemed like two people who were meant to be together. I was going to do my utmost to make sure their story got the ending it deserved.
I turned my thoughts back to the tin and fixed it with a steely glare. It wouldn’t get the better of me.
‘There’s no good looking at me like that,’ I said to it. ‘It won’t make me open you any sooner.’
I was well aware I was talking to an inanimate object that wouldn’t answer back, but it dispersed some of the tension building inside me.
Today marked the first day of my search for Mr Writer and it was becoming increasingly apparent how unprepared I was.
I set down my coffee as a statement of intent and shuffled across the couch to where the tin sat. My hand drew nearer to it until I touched the cool metal lid. It felt smooth beneath my fingers and my breath caught in my throat as I prepared to open it. It was my very own Pandora’s Box and contained a whole section of my past I’d tried to forget. After a final deep breath, I gently pushed the lid off.
‘Oh my God,’ I whispered.
Inside was a large pile of letters. There was so many that they’d had to be jammed in and squashed down by the lid. Sandwiched between two was a pink gerbera daisy from a bouquet he’d sent me; I’d pressed it in my Essential Reporting book to keep it good. I picked up each letter in turn and read them again. Some made me laugh and others moved me to tears. Whoever Mr Writer was, he had a brilliant way of tapping into my feelings. As I lifted yet another one out of the box, I spotted something written in my own handwriting.
‘Here it is!’ I said with a triumphant grin.
Possible Mr Writers
1. James Kelly – barman at the Student Union. Does English Lit so he can write well; total book geek.. Likelihood – 8/10
2. Adam Johnson – posh bloke from Media Law class and lives in my halls. Drop-dead gorgeous, a bit stuck-up but generally nice. Wrote me a very nice note in a lecture once – “You look hot today”. Likelihood – 7/10
3. Dean Smith – Gwen’s boyfriend’s mate. Have seen him reading Pride and Prejudice, means he must be sensitive. Showed me his short stories one night so he can write well. Likelihood – 7/10
4. Max Burrows-best friend and I accidentally snogged him at Gwen’s birthday party. Has been known to be quite romantic at times, don’t know if he can write well or not though. Likelihood-7/10
I giggled when I saw that Max’s name had been scored out multiple times. He’d never really been a prime candidate for being Mr Writer; I’d added him to the list after a drunken snog at Gwen’s twentieth birthday bash. In the heat of the moment, I’d imagined it had been him writing to me all along; that he’d been under my nose all this time and I just hadn’t realised. I’d scored his name out the next day. Our relationship dynamic was brother-sister; apart from that kiss and another when we were sixteen, he hadn’t laid a finger on me. Plus, Max just wasn’t the romantic type. You were more likely to find him playing rugby or having a laugh with his mates down the pub than penning gorgeous love letters.
I looked at the list again and felt a rush of excitement. It was going to be the starting point for my search for Mr Writer. I’d track down each one in turn, assess their likeliness and eventually decipher the identity of my mystery admirer. It was the perfect plan. Unless, of course, it turned out to be someone I’d never considered, but hopefully they’d let me know before I got too far down the list.
I grabbed my laptop, took a deep breath and began to type the first entry to my new blog. Taking Gwen’s advice, I was going to document my search for Mr Writer. I was hoping to give readers a journey they became hooked on and maybe, just maybe, one of them would give me some valuable information that would help.
Hi there! God where to start with this thing?! Well, my name’s Ava Clements, I’m twenty-six years old and I live in Manchester with my best mate Gwen. I’m a magazine journalist and love wine, cake and Bradley Cooper. Oh and I’m in love with someone I don’t even know.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I do know them, just not who they are. Maybe I should explain. When I was at university, I started receiving letters from a secret admirer. The letters were sensitive and beautiful; it seemed as though whoever was writing them knew me better than I knew myself. The letters kept coming until we arranged to finally meet up in December that year. I was so excited; what girl wouldn’t be? I couldn’t wait to finally see who’d been mad enough about me to send such beautiful letters. However, he didn’t turn up and the letters mysteriously stopped.
Fast forward a few years and here I am. My secret admirer has recently started writing to me again and I’m determined that this time will be different. This time, I’ll finally find out who my Mr Writer is and when I do, I’ll throw my arms around him and never let him go.
As corny as it might sound, I’m a girl who’s waited all her life for that Disney moment where everything falls into place with a handsome prince. I’ve kissed my fair share of frogs and been on so many bad dates I could probably write a book about them. I’m ready to fall in love now though. I’m more than ready to completely surrender myself to Mr Writer – whoever he may be – and trust him to make me happy. He could be a four-foot dwarf with seven eyes and six arms; I honestly don’t care. As long he’s the person who’s been writing these beautiful letters to me, that’s all that matters.
I’ll be posting updates here as they happen. Maybe, just maybe, one day I’ll be posting about my happy ever after!
Ava x
As the sun rose over Manchester, I sat at my laptop, sti
ll typing furiously. I’d decided to tackle my list in order, which meant James Kelly was the first one to track down. I had all my social media sites open – Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, Pinterest – trying to find him. Maybe I’d be lucky enough to land Mr Writer on the first try? I began looking through the slew of profiles in front of me, all of them named James Kelly. My eyes began to glaze over, as the faces became a blur. I considered giving up until… Bingo!
On the second page of results was the picture of a very familiar and very good-looking James Kelly AKA my first Mr Writer candidate. He had the same raven-coloured hair as always and the same ice-blue eyes. According to his profile, he was working as an advertising executive at a posh firm in Manchester. I quickly clicked Add Friend and sent a little message: “Hey, long time no see, how are you?” the usual generic stuff. I’d originally planned to go with “Hi, you may well be the love of my life. Did you by any chance send me love letters a few years ago and recently start sending them again?” but I’d decided that might sound a bit weird.
Just then, my phone rang.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey you,’ Max’s voice sounded hoarse like he hadn’t had much sleep. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Not bad; finally getting off my arse and doing something about Mr Writer! This is early for you; you’re not usually up at this time!’
‘Yeah, I’ve not had a lot of sleep actually. Amira and I got into a huge argument last night and we broke up. She stormed out of my flat and I haven’t heard from her since. Oh tell a lie, she left a six-minute long voicemail on my phone telling me what a shit boyfriend I was.’
My mouth dropped open and, despite my best efforts, my heart did a little happy dance.
‘Oh God Max, what happened? You two seemed happy at the weekend when we were at Giselle and Aaron’s wedding.’
‘Well I thought we were.’ Max’s voice sounded heavy with sadness. ‘Apparently my boyfriend skills leave a lot to be desired and I need to be earning at least another twenty grand a year to measure up to the other guys she’s been out with.’
My blood boiled. Typical Amira: she thought she was a cut above my lovely best friend. The urge to tell him exactly what she’d said about him gnawed insistently at me but I batted it away. After all, they might only have split up temporarily and I didn’t want her to turn him against me if they got back together.
Before I could answer, my computer pinged. It was a message from James Kelly: Ava Clements, now there’s a name I haven’t heard for ages! How are you doing, lovely girl? You look gorgeous by the way. Fancy meeting for a coffee today if you have time?
My heart did a little skip as I typed back to accept the invitation.
‘Mate, that’s awful. Listen, if you’re not too busy today, do you fancy coming to meet one of the Mr Writer candidates with me? He’s asked me to go for coffee and I don’t want to go on my own in case he’s a psycho or something.’
‘Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm.’ Some of Max’s trademark warmth had returned to his voice, which made my heart dance with joy. I hated it when he was sad.
We made arrangements to meet at The Dog and Duck a little after twelve then head to meet James together. I planned to ask Gwen along as well: some extra support couldn’t hurt. When I hung up, I could feel my entire body buzz with excitement. Things were back to normal; I had my best friend back.
***
Miranda cast a final critical glance over my piece on Giselle and Aaron’s wedding before fixing me with an unreadable stare. I hoped with every fibre of me that she liked it; I’d spent the last two days since the wedding slaving over it.
‘It’s better than I expected,’ she said, her face setting in a forced grin. ‘Good effort Ava, well done. I really like the How We Met feature, it’s a nice idea.’
‘Well it wasn’t the easiest assignment I’ve ever done,’ I said with a sly grin. ‘Especially when another magazine had the exclusive to start with.’
Miranda’s face reddened. ‘Oh there must’ve been some sort of mix-up…’
‘Better not let that happen too often eh? Paddy wouldn’t be too pleased if he found out.’
I gave her an I’m-onto-you look: I wasn’t going to let her make a fool of me again, that was for sure.
Miranda maintained the perfect poker face, keeping her lips pursed and her eyes were devoid of emotion.
‘When will I be getting my next assignment?’ I asked
‘Right now.’ She handed me a piece of paper and sat back in her chair as I read it.
‘A Halloween-themed wedding, are you being serious?! It says here I have to dress up too!’
I looked up and suddenly realised why she had a gleeful grin on her face. This was her idea of heaven.
‘Yes, make sure you’ve got a good costume prepared! Wouldn’t want to let the side down, would you?’
I managed a weak smile before making my excuses and leaving. So much for not letting her make a fool of me again.
Lunchtime couldn’t come quick enough. Fran had had a right good laugh at my expense when I told her about the Halloween wedding and I’d tried to get interested in writing an article about wedding favours.
I was meeting James at Teacup on Thomas Street, a cute little cafe that served the best tea and cake in the city. Before that, I ran along the rainy street towards the welcoming sight of The Dog and Duck. I shook my umbrella out and scanned the room to see if Max had arrived yet. Sure enough, I found him at the back of the room, his large hulking frame occupying a cramped little booth. His back was hunched and he looked like his whole world had crumbled around him.
‘Hey,’ I said when I walked up to him. ‘How’s tricks?’
He looked up and half-heartedly raised his pint glass to me.
‘I’m tickety-boo Munchkin. Here, I got you this.’
I sat down and he slid a glass of vodka and lemonade over to me. I smiled and took a sip.
‘Thought you could use some Dutch courage before you go off and meet this bloke.’
‘Thanks, I’ll need it,’ I replied. ‘Gwen’s meeting us at the café in a bit; she gets off for lunch in half an hour. So do you want to talk about what happened with Amira?’
I reached over and gently put my hand on top of his. He flicked his gaze from his pint glass up to me and for the first time, I noticed just how sad he looked.
‘There’s not much to tell really.’ He moved his hand so it was on top of mine and gently caressed it. ‘She was a bit off with me at Giselle and Aaron’s wedding after you left but we really got into it last night. Apparently, she doesn’t like how close I am to you and Gwen, I don’t make nearly enough money and she can do so much better than me. You know, I-I don’t know why I bother with girls like her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The girls who aren’t really interested in me. They go out with me either because they think I make a load of money or because they think I’m good-looking. They never bother to look too deeply under the surface, get to know me, you know? If they did, they’d quickly find out what a mess I really am. Amira said something like that actually. She said I was like a really disappointing present: the wrapping paper was nice, but the actual present was a pile of shit.’
A shadow cut across his face, making him look wounded. His eyes looked laden with pain and judging by his breathing, he was trying not to cry.
I bristled inside. How could she possibly say that?! Max was the nicest, kindest and most genuine guy I knew; he was worth a hundred of her. I remembered her strained conversation with her mum at the wedding and wondered if that had anything to do with why she’d dumped him. I decided not to mention it. After all, I hadn’t heard the full conversation and it wasn’t likely to be relevant.
‘It’s her loss. If she can’t see how amazing you are, she doesn’t deserve to have you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ He squeezed my hand and I felt a little shiver work its way up my spine.
I shook my head. ‘I know so.’
‘Starting to think this true love stuff is a load of bollocks made up by greeting card companies and chocolate makers to shift their stock. Might just give up and get a turtle instead.’
‘Oh I don’t know about that,’ I protested.
Max sat back in his chair and folded his arms with a lazy smile. ‘Go on then, present your case.’
I told him all about Ivy and Leo: how they’d fallen in love then had been cruelly separated by his dad’s death. I explained I was going to find Leo and reunite them and watched his grin broaden. Although my mouth was moving and words were coming out, it felt as though it was someone else speaking. I was supposed to be a non-believer in love, wasn’t I?
‘You know, for all your cynicism, you’re a little romantic at heart aren’t you?’ He chuckled and squeezed my hand again. ‘Come on, let’s go and meet the love of your life.’
An unexplained fizzy feeling began working its way through me. Although I couldn’t put a name to it, I liked it very much.
Chapter 9
Max and I got to Teacup on Thomas Street just as the rain stopped. I took a quick look around inside; James wasn’t there yet. Gwen was though; she waved from a little table in the middle of the room. We went over to join her; a pre-date strategy meeting was essential, in case things went badly wrong.
‘OK, here’s the plan.’ Gwen was always good at taking charge in situations like this. ‘If everything’s going well then start laughing really loudly or something. If he’s dodgy, the safe word is Lapsang Souchong,’ she said, as though we were members of MI6.
I frowned. ‘Why Lapsang Souchong?’
She shook her head and looked at me as though I’d asked a really silly question.
‘Because it’s a word you can work really easily into conversation; we’re in a tearoom after all. Plus it sounds really cool. I read about safe words in Fifty Shades of Grey; if it’s good enough for them, it’s good enough for us!’