You Sent Me a Letter

by Lucy Dawson

  Without asking if he can, Carl whips my hair-band out and rakes his fingers through my hair. ‘When was the last time you had it cut, sweetheart?’ he asks quietly, as if it’s perfectly obvious to us all that I’ve let myself and everyone else down but he’d still like to hear me say it out loud anyway.

  ‘Um, about three months ago?’

  He doesn’t say anything, just starts to fan out my hair, then quite abruptly twists my head this way and that to get a proper look at me. It makes me wince, partly in pain at the sudden movement, and also because him forcing my head evokes the stranger in my bedroom touching me.

  I instinctively shrink away from Carl’s touch and he stops and blinks a couple of times, pushing his glasses firmly back on his nose as he stares at me in the mirror. ‘I bumped my head today.’ I look away, finding the silence uncomfortable. ‘It’s a bit painful.’

  He regards me impassively again for a moment, then seems to spring back to life. ‘Right, away from me.’ He waves his hands at Imogen, Mum and Alice. ‘I can’t do anything with you three hanging over us like you’ve lost your cauldron. I’ll come and brief your stylists in a minute, but in case they get any funny ideas, you two’ – he points at the girls – ‘are going upsweep too, and Mama – you’re a low chignon.’

  They disappear dutifully, and he turns back, gathering my hair very gently in his hands, twisting it lightly before letting it drop. He reaches out for the chair next to me, pulls it over and sits down. ‘Your mother has given me some pins,’ he explains. ‘I’ve got them waiting out the back – they’re very art deco. I do agree with her that they would look beautiful wound into your hair. You’ve got a very elegant neck and your face shape can carry off most hairstyles, but…’ He pauses. ‘It’s your big day. What would you like?’

  I go very still. What would I like? My big day… I somehow never imagined it like this. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I mumble, trying to smile.

  ‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ he says kindly – at which I give a frightened little bark of laughter. He gets up again and stands behind me. ‘I promise, we really have. Do you want to be softly romantic, or something more sophisticated and sleek?’

  I hesitate, and then I confide: ‘I know very little about the wedding dress that has been chosen for me.’

  His eyes widen, but he takes it in his stride, shooting a glance in the mirror at my mother and sisters, who are all at the basins, before murmuring, ‘I’ve seen a picture. It’s incredible – and you’ll look stunning. Do you trust me to do something that I know will complement it, and you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He smiles, pleased. ‘We’ll get you over to the sinks once the others are done. I’ll do it myself – I’m not having one of my cack-handed juniors maul you around.’

  He washes me with the utmost gentleness – it feels almost ritualistic – having fussed around putting supports under my back, and lowering the sink so I can lean back without it hurting. He asks me several times if I’m comfortable, and if the water is the right temperature.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘Close your eyes then,’ he says. ‘Your poor little head must be going crazy right now. Have some peace for yourself.’

  If he only knew… I try desperately to empty my mind as his fingers tease lightly through my hair, but instead see myself walking slowly down an aisle towards Marc, as he turns delightedly, dressed in a morning suit… only for him to morph into Rich. I stop dead and his smile fades. He looks desperately sad and holds out his arms, starts walking towards me, but I pull back, turn and run – as fast as I can! It’s a church I burst out of – one that backs on to very green fields and a cloudless, brilliant blue sky. I pick up the skirt of the big, ultra-traditional white dress that I appear to be wearing, my bare feet pushing down into the soft earth, and the further away I get, the more powerful my legs seem to become.

  A sudden strong, heady and almost cloying scent interrupts my thoughts, surrounding me, dragging me back to the salon. ‘This is a treatment designed to calm both the body and mind,’ Carl murmurs, in a this-is-the-voice-I-use-when-I’m-being-soothing tone.

  I’m filled only with a sudden sense of despair. In just six hours’ time, I will be arriving at the hotel.

  ‘Right, we’re all rinsed and done, my darling,’ says Carl. He brings me upright, tucking a loose corner expertly into my towel turban. ‘Right, over here, my love.’ Ushering me gently across the salon as if I’m made of glass and may splinter at any given moment, he sits me down in a chair well away from everyone else and murmurs under his breath, ‘OK, you have to tell me – who caved and sang like a canary?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Well, for what it’s worth, I would do exactly what you’re doing if I were you. Maura says hubby-to-be has worked so hard to make this perfect. What’s a little white lie? Needs must when the devil drives, and all that.’ He winks at me again in the mirror. ‘I can totally see why you don’t want to ruin it for him by letting on that you were in-the-know all along, although I’d be uber pissed off with the person that put their foot in it. I suppose he must be at the hotel now, getting everything all ready?’ Carl starts to brush my wet hair, then pauses and sighs before resuming his detangling. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything so romantic, I really don’t.’

  ‘He’s on his way back from France. He’s got two children from his first marriage who he’s gone to collect.’

  He stops and pulls a face. ‘France? And you’re getting married in’ – he checks his watch – ‘under six hours? He’s cutting it a bit fine, no pun intended. You know you have to marry the best man if he doesn’t show? Don’t tell me – you don’t even know who the best man is!’

  But I’m staring at myself in the mirror. He’s right. What happens if Marc doesn’t make it to the wedding? I’ll still be there to open the letter at 8 p.m. – it meets all of the conditions…

  My heart leaps with a first flicker of hope. The guests would be pretty bloody confused as to why Marc had apparently bottled the wedding he arranged, but they wouldn’t say a thing to me, given that I’m not in-the-know, would they? And while Claudine would be cheated of humiliating us in public, is that really the crucial bit for her, in any case? Surely as long as we don’t get married, she’ll have got what she wants, won’t she?

  Only – I deflate again – there’s no way Marc will miss the wedding he has painstakingly organized all on his own. It would have to be a matter of life or death, and I can hardly have my own fiancé arrested, or kidnapped.

  ‘Right, I’m going to blast you dry and back-comb you for some height, OK?’ Carl switches on the hairdryer before carefully tipping me forward, shouting, ‘I’ll be mindful of the head trauma, though.’

  I go very still. My injury. If I were taken seriously ‘ill’ and was in hospital, wedding or not, Marc would drop everything to be there, I know he would. I feel a real prickle of excitement at this, the slightest possibility of there being something I might be able to do to protect Marc and the children. If I fake it becoming worse and go to A&E, while he is en route to the hospital, might I somehow slip out and get to the hotel for 8 p.m. to open the letter?

  ‘Head up now, sweetheart. You’ve actually got very thick hair, haven’t you? Not long and we’ll start pinning, OK? Hello? I’ve lost you, haven’t I? Wondering about tonight?’ Carl rolls his eyes. ‘It must be so weird being clueless about everything he’s planned. It’s like that Don’t Tell the Bride on TV – except even the women on that know their husbands are doing it all, and the wedding itself isn’t secret.’

  I realize suddenly he’s right. This is insane. This whole situation is complete madness. I shift in my chair in frustration. I’m starting to feel very hot; the noise of the dryers going, the salon chatter and the throb of the background music is all pounding in my brain. Except there was a man in my house! A man who knew me and who had been hired to come and find me. That is real – and however impossible it feels, it’s happening
.

  If I don’t do exactly as I’m told, he will hurt us.

  The only answer is to keep Marc away from the hotel. There is no other solution. My breath starts to quicken, and I crane my neck, trying to look to see what stage Alice is at. ‘Do you think I could have a quick word with my youngest sister?’

  ‘Of course, darling.’ He puts the brush down. ‘I’ll have her sent over. And do you want a coffee or anything?’

  No! I just want to speak to Alice now! I shake my head.

  ‘Back in a jiffy.’ He pats my shoulder, and I watch him walk over to Alice’s chair and say something to her. She gets up, smiling, her dark hair sticking out all over the place like she’s had an electric shock, but at the sight of me her expression changes and she hurries across the salon.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sitting down quickly in an empty chair and scooting it up close, she takes my hand. ‘Take a deep breath. That’s it, and another. It’s him, isn’t it? What’s he done now?’

  I know she means Rich, but I just ignore her. ‘I think I might have a way to protect Marc from a situation I really don’t want him to be in this evening.’ I grip her hand tightly. ‘I’m going to need to get him away from the hotel, so that he—’

  ‘What? How are you going to have a wedding if Marc’s not there?’ Alice interrupts.

  I hesitate and pick my words very, very carefully. ‘There’s not going to be a wedding, Alice. Are you, me, Mum and Imogen meant to travel from my house to the hotel together later, before the service?’

  She nods, looking shocked.

  ‘OK. I’m thinking about my head injury becoming so bad I need to go to hospital, so Marc leaves Goldhurst Park and comes to me.’

  Alice sits back in her chair slowly. ‘I really don’t get this. This morning you said you would be at the hotel come what may, and now…’

  ‘You don’t need to “get it”. Perhaps if I’d have just known about this bloody wedding in the first place…’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Soph. We didn’t exactly know you’d boffed Rich, did we?’ She lowers her voice. ‘I understand that having the two men you’ve slept with over the last two months in the same room together tonight, especially when the registrar says, “Does anyone know any good reason why this man and this woman shouldn’t be married” is far from ideal, but what is it that he’s—’

  ‘I mean it – this really doesn’t need to make sense to you, because it can’t,’ I say desperately. ‘All I need to know is that if I have even the smallest chance to prevent several people’s lives from being ruined, I should take it, shouldn’t I?’

  She looks at me, confused.

  ‘I’m actually asking you, Alice!’

  ‘I don’t know, Sophie!’ she says, bewildered. ‘I suppose so… yes.’

  ‘Will you help me, without asking any more questions?’

  She hesitates for a moment. ‘Tell me exactly what it is you want me to do.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘OK, so after this we’re supposed to be going back to yours to do our make-up. They’re going to bring out the dresses, then we’ll be going to the hotel,’ murmurs Alice, her hair now pinned up in a glossy roll that sits pertly on the back of her head. ‘You should probably start showing a few signs of something being wrong soon.’

  I nod, tucking my bag up on my shoulder. Carl is faffing around with his phone, insisting on wanting to take photos of the four of us all finished, for his ‘look book’. ‘Do you think you could Google symptoms of a head injury on your mobile?’ I ask anxiously. ‘Just so we don’t mess it up?’

  ‘Ah! I’ve done it!’ exclaims Carl. ‘It’s working again. Right, girls, line up!’ Obediently, Alice and I are flanked by Mum and Imogen, and I try to focus. I haven’t told Alice anything that compromises her. Besides, she would have thought it bizarre if the whole Rich ‘drama’ had suddenly fizzled away into nothing. Oddly, this is now all somehow more plausible, as far as she’s concerned.

  ‘Smile, Sophie!’

  ‘Sorry,’ I say automatically. If I’m going to have enough time to get to Goldhurst Park by 8 p.m. from the hospital, I’ll need to give them all the slip – Alice included. What about if she goes to get Marc? That will get her out of the way, but it still leaves Mum and Imogen…

  ‘Such beautiful girls!’ Carl exclaims. ‘See?’

  Everyone goes ‘Ahhh’ as they crowd around the camera looking at all of us smiling for the wedding I’m not supposed to know about – and isn’t going to happen. I stare at myself. The sleek upsweep style of my hair, pinned firmly in place with the two glittering art deco pins, is unfamiliar, and looks very odd teamed with my casual clothes, but no one else seems to notice my obvious unease.

  Mum even gets a little teary, saying out of nowhere as we walk back to Imogen’s car, ‘I just want you to know I am so proud of you all and the wonderful women you have become.’

  ‘Blimey, Mum,’ says Imogen. ‘How much champagne did you have at the hairdressers, for goodness’ sake?’ Imogen herself is pretty giggly, if only with the excitement of someone who feels they are back at a party they’d been forced to leave early, and against their will. ‘It’s so bloody nice just to be able to switch off for five seconds.’ She sighs. ‘I love Evie dearly, but I can’t pretend it’s not great to have a break. I actually can’t wait for this bit to be over. That’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ She looks in her bag for the car keys. ‘I just feel that when she’s a bit older, say five or so, we might genuinely get our lives back, instead of just pretending. Ed and I may be able to do things like leave her with one of you and go away for a holiday, just the two of us again. And by the time she’s in her teens, she’ll be practically independent of us.’

  ‘Oh, Imogen,’ sighs Mum. ‘You really think this is the hard stage? When Evie’s seventeen and you’re beside yourself at midnight because she hasn’t come home, even though she promised she’d be back at eleven, you’ll long for what you have now – the security of knowing she’s upstairs asleep, safe and sound in her cot. It doesn’t get easier, I’m afraid. You should never wish anything away.’

  Imogen’s face falls completely as she stares at Mum, blipping the car open on auto-pilot.

  Mum opens the front passenger door, adding cheerily for good measure before she climbs in, ‘Being a mother to the three of you has been wonderful, but completely terrifying in equal measure. You never stop worrying.’

  I climb into the back of the car feeling like the world’s biggest bitch, given I’m about to frighten Mum senseless with a completely fake emergency dash to the hospital. On cue, Alice silently passes me her phone, on which there is a huge list of symptoms for severe head injuries, including unconsciousness (either very briefly or for a longer period of time), difficulty staying awake, slurred speech, stiff neck, vision problems, bleeding from one or both ears, a lasting headache since the injury, vomiting since the injury, irritability or unusual behaviour and visible trauma to the head.

  I’m slightly disconcerted to realize I actually do have three, if not four, of them, especially when I read: If any of these symptoms are present, go immediately to the A&E (accident and emergency) department of your local hospital, or call 999 and ask for an ambulance.

  Alice takes the phone and then types something onto the screen and hands it to me.

  You know you actually should go to hosp now, according to this? Not just because of your wacko plan?

  I ignore that and silently pass the phone back. She tuts, and looks out of the window crossly.

  The remainder of the journey home is a quiet one all round: thanks to Mum’s crisp annihilation of the rest of her life, Imogen has fallen mute; Alice continues to stare out of the window; and even Mum seems to be having an introspective moment, suddenly saying out of the blue, ‘Later, can we make sure we get a photo of the four of us… with your father, too? Would that be all right?’ I wait for Alice to lighten the mood with one of her quips, but she doesn’t say anything and Mum’s comment hangs sadly in the air
for longer than is comfortable for any of us.

  It’s not even a relief when Imogen finally pulls up the drive at mine and we all get out. My little terrace has been a constant since I bought it when I was twenty-seven. I’d no intention of returning to the town I’d grown up in, but after meeting Josh in one of the pubs there on a weekend back visiting an old school friend, I suddenly very much wanted to be local again. Quickly ditching my rented London flat share, I had eagerly hurried off to Mum’s, then just as quickly bought my own place, as if that’s what I’d been planning all along.

  I’d almost sold it after Josh moved out: the absence of him in every room was too much to bear. I’d lie in bed alone, looking out over the rooftop view from our bedroom window, and the familiarity would transport me straight back to the last time he’d slept there. He’d told me on an otherwise ordinary Thursday evening that, despite nine years together, he felt he was no longer able to give me the commitment I deserved, and he didn’t want to prevent me from meeting the man who was right for me. While it wasn’t exactly a surprise, the shock of him finally saying it aloud had made me beg him to stay one more night, even though he’d said it would be better if he left straight away. I suppose I thought I could make him change his mind. He had, humiliatingly, moved my desperate hands back to his chest once we were in bed, and firmly turned over. I’d spent the whole night awake and in silent tears, wrapped around his familiar body as he slept deeply, with a mounting sense of dread as it started to get light outside, because I knew I was never going to hold him like that again. The second he woke up, the spell would be broken…