You Sent Me a Letter

by Lucy Dawson

  ‘It’s not like I haven’t seen it all before.’

  ‘Josh!’

  ‘What?’ he protests. ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s hardly the point. You don’t get to see it now, do you?’

  ‘Look, if it makes you feel better,’ he says reasonably, ‘I’ll pull over and shut my eyes. Although when did you become so prudey?’

  ‘Do you mean prudish? “Prudey” isn’t actually a word,’ I correct, and he bursts out laughing.

  ‘Wow, it’s been a while since I last heard you say something like that!’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ I say, smiling, while also looking around and glancing at the clock. It’s coming up to quarter to. My smile vanishes. I have no time to play with at all. ‘OK, yes, can you find somewhere we can stop, please…’

  ‘Certainly, ma’am.’ At the next lay-by, he swings the car in and keeps the engine running. We are clearly visible to any other passing cars. ‘Go for it.’

  I have no choice. I unzip my bag and start to unbutton my top. I look over to him and he smiles pleasantly back at me. ‘Close your eyes?’ I say pointedly.

  ‘Sorry, gotcha.’ He leans his head back on the headrest and sighs happily, as if settling in for a nap. I slide off the shirt and then start to wriggle the jeans out from under me.

  ‘Da da daaa… da da da daaaa…’ he starts humming under his breath.

  ‘Josh, you’re really not helping.’ I become flustered and get my foot stuck in my haste to free myself. ‘I’m not stripping, I’m getting into my wedding dress.’

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ He holds a hand up, eyes still shut. ‘I’ll stay as quiet as a mouse.’

  He’s true to his word, and I pull it on – only whipping my bra off right at the last minute – and slip my arms in, before putting on the stupid shoes and the bracelet. I turn my half-bare back to him, sitting up as straight as I can, and ask uncomfortably, ‘Can you zip me up, please?’

  He doesn’t say anything. I feel his hands lightly brush my skin, and the material tightens over my body again. ‘Done,’ he says quietly.

  ‘Thank you.’ I dart away from him and clip my seat belt back in.

  He pulls out onto the road again and we drive for another moment or two in silence, before he says, ‘That’s one hell of a wedding dress.’

  ‘Thanks. I didn’t choose it. Marc did.’

  He glances at me. ‘What?’

  ‘My fiancé has organized the wedding. It’s meant to be a surprise for me. Oh, we’re here!’ My heart thumps as the gates to Goldhurst Park and the long private drive appear on our right.

  ‘You drop that just as we’re arriving?’ he says incredulously. ‘He chose your dress and sorted the whole wedding?’

  ‘Yes, well, I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate it. Right, have I got everything?’ I peer down into the footwell, shoving my trainers and jeans back into the bag, checking that the letter is still there. I feel nauseous as I spy its now horribly familiar seal, just visible under my scrunched-up shirt.

  ‘Actually, I wouldn’t think you would appreciate having everything done for you like that.’ He looks at me curiously. ‘I take it you do want to marry him?’

  I deliberately don’t look at him. ‘Relationship advice? Seriously?’

  ‘Fine, fine…’ He holds up a hand.

  ‘Can you just pull down into that overflow car park?’ I say anxiously. ‘I don’t think I ought to risk anyone seeing me getting out of your car, if that’s OK… Although they’re probably all inside by now. Oh God, ten to eight.’ My stomach flutters with panic again.

  He turns down quite a steep little hill and takes me right to the back of the car park. ‘You sure here’s all right? It’s getting dark.’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine.’ I turn to him, realizing suddenly that this is goodbye. ‘Well.’ I give him a big smile. ‘Of all the people that I imagined would drive me to my wedding…’ I trail off, not knowing how to finish that. ‘But genuinely, thank you for helping me.’

  ‘It was a privilege,’ he says. Then he leans over and kisses me gently on the cheek. ‘Be happy, Sophie.’ My eyes close briefly at his touch and my heart tightens involuntarily. As he pulls back, I just sit there stupidly and stare at him for a moment. I really have to get out of the car.

  I turn and pull the handle. Stepping out, I reach back in for my bag. ‘Goodbye, Josh.’

  ‘Bye, Soph. All the best.’

  I physically wince as if someone has just given me a sharp dig right on a scar. All the best? Nine years decanted into one trite throwaway nicety. I shouldn’t even notice, but I do. I have to straighten up and shut the car door, looking away quickly so that he can’t see the expression on my face.

  He spins the car around, and I watch him drive off slowly as I stand alone in the quiet car park, clutching my bag, the shimmering dress catching the last rays of evening sunlight.

  He speeds up at the last moment and I hear him roar off up the hill.

  Then he is gone.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I have to take an extra second to wipe my eyes furiously, before gripping the bag and starting out towards the hotel. It is impossible to walk in my stupid shoes; I can barely totter. Kicking them off, I reach down and grab them by the straps, then pick up the bottom of the beaded hem of my dress so it doesn’t drag in the damp grit.

  Wincing slightly as some sharp bits dig into the soles of my feet, I clench my jaw, lift my head higher and keep walking. Marc will be at the hospital by now. They will have realized I’m missing and, in five minutes, I’ll be opening the letter. I must keep focused. There is no time to think about anything else. I swallow and force from my mind the warmth of Josh’s hands on my back. I am strong enough to do this. I’ve come this far. I’ve also met all Claudine’s conditions: I’ve not breathed a word to anyone about what she’s done, and I’m here. I am not going to fall at the final hurdle. She can ruin me, that’s fine – but I will protect Marc and the children from public humiliation. I owe them nothing less.

  I hitch up the dress more determinedly as I approach the main car park. It’s not, of course, designed for striding uphill, only small, delicate, red-carpet steps. Squeezing in between two cars, I’m now on the main lawn in front of the hotel. The grass feels much softer under my feet, and slightly soggy with the dusk dew beginning to settle, but I’m able to pick up a little more speed, puffing slightly with the effort.

  Hurrying across the open space towards the former stately home, I can see the elegant façade all lit up and figures gathered in the vast hall. My head starts to swim a little. How am I going to play this? They are all going to be hideously confused to see me. Maybe I’ll just open the letter and worry about everything else afterwards…

  The grass runs out, and with the gravel drive still between me and the door, I drop the shoes, reluctantly stepping back into them, before crunching towards the stone steps that lead up to the entrance.

  As I appear in the doorway, everyone is chatting busily. They’ve all got glasses of champagne and, at first, only a couple of the guests closest to me glance up then do a double take, but before anyone can say anything, I hear a voice call, ‘Sophie!’ and realize Lou is practically barging a path through the crowd. ‘Marc said you’d been rushed to hospital!’ she exclaims. ‘Soph?’

  Oh God, she’s here… I open my mouth to answer her, but more and more people are realizing I’ve arrived; the whispers are spreading like waves of dominos and heads begin to turn. My eyes flit instead to the oversized clock face that is hanging on the wall, next to the entrance to the library.

  I watch the long hand click elaborately, straight to twelve. It is exactly 8 p.m. Ignoring the stares, I let the bag drop to the floor, bend quickly and undo it, reaching for the envelope and pulling it out, before zipping the bag back up and handing it to Lou. ‘Can I give you this to look after, please?’

  I offer her no further explanation as, cutting through the crowd, I head for the clock, until I am standing right under
it, back against the wall.

  Turning the letter over in my hand, I take a deep breath and break the seal.

  Inside the envelope is a single sheet of paper, folded in the middle with a knife-edge crease. Sliding it out, I realize it is wrapped around several, much smaller envelopes, simply numbered one to four. The second envelope has 8.05 p.m. written on it, the third 8.10 p.m. and the fourth 8.20 p.m.

  Sophie, reads the neat type of the letter,

  As I am sure you already know (I would certainly be prepared to stake your life on it – !) everyone is here for your wedding. Forgive my cynicism, but then it’s almost impossible these days to keep anything a secret, isn’t it, Sophie?

  I wonder if you have you come across this Dorothy Parker poem before?

  By the time you swear you’re his,

  Shivering and sighing,

  And he vows his passion is,

  Infinite, undying,

  Lady, make a note of this –

  One of you is lying.

  It will now be two minutes past eight.

  Open envelope number one.

  X

  Tearing at the first small envelope, I pull out what almost exactly resembles a Monopoly ‘Chance’ card.

  What WILL your parents say?

  ‘Sophie!’

  I look up to see my father marching towards me, with my stepmother in hot pursuit. He’s holding his phone.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ he demands, not even bothering with hello. ‘Alice told us all you’d been in some accident and were in hospital, and now’ – he waves the mobile at me – ‘your poor mother is in a complete state wanting to know if you’re here.’ He pushes the phone into my hand.

  ‘Sophie? Hello?’ Mum sounds terrified. ‘Alice, please slow down!’

  ‘I’m here, Mum.’ I say.

  ‘Oh, thank God! We’ve been trying and trying to reach you! Hang on – Marc wants a word. I’ll pass you over.’

  The phone line crackles slightly with the movement, but then goes dead.

  Before I have a chance to do anything else, the handset vibrates on my palm and I instinctively look at the screen, only to see it’s displaying a text from Sophie (daughter)

  What?

  My heart stops. I open it quickly and scan the message.

  Exposing a lying little whore.

  Underneath are three small attached pictures. I peer at them more closely and my mouth falls open. It’s a couple in bed. I tap on the first and it enlarges.

  The duvet is half-covering an apparently naked man facing away from the camera. I can see his bare back, the back of his arms and the back of his head. Beneath him, the head of a brunette woman is just visible.

  I instinctively tip the phone towards me so that my father and Margot can’t see what I’m looking at – because there is no mistaking that this is a couple having sex. I scrabble to the next image. This is a clearer shot – the photographer has moved slightly to the right. The man’s head is hanging slightly, his arms and shoulders taut with his body weight, and this time the torso and bare breasts of the woman under him can be clearly seen. She has her arms loosely above her head, her head twisted to the side and her eyes shut. Her mouth is also slightly open and she looks like she is gasping.

  Horrified, all I can do is stare at the image.

  ‘Sophie?’ My dad starts talking again, but I don’t register what he says as I am totally focused on the face of the woman.

  It’s me.

  My chest tightens as I start to breathe faster and rush to the last picture. It’s almost identical to the one before, but this time my leg is half out of the duvet, wrapping around Rich. My back is arching and Rich has lifted his head heavenward, his eyes closed. We very obviously have no idea there is anyone else in the room with us. The rest of the world has ceased to exist.

  Clenching my jaw so tightly my head starts to thump and my teeth hurt, I grip the phone like a live wire I am unable to let go of.

  How, how?

  I start to shudder involuntarily. Someone watched me having sex. I hear the noises in my head and see through the eyes spying on us from the bedroom doorway: me being drunkenly fucked, none the wiser to either the act or being watched.

  It is both disgusting and utterly degrading in equal measure.

  I don’t know how my legs continue to hold me up. Somehow I manage not to slither to the floor in my silver skin-like dress. I am completely unable to stop staring at the picture. Dad is still in front of me, speaking words I don’t hear, as I begin to realize that had it not been for sheer luck, he would be looking at these images now.

  My earlier determination that Claudine could ruin me as long as Marc and the children were not forced to witness it gushes away like someone pulling a plug on a sink full of dirty water. I don’t want anyone to see pictures of me like this…

  Oh, Jesus. The card said ‘parents’.

  This has gone to Mum too.

  Deleting the images with fumbling fingers, I scramble for Dad’s recent call list. Maura appears on the screen and I hit it instantly. Please don’t have looked at your messages. Please.

  ‘Hello, Sophie? We just got cut off I think. I gave the phone to Marc but you weren’t there.’

  ‘Mum, listen. Have you had any texts from me?’

  ‘No… Should I have done?’

  I feel faint with relief. I might just have got there in time. ‘This is very, very important. When you get off the phone, there will probably be one waiting. I want you to delete it without opening it, do you hear me? I can’t stress this enough, Mum. You have to promise, on my life, that you don’t look at it.’

  There is a pause.

  ‘Mum, please,’ I beg.

  ‘I promise,’ she says finally. ‘We will be there shortly. Stay exactly where you are.’

  I hang up, distraught. She’s going to look. Of all people, she will look. There is no time to block my phone again. And what’s the point, when whoever they are has successfully reactivated it twice already?

  ‘Sophie!’ repeats Dad. ‘Can you please tell me what’s going on?’

  I look up at him, stricken. No, Dad, I can’t, apart from Claudine is going to annihilate me. I silently pass him back his phone and, uncurling my fingers, select the second envelope. I check the clock.

  It’s 8.05 exactly.

  So, who’s next? Let’s go and find Lou!

  Lou? So Claudine has had someone follow and investigate me. She must have done. Oh God, this is going to kill Lou. It’s going to destroy everything! I whirl around in panic, but my best friend is nowhere to be seen. ‘Lou!’ I shout, ignoring everyone’s worried glances.

  Rich suddenly appears out of nowhere, in knife-sharp black tie. ‘She’s over at reception checking your bag in. What the hell is going on? And how exactly was I supposed to keep her away?’ he adds in a low voice. ‘Sophie, can you stop a minute? I need to talk to you!’

  Already hurrying to the desk, I see he’s right. Sure enough, there is Lou with her back to me.

  ‘Lou, I need a phone. Right now,’ I pant. ‘Can I have yours, please?’

  She turns around, surprised. ‘Sure.’ She reaches into her clutch bag, taps at it and says in surprise, ‘Oh, I’ve got a text from you!’

  I reach out and snatch the phone away from her, deleting it immediately. Lou gives Rich a ‘What the hell?’ look and he shrugs helplessly.

  Thank God he didn’t manage to convince her not to come. If he had, she’d be looking at those pictures right now. I practically fall over at the thought of what almost just happened, and have to be helped to a chair, still clutching Lou’s phone and the envelope.

  ‘Can someone get her a glass of water?’ I hear Lou say, her voice sounding curiously distant. ‘Sophie?’ she says worriedly. ‘I don’t think she can hear me. Does anyone know if Marc’s arrived back yet? We should call him.’ I feel her gently slip the mobile from my grasp.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, dazed, and stand up. I have two more envelopes to go.


  ‘Sweetie, you’re really not.’

  I push past her, ripping into envelope three, vaguely aware of Rich trying to reassure her while also blocking her path.

  Papa, what’s Sophie doing with this man?

  I gasp aloud. Claudine’s going to use her own children to tell Marc what I have done? That’s beyond sick – it’s abusive.

  I begin to shove past everyone, looking for my brother-in-law. I need to find Imogen and the children now.

  ‘Is Marc aware you’re here?’ Someone – Marc’s father, I think – shouts. ‘Should we call him?’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ I yell back. ‘He’s on his way.’

  ‘You look lovely, Sophie,’ comments a woman I don’t recognize as I pass by. Actually, I think she’s one of the partners at Marc’s firm.

  ‘Thank you!’ I say, smiling manically. ‘Thanks for coming!’

  Finally, in a deep armchair by the fire is Ed, happily holding a glass of champagne, which he has just raised to his lips. He freezes at the sight of me. ‘Sophie?’ he says in astonishment. ‘We thought—’

  ‘Where’s Imogen?’

  ‘Upstairs in our room. Gen needed to feed Evie and she thought it would be best if they all just watched some TV. She didn’t want Isabelle and Olivier getting upset after Marc left so suddenly.’

  ‘What room number?’

  ‘Two eighty-eight.’

  I spin around and hurry away.

  ‘You guys are unbelievable!’ taunts Philip, another one of Marc’s colleagues, appearing to my left as I reach the main staircase. ‘“Piss up” and “brewery” spring to mind!’

  I briefly consider punching his fat, smirking face, but move past him and up the shallow, red-velvet stairs.

  Outside room 288, I knock smartly on the door, and Imogen’s voice shouts, ‘Hold on!’

  ‘Sophie!’ I hear her exclaim as she looks through the peep-hole. ‘Er, you can’t come in right now, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Imogen, I know the kids are there! Open up!’

  The door unlocks to reveal Imogen dressed in a long, flowing, pale green dress. ‘Why are you here? What’s going on?’