by Anna Mansell
‘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.
4
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.
5
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.
6
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 this letter?’
‘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 begging them for mercy. I can’t help wondering if I should have read this letter before you sent it. Censored it. Like in the war. Your behaviour suggests this was a bad move, Jem.’
A wave of nausea, not unlike the one I experienced that night on Leanne’s conservatory floor, washes over me. I think she might have a point.
There’s a rustling of hand over receiver. ‘I’m on the phone to Aunty Jem, Harley. What? Now? Okay, hang on, sweetie.’ The phone rustles again. I hear my godson in the background. ‘Good boy. Come on then, up you go.’ She’s panicking. ‘Hurry, hurry, that’s right, good boy… oh. Oh shit.’ Then a wail. ‘Okay, no problem. Don’t worry. It’s fine. Come on now. Here, no! Not there, mind that! Jem, I’ve got to go. Nursery are insisting I potty train before they let him move up to the next group but he just took a wee on the staircase.’
She hangs up. In my car, alone, no moral support on the phone, the panic hits a new level. Defcon 1. I need to be proactive. Take back control. I look at my watch. 11.35. If I set off now, I could be in Cornwall by 8 p.m. I could try and get a room in that pub in the town where he lives now. The Sloop. Except that it’s August and there are probably no rooms available there or anywhere else for that matter. And I promised Mum I’d eat that skate. Christ! Why did he have to move so far away? I told him I’d leave him alone. Why did he need so much distance b
etween us? Derbyshire to practically the furthest point away in southwest Cornwall. It’s excessive. We could just as easily have avoided each other if he’d moved to Eckington, or Nottingham, even Derby. But Cornwall? That was supposed to be our retirement plan, not his escape route.
I wouldn’t have even known where he was, but he and Mum had stayed in touch a little bit. Which would be weird if it wasn’t for the fact that she was basically the one that kept him standing when he lost his mum and dad. That time I was supposed to be there for him and instead… well, I can’t think about that now. I can’t think about any of it. And neither can he. Which is why I need to stop that letter.
7
The woman at the counter looks at me, unimpressed. ‘It’s just that I didn’t mean to send it yet and I really need to get it back. So that I can fix the thing I got wrong. And then I can resend it afterwards.’ I strain to see past her and into the back, not sure why I really think I’ll be able to spot my letter amongst the many thousands that are clearly being sorted here. ‘It was my mum, she was trying to help. Not that I’m blaming her, obviously. I just… I really need the letter back.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ she says again, mouth pinched, fingers clasped tightly before her. ‘You’ll have to make contact with the recipient.’
‘I can’t make contact with the recipient!’ I don’t mention the fact that that’s because he’s not talking to me. And he blocked me on Twitter.
‘Well, I’m sorry, there’s nothing else we can do.’ She forces a smile then looks beyond me in the queue.
‘Right.’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay. It’s not your fault.’ Hands on hips, I gaze down at the floor. My Converse are looking well and truly battered. A bit like I suspect my face does now. This is not good news.