B
3 Runnymede Way
Twickenham
Middlesex
TW2 5BT
As my eyes clock the final letters of my postcode, they sweep to the top and read the address again, my heart pounding in my chest.
Why do I have a letter?
I never receive letters, not handwritten ones. Who has written me a letter?
My eyes scan the top of the letter again and I feel a wave of relief.
Oh. Hang on.
‘It’s not for me,’ I say, looking back up at Joy. ‘That’s not how you spell my name. It’s probably just a random initial.’
I hold the letter up to Joy, who leans forward as if it’s written in hieroglyphics.
‘Are you sure?’ she says. ‘It could be for you. That’s probably just a mistake. Why don’t you open it, just in case?’
I pull the letter away from Joy, feeling a slight niggle of annoyance.
My God she’s nosey. She definitely steams open my post and reads it every day.
‘No,’ I say, putting the letters in my bag. ‘It won’t be for me. Nobody knows my address. Someone will probably come and pick it up,’ I say, closing my bag. ‘Or I’ll do that return to sender thing,’ I add as an afterthought.
I look back at Joy. Her face is fixed in a permanent smile, as if she hasn’t heard what I’ve just said.
I look back at her awkwardly. What does she want?
‘Right,’ I say eventually, ‘well, I’d better go.’
Joy drops her head into a nod, her smile still in place.
‘Of course, dear,’ she says pleasantly. ‘If you change your mind about the quiche, just let me know. You don’t have to phone, I’ll be in.’
I turn on my heel and walk across the garden path towards my front door.
‘Sure,’ I say, as I reach my front door, ‘have a nice evening, Joy.’
I catch a final glimpse of Joy, still standing in her lit doorway and watching me leave. I click the front door shut and drop the post on the hall table.
I glance down at my watch.
18.13.
‘Hello?’ I call, as I drop my bag on to the floor.
‘Bea!’
I jump as Emma pops out of the downstairs toilet and flings her arms around me. My body is crushed as nerves fizzle in my chest until she lets me go.
Why is Emma treating me as if I’m a long-lost relative she’s picked up from the airport?
‘Hey,’ I say, as she lets me go.
This can’t be a good sign.
‘Bea?’ Priya shouts from upstairs. ‘I’m on the toilet. Hang on!’
‘Err, okay,’ I shout back.
Why is she telling me that?
She’s being weird. They’re both being weird.
What are they going to tell me?
‘How are you?’ Emma says as we walk through to the living room. ‘How was your weekend? I feel like I barely saw you.’
I sink down on to the sofa and pull my knees up to my chest in an attempt to calm my nerves.
That would be because Emma did barely see me. She popped home briefly on Friday night, to grab some bits, and I’m assuming she’s been camped out at Margot’s since.
Not that I mind. I’m used to it.
‘Good, thank you.’ I smile. ‘I had my pitch at work yesterday.’
Priya runs through the door, still in her nurse’s uniform, with four pens stuck in her hair. ‘Sorry!’ she cries, settling down on the sofa next to Emma. ‘You all right, Bea?’
I frown at her. ‘Are you going to work?’
‘What?’ Priya looks down at herself and then laughs. ‘Oh, no. I fell asleep in this and can’t be bothered to get changed.’
Emma frowns. ‘You slept in your bra?’
Priya bats the question away. ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘I thought I’d make us all dinner tonight.’
‘I’ve just been to Tesco,’ Emma chips in. ‘Priya’s going to make us a chilli.’
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘okay, cool.’
‘And,’ she adds, ‘they had an offer on ice cream, so I bought that too.’
I look back at them as they grin at me.
‘Okay,’ I say again.
Priya and Emma are still looking at me. Priya’s eyes are wide and anxious, and Emma is wringing her hands together like she’s squeezing out moisture.
What is going on?
Silence stretches between us as Priya and Emma exchange glances.
Oh God. This is already horrible and they haven’t even said anything yet.
What’s happening?
‘So,’ I say, ‘there was something you wanted to talk to me about?’
Priya’s left eye twitches and her mouth clamps shut.
I try to swallow as anxiety swirls up the back of my throat.
What are they going to say? I feel like they are about to break up with me.
‘Yeah,’ Emma says, taking a deep breath. ‘Right. Yeah. So, I’ve been talking to Priya and we’ve realised that we’re both in similar situations.’
She looks at Priya who does a small nod, her face flushed.
‘And,’ Emma continues, ‘the thing is, Bea. Margot and I have been getting quite serious, and Priya and Josh have too.’
I feel a rush of heat storm up my chest and I shift my clammy hands under my thighs.
Oh God. I was right. They are going to ask them to move in with us.
What am I going to say to this?
‘Okay,’ I say slowly.
‘And we have both decided that we think that we want to live together,’ Emma finishes, the last words tumbling out of her mouth.
I stare back at them blankly.
And here it is. My future. Spread out before me like a big fat carcass of a love life.
I shall be an official fifth wheel for the rest of my life. Clamped to the boot, taken everywhere you go, but essentially useless – and very awkward when you actually need it.
Great.
I’ll have to sit on the floor every time we watch the TV. Or (much worse) squash in between them like the child who’s come home for the holidays. I’ll never be able to stay off Tinder, with them constantly badgering me about how great it is to be in a relationship and how I’m such a catch any guy would be lucky to have me blah, blah, blah.
I mean, God. Talk about unbearable.
‘Wow,’ I say, trying to contort my face into a smile, ‘that’s, erm, exciting.’
Yeah, as exciting as clawing my eyes out with rusty safety pins.
I take a deep breath as my smile falters.
Come on, Bea. This is your home too. You have rights! You have as much right as everyone else to love living here. You need to say how you feel.
You cannot sit in silence!
‘I just,’ I manage, my face burning, ‘I just don’t know how we’d all fit here. Like, Margot has a car, right? I know we only have one space and . . .’ I trail off feebly as Priya’s eyes widen.
‘Oh,’ Emma’s eyes quickly dart towards Priya and then back at me. ‘Sorry, Bea. I didn’t mean that.’
Priya stares at me, her face practically glowing now.
‘Oh?’ I manage.
If Emma didn’t mean that, then what does she mean?
She takes a deep breath.
‘We want to live together, alone,’ she says, ‘like, me and Margot somewhere, and Priya and Josh somewhere.’
I stare into Emma’s blue eyes. My body sags as understanding creeps over me.
Oh.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Why didn’t I think of that?
They don’t want us all to live together. They both want to live without me.
I can’t believe I was so stupid.
Priya and Emma both stare back at me, and I realise that I haven’t said anything.
‘Right,’ I manage, the words scratching their way out of my mouth, ‘well, that’s so exciting. For you guys, I mean. Congratulations.’
‘Oh!’ Priya sque
als, jumping over to my end of the sofa and pulling me into her arms, ‘don’t be sad, Bea! We’ll still see each other all the time! And we won’t move for another month at least, so we’ll still have loads of fun together!’
I hang limply in her arms.
Oh God, I can’t bear this.
‘It’s fine,’ I say quickly, pushing Priya off me. ‘I mean, it’s more than fine. It’s great. Don’t worry about me. So,’ I add, desperate to erase the sad look in their eyes, ‘when did you decide this?’
Priya slouches back against the sofa and Emma smiles.
‘Well, Margot and I have been speaking about it for months.’
‘And me and Josh are headed in that direction,’ Priya says, pulling out her phone. ‘We haven’t officially spoken about it yet, but it just makes sense.’
I nod as Emma pulls out her phone too.
Well, I guess that’s that, then.
I try to swallow the ball that is lodged in the back of my throat.
‘Honestly, Bea,’ Priya says, ‘it will be like nothing has changed.’
I smile weakly.
Like nothing has changed.
I’ll be on my own, again.
Nothing has changed at all.
CHAPTER THREE
Faye swans past my desk, her high-pitched giggle following the tail of Duncan’s latest knock-knock joke. I avoid her flitting eye contact.
Everything went back to normal after the horrible conversation yesterday evening. Priya went and made dinner, me and Emma watched Emmerdale. We spoke about Priya’s day at work and Emma’s weekend, and I just sat there and listened as anxiety chewed at my insides until there was nothing left to swallow.
I glance down at the handwritten letter, staring up at me from the bottom of my bag. I pick up my mug and walk into the kitchen.
I meant to throw the letter away. I went to sleep last night fully intending to chuck it in the recycling on my way to work. But when I woke up this morning to an empty house, I couldn’t let it go.
I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with it. But I can’t seem to open it. As soon as I open it and find out that the letter is definitely not for me, I’ll feel like I’ve lost something else.
I take a deep breath as I click the kettle on. I watch it shake into life as thoughts swirl around my mind.
I’ve never really spoken to Priya or Emma about my anxiety. They wouldn’t understand. I don’t even know if I understand it.
I’ve heard stories about people who can’t leave their house, or manage a conversation with a stranger. Anxiety, for me, isn’t like that.
I imagine it like a creature sleeping in the pit of my stomach. It stays there, untouched and uninterested, as I get on with my day-to-day life. But if I step outside my routine, even for a second, it wakes up.
And then I don’t know how to get it back to sleep.
‘Bea?’
I look up as Angela sticks her head into the kitchen. She’s wearing a long beaded necklace over a fitted suit dress, and flat-heeled, faded shoes.
I feel my face brighten into a smile.
‘Hi, Angela,’ I say. I gesture to the splattering kettle. ‘Would you like a tea?’
‘No,’ Angela says quickly, ‘thank you.’
I feel a flutter of annoyance.
Why doesn’t she ever want me to make her a cup of tea?
‘How are you getting on with the press releases?’ Angela asks. ‘I’ve sent you about four this morning. Did you see them?’
I nod. ‘Yes,’ I reply.
As if I could miss them. Angela’s emails fire into my inbox like bullets. She doesn’t use any grammar or any pleasantries, and most of the time they look more like death threats than emails.
Angela nods briskly and strides away from the kitchen. I tip the boiling water into my solitary mug and make my way out of the kitchen.
I like my job. It was my dream to be a journalist. I love writing.
But I don’t write – not really, anyway. What I actually do is regurgitate press releases sent by every Tom, Dick and Harry lurking around Twickenham desperate to get a few minutes of fame for their record-sized cucumbers.
That’s not a euphemism. I wish it was.
Actually, no I don’t. They’re all about eighty. Nobody wants to see shrivelled old Dicks from number 84 – in any sense.
I shake my mouse and rearrange the items on my desk, as my screen sparks back to life.
My eyes flit down as another email pops up from Angela: Press release attached.
‘Ohhhh! What are you doing?’
I jump slightly as Faye reappears, craning her neck over my shoulder.
I try not to frown at her. She’s way off schedule. It’s 15.15.
‘Nothing,’ I say, my eyes darting up to my screen and quickly minimising my page.
I don’t even know what my screen was on.
‘Were you looking at horoscopes?’ Faye drops into the seat next to me and leans towards my screen. ‘I love horoscopes. I read mine, like, every day.’
She bats her large eyes at me and I pause, unsure of what I’m supposed to do.
‘What did yours say?’ she probes, gesturing for me to open the screen again.
Faye grabs my mouse and clicks on the Herald’s horoscope page. I watch as little purple stars drift down my screen. It’s like a unicorn has thrown up all over it.
‘What’s your star sign?’ Faye says.
‘Err,’ I say, ‘I’m not sure.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
I feel my face prickle at her quick-fire questions.
Gosh, this is the most interested Faye has ever been in me. Why does she care so much?
‘June the fifth,’ I reply.
Faye nods. ‘Of course you’re a Gemini,’ she says under her breath.
I look round at her.
What does that mean?
‘Okay, here,’ she says, gesturing to the screen. My eyes follow her gaze and I read the glittering words swirling on to my screen.
Gemini, this is a big month of change for you. Although things may seem hard at times, you will get through this. And if you ever feel alone, look out for the stars to guide you.
‘Oh, wow,’ Faye breathes, ‘that is so interesting. And I guess it is a hard time, with Duncan not liking your pitch.’
My head snaps back round as I stare at her.
‘Oh!’ Faye coos. ‘Look at mine! It says I am likely to experience an outpouring of love, wealth and happiness.’
Faye beams at me and I force my taut face into a smile.
Of course her horoscope says that. Of course it does.
She gets up and swans off towards the kitchen and I reread the words. I scowl and close the screen decisively as I feel the aftertaste of hot tea at the back of my throat. I glance down at my handbag, which is sitting at my feet.
The letter is practically winking at me.
I watch as Faye props herself casually on Jemima’s desk and starts laughing. My fingers curl around my mouse.
Now would actually be the perfect time to read the letter. Faye has had her afternoon visit, she won’t talk to me again for at least another hour. Duncan is busy geeing up the sales team and Angela is halfway through her late-afternoon cigarette.
My eyes flit back up to my monitor, and then, as if magnetised, they shoot back down into my open bag.
Nobody will have to know that you read it. If it’s not for you (which it won’t be) you can drop it in the company shredder. No one will question that. Nobody will even notice.
My hand stretches down and I pull the letter out of my bag.
Okay, Bea. Prepare to be thoroughly disappointed when you read this letter and find it is not an invitation from some far-flung prince, saying that his kingdom is in danger and only you can save them, but it is, in fact, a forwarded letter from your previous landlord asking whether you’d still like to contribute to the village fête.
Immediately, I feel myself fixate on the small smattering o
f stars, sketched in biro in the right-hand corner.
My heart squirms as the horoscope floats through my mind.
If you ever feel alone, look out for the stars to guide you.
My eyes widen as I stare down at the letter.
Right! It’s official. I have a stalker. I have a stalker who works for an online horoscope website, who supplies horoscopes for the Herald and then sends creepy follow-up letters. Great. Of course.
I take a slow glug of my tea and glare down at the letter. Before my mind can stop me, my hands reach forward and I peel open the folded seal of the letter. Gently, I pull out a thin piece of paper and smooth it across my desk. I feel my body jolt as my eyes land on the small, scrawled handwriting and I start to read.
Dear B,
It’s Nathan. I don’t know if you recognised my writing. I can’t remember if I ever wrote to you. I know we haven’t spoken in years and things weren’t left great between us. I know we both said things we probably didn’t mean. Well, I know I did. You probably meant yours. I wouldn’t blame you. But I hope you’re okay now. I hope you still live in this house. I know we had a lot of fun there. I hope you’ve got that landlord to fix the boiler at least.
I don’t know if you know this, you might have read about it somewhere, but I’m in prison. Fuck, it’s so horrible having to write that down and send that to you. But there’s no point lying. Please don’t come and see me, that’s not why I’m writing. It’s horrible. I don’t want you here. I’ve been here for five months. I’m not going to tell you what it’s like, I’m sure you can imagine it. But you spend a lot of time in your own head. It didn’t take long for me to start thinking about you. It never does.
I want to say I’m sorry, for everything. I was young and stupid. You think you’re fucking invincible when you’re young, you never think anything will catch up with you. I lost control of my life and I got caught up in everything, and I pushed you to the sidelines. I was too stupid to think about what I was doing. You were the only person who ever made me feel whole. That feeling has never changed. I still love you, B.
I don’t know what you’re doing now, you might even have a new bloke. If you do, I’m sorry. And I hope he’s better to you than I was. I just hope you’re happy.
I still think of you every time I look at the stars. They make me feel less alone in here.
The Accidental Love Letter Page 3