I’ll always love you, B.
My eyes narrow as I stare at the words and before I can stop myself, my hand grabs my notepad and pen, and I start to write.
CHAPTER NINE
Joy pulls her front door open and beams at me.
‘Hello, Bea!’ she chimes.
I smile back as I notice a stack of post and a small box of Tupperware arranged neatly on her wooden table. All of the rubbish on her lawn had vanished by the time I woke up on Saturday morning. I don’t know what time Joy gets up, but I was awake at six a.m. and her lawn was perfect, as if she’d painted it on the day before.
‘Hi, Joy,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
Her bright eyes look up at me and her face creases into a smile.
‘I’m fine, thank you, love,’ she says. ‘Would you like to come in?’
She takes a step back, and I shake my head routinely.
‘No thank you,’ I say. ‘Just the post, please.’
Joy dips her head slightly.
‘I have some spare muffins that I made,’ she says. ‘I’ll never be able to eat them all. I don’t know why I made so many! I thought you and the girls would like them.’
She hands me the Tupperware.
I’m going to get so fat if I keep collecting the post from Joy.
‘Oh, thanks, Joy.’
Maybe it will be good comfort food for Priya.
‘Here is your post,’ she continues, ‘and I popped that letter in the post for you too.’
I look up from the small stack of letters and fix my eyes on Joy as a dart of panic flashes through me.
What?
‘What letter?’ I say.
I didn’t ask Joy to post any letters for me. Priya and Emma never write letters.
I’ve only written one.
‘The one Emma gave me,’ Joy says, moving back inside the hallway. ‘She must have forgotten to put a stamp on it but I had some spare. I don’t mind. I think she was trying to do that “return to sender” thing, but I’m sure you need a stamp for that.’ She smiles at me. ‘You can never be too careful, can you?’
I look back at Joy’s kind eyes as heat storms up my back.
‘What . . .’ I manage, my mouth dry, ‘what letter was it? Did Emma write it? Do you know who it was for?’
Joy’s eyes crinkle slightly.
‘Oh no, dear,’ she says, ‘I never read your post.’
My damp hands scrunch the small pile of letters in my hand.
‘Right,’ I say, ‘thanks, Joy. I’ll see you later.’
Before I give Joy the chance to answer, I turn on my heel and race back towards the house, scrambling for my keys.
It can’t be my letter. It must be a letter that Emma had written, and then asked Joy to send.
It can’t be the one I wrote.
I barge through the front door and jump as I almost collide with Emma, who is carrying a plate of food from the kitchen.
‘Whoa!’ Emma cries, steering her plate out of the way. ‘Are you all right? Do you need a wee?’
I flash her a small smile and charge into my room. My eyes dart over my bed, my bedside table, my desk.
It’s not there. It’s gone. Where has it gone?
‘Bea?’ Priya calls from the living room. ‘Can you come here, please?’
I stare across the room, desperately trying to spot the letter, hiding somewhere in my room.
Where is it? Where is it?
‘Bea?’
Slowly, my legs move in the direction of Priya’s voice until I spot her and Emma, propped up on the living-room sofa. Priya’s hair is washed and piled up on top of her head in a bun, and she is smiling.
I blink back at her, panic clawing at my throat as my eyes flash back to Emma. She tries to speak but I get there first.
‘Emma,’ I say slowly, ‘did you give Joy a letter?’
Emma closes her mouth and frowns.
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘the one from that prison guy. You were sending it back to him, right? I saw it on the table this morning and was going over to see Joy anyway, she had an ASOS parcel for me.’
My heart drops.
Oh my God. She sent it.
Emma frowns at me. ‘What?’ she says. ‘Did you want to keep it?’
I sink down on to the sofa and try to compose my face as Priya starts carving a slice of pizza.
It’s gone. I can’t believe it’s gone.
What did I even write? I can’t remember.
I can’t tell Emma and Priya what I’ve done. They’ll think I’m mad.
‘No,’ I say quietly, trying to squash the anxiety back down my throat.
What’s going to happen when he opens it? What will he do?
Priya examines my face and I quickly shoot her a smile.
What if he’s crazy? He could be totally mental, and I’ve just written him a letter. A really personal letter.
He wasn’t meant to read it. Nobody was meant to read it.
I lace my fingers together.
What if he writes back?
Oh God, why did I write him a letter? What’s wrong with me?
‘Look, Bea,’ Priya says, ‘I’ve had a chat with Emma today, and I need to apologise to you. I was a bad friend this weekend and I’m sorry.’
He won’t write back. He’ll know it’s not the right handwriting. He’ll throw it away.
I glance up at Priya and twitch as I realise we’re sitting in silence. Emma is frowning at me.
‘That’s okay,’ I mumble, my face burning.
Is there a way I can intercept the post? Get the letter back?
‘Bea?’
My eyes jerk up and I realise I’m scrunching up the remaining letters like tissue paper. Emma is eyeing me furiously.
‘What’s wrong?’ Priya asks, her smiling eyes quickly changing expression. ‘Are you really mad about it all?’
‘No,’ I say quietly. I look away as I feel my eyes start to burn.
What am I going to do?
Emma looks at the stack of crumpled post clenched in my fingers and frowns.
‘Are you mad that I sent off that letter, Bea?’ she asks. ‘I know it was quite cool, but it wasn’t ours to keep.’
I look back at her, trying to control the creature, which has stretched its claws around my face, covering my eyes with a white mist.
‘I know,’ I say quietly.
It wasn’t ours to keep.
It wasn’t mine to answer.
CHAPTER TEN
My eyes dart around the office as I trot towards my desk, like a horse with an insecure bladder.
Okay, nobody is here yet. I’m the first one in, just as planned.
I barely slept last night. Priya and Emma spent the entire evening chatting, while I sat there slowly mapping out every terrible thing that could go wrong now that I have sent my innermost thoughts to 1) a complete stranger, and 2) a complete criminal.
I drop down into my office chair and switch my computer on. It hums faintly in the silence of the office.
Okay, right. All I need to do now is find Nathan in our archives. He must be local to have had a girlfriend who lived in my house, and we report on every news story, no matter how irrelevant (I’m looking at you, Mrs Fig’s Figgy Pudding Fiesta).
I shake my mouse impatiently as my computer slowly whirls into life and I quickly pull up the archives. I hunch over my keyboard and lift my fingers to type.
Nathan prison
I pause as I stare at the screen. Argh, why didn’t I think this through? What am I supposed to type? I don’t even know his surname!
Okay, well, surely there can’t be that many men named Nathan who have gone to prison in Middlesex? Right?
I hit enter and feel my eyes widen as hundreds of stories appear on the screen.
What? How are there so many?
Oh God, I hope they aren’t all about the same guy and he’s actually committed, like, one hundred different murders.
Maybe that’s what he’s sorry for. Ma
ybe he tried to murder B.
Maybe B is dead.
The thought slices through my brain like a shard of ice and I blink at the screen.
I hadn’t thought of that. What if she’s dead and I’ve sent him a letter from beyond the grave? Oh my God. He’ll think he’s gone insane!
I try to shake off the cold chill that creeps through me as my eyes zoom in on the stories. Randomly, I click on the first one and try not to whimper as the story spills on to my screen.
Man jailed for strangling woman.
Oh Christ.
I’m a woman. I have a neck.
I scroll down madly, overcome by a horrible but irresistible urge to cradle my neck.
Nathan Diamond, 58, of Dunsford Drive has been sent to prison for the murders of Janet Humphries and Flora West on 18 June 2004.
Panic races up and down my body as I read the story.
Oh my God. I’ve written to a man who strangles women for fun! I know I was always warned never to talk to strangers, but I always thought Mum was being dramatic! I never knew it could end in this.
I pause as my eyes skim the story again.
Hang on, 2004?
My shoulders sag slightly as I feel myself relax.
Nathan said he’d only been in prison for four months. This guy has been there for fourteen years.
I let go of my neck in relief.
Before my spiralling brain can convince me otherwise, I click on the next story.
Local man jailed for several murders of co-workers.
I blink at the news story.
Gosh. I never thought I could relate to a murderer, but here I am.
Several co-workers? More than one? That means that it wasn’t just a freak accident where he accidentally poisoned the coffee run or went mental when he was constantly badgered to get onstage and join in at the office party karaoke. He must have planned it all.
I glance around the empty office.
Could anyone at work kill me? Duncan? Angela? Faye?
Actually, Faye could definitely kill me with her big pointy shoes. She could probably slice my head off with one whip of her ridiculous ponytail.
My eyes quickly skim down the news article.
Nathan Turner murdered his co-workers by arriving early –
I stop in my tracks as a cold burst of fear shoots through me.
I’ve arrived early.
– and spiking the coffee machine with acid.
My eyes flick down to my coffee.
Oh no.
I almost fall off my chair in fright when all the office lights suddenly turn on.
I stare frantically around the room, desperate to spot any movement as my fingers curl around the stapler in desperation.
My heartbeat starts to slow as the light reveals an empty office. There is nobody here. It is just me, after all.
I place the stapler back on my desk and feel the urge to laugh.
Christ, for a second there I really thought I—
‘Bea?’
Argh!
I brandish the stapler above my head when I spot Duncan making his way over.
I clutch my chest as I lower the stapler.
Oh, thank God. It’s only Duncan. What is he doing creeping around the office?
I cower back into my chair, my heart rate returning gradually to normal.
Why is he here so early?
As Duncan comes closer I notice his usual jolly face is sagging. His shirt has a dark stain down the front and his mouth is attempting a half-smile.
As he reaches me, he lifts his expression into a full smile, like an inflating balloon, and I notice he’s holding a toothbrush in his left hand.
Does he brush his teeth here?
‘Good morning,’ he says in his usual, cheery voice. ‘What are you doing here at the crack of dawn? You here to get some early work done?’
I look back at Duncan wordlessly.
Does he come in this early every day?
‘Err, yeah,’ I mumble awkwardly, trying not to look alarmed at Duncan’s grey face.
‘Good on you,’ Duncan says, maintaining a fixed smile. ‘You’re a hard worker. I’m about to make a cup of Joel, fancy one?’
Does he mean cup of Joe?
‘No thank you,’ I say, ‘I’m fine.’
I gesture down to my sad coffee staring up at me.
‘Duncan,’ I say, swivelling my chair round to face him, ‘I’m trying to find a story in the archives. Do you know if I can filter the search on dates?’
Duncan frowns and leans forward towards my screen.
‘Sure,’ he says, ‘you just filter it here.’ He moves the mouse towards a bar. ‘Okay?’
‘Great,’ I say, taking the mouse back off him, ‘thank you.’
‘Don’t you work too hard,’ he says jovially as he makes his way back to the kitchen.
I make a half-laughing sound and move my eyes back to my screen.
Right. Nathan. Who are you?
I click on the filtering options and feel my heart squirm as one story appears on my screen.
Nathan Piletto, jailed for three years for investment fraud.
Investment fraud?
As I read the final line of the story, my eyes alight on Nathan’s mug shot. He has light hair and pale eyes and a small, crooked mouth.
He looks about thirty. Thirty-five, at a push.
I feel an odd twinge in my chest as I look at his sad face.
He doesn’t look guilty.
He looks scared.
My hand hovers over my mouse as the shadow of his letter floats back into my mind.
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.
My eyes move over to the clock as the numbers change to 08.15.
If Joy used a first-class stamp, the letter might be with him today.
My letter.
Somehow, looking back into his pixelated face, the burning feeling of fear I had at this thought is replaced with a warm sense that I’ve never felt before.
For some reason, I feel myself hope that he might write back, after all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I delve into my bag, wriggle my key free and go to jab it in the door when it flies open. I jump slightly at Priya, who is beaming at me. Her hair is crafted into an enormous plait and she is wearing an apron that is tied around her middle like a Bake Off contestant. Her face is flushed and she has a light dusting of icing sugar on her cheek.
I try not to frown at her.
What on earth is she doing? She never beats me home from work.
Her face splits into a grin and I try to ignore her left eye, which is twitching. Unless she’s winking at me.
She looks mental.
‘Hi!’ she practically shouts. ‘You’re home! How are you? I’ve been cooking!’ she trills, as she steps back so I can walk in.
I blink at Priya in bemusement as each of her high-pitched statements bursts into my ears.
This is not normal. In the six years I have known Priya, she has never baked. Apart from her signature chilli, she can barely turn the oven on.
Unless she’s been lying this whole time to trick me into cooking for her whenever she’s hung-over, which would be very clever indeed.
I drop my bag on the floor as Priya totters past me like a tightly wound toy. A thick smell swirls through the house and as I follow her into the kitchen I spot stacks of cakes, all neatly lined up on cooling racks, and a fat loaf of bread resting proudly on the window sill.
Did she make all of this?
‘Have you been at work?’ I ask.
Bloody hell, this looks amazing. Why hasn’t Priya done this sooner? I’ve lived with her for years!
‘Took a half-day!’ she says, picking up a bowl and whisking happily. ‘Would you like some cake? I’m also making a quiche!’
I glance down at her arm, which is spinning manically as she knocks the whisk against the bowl, b
arely noticing the little splats of batter that fly out on to her skin.
Why is she cooking so much?
‘Okay,’ I say slowly, ‘err, why? Who is all of this food for?’
‘For you!’ Priya cries. ‘For us!’
I blink back at her.
All of this food is for us? She casually decided to take a half-day from work to make hundreds of cakes for me and Emma?
‘Really?’ I say.
‘Yup!’ Priya beams as the oven pings. ‘Don’t they look good?’
‘Err,’ I say, ‘yeah?’
Something definitely isn’t right here.
Has she cooked Josh? Has she murdered him and baked him in a pie like Sweeney Todd?
I glance dubiously at a fat cupcake.
Maybe she is winking at me.
‘Well,’ I say carefully, ‘I’m glad that you’re feeling better.’
Priya starts humming as she flicks open the oven and pulls out another tray of cakes.
‘Are you in tonight?’ she asks quickly as I go to walk out of the kitchen. ‘Shall we do something? Shall we stay in? Shall we watch something?’
I blink as she fires questions at me like sugar-coated bullets.
‘Sure,’ I manage, ‘that sounds great.’
Priya claps her hands together. ‘Yay!’
I back out of the kitchen slowly and keep my strained smile pinned firmly on my face until I am out of sight.
I shut my bedroom door behind me when I feel my phone vibrate in my hand. I look down to see a message from Emma.
Are you in tonight with Priya? Is she okay?
I sink down on to my bed and type a response.
She’s fine! Seems really good. I think she’s finally feeling a bit better about Josh.
Emma responds almost instantly.
I wouldn’t be so sure.
*
I look up in alarm at Priya, who has been marching around our living room for the past four minutes muttering to herself like she’s trying to perform a hex. Every now and then I catch a frantic word that zaps out of the corner of Priya’s mouth like an enraged wasp.
She prised me out of my room for an ‘emergency chat’ about ten minutes ago but hasn’t once told me what’s going on. Her eyes are red and smarting and tears are threatening to spill over like hot water springs. I’ve tried asking her if she’s okay, but she doesn’t respond. She hasn’t responded to anything, it’s like she’s in a trance. I sink into the sofa and pull out my phone, trying not to look bored.
The Accidental Love Letter Page 7