I think, But I don’t want to be like my father. I don’t want to have loved and lost and never know love again. Yet I know life is long, and there will be good things ahead. They already have a face.
‘I’d like to read it to him, if you think it’s a good idea.’ As a child, I remember the curious tenderness of being read to. And now I think I’ll enjoy being the one to tell the stories.
‘I think it’s a lovely idea.’
‘Did you write any other novels, Evelyn?’
‘No. And, of course, this one is out of print. That copy might well be the only one left on the planet.’ She attempts a laugh. ‘I was commissioned to write a second book, but somehow I couldn’t pull it off. So I had to pay back some of my advance. I don’t think the publisher was very pleased.’
‘You could have written the flip side of events – what would have happened if you had chosen to be with Eddy and left Mark. Or, if you hadn’t watched him leave that day. If you had gone on that first date.’
‘I don’t think I was altogether clever enough to invent stories. They had to come from some place of truth in me. Besides, I hate what ifs.’
I fan through the pages, enjoying their draught on my face. And then I see something curious.
‘What’s this?’
Lodged in between the pages is a small airmail envelope. On the front, in writing that I now easily recognise, is written Evelyn Westland, and the address of Cosmopolitan magazine.
Evelyn gets up from the floor, and squints. ‘I have no idea. What is it? A letter?’
‘It’s addressed to you, Evelyn. It’s unopened.’
She stares at it, slightly daunted. ‘Good Lord! Open it. Read it to me.’
‘I can’t, Evelyn. I can’t read your letter. It’s personal.’
‘Please! You’ve read all the others. I don’t have any more secrets.’ She manages a humourless laugh. ‘One has definitely been more than enough.’
I slip my thumb under the tiny lip of the flap, which hasn’t stuck properly. The folded page inside is flimsy, so lightweight that I could probably read the words straight through it, if I didn’t want to drag out my suspense.
‘It was written on March 10, 1984, Evelyn.’ I start reading.
To My Love, Evelyn,
I wasn’t going to send this, in case unearthing the not-so-distant past might upset you, but lately you have been on my mind even more so than usual, if that’s possible, and I don’t quite know why. I hope there’s nothing wrong, and you are well. I hope that you have managed to put everything that happened behind you, without entirely forgetting me in the process.
I realised you might be left with the impression that I was disappointed in you, because I returned your letters. I don’t really know why I did. A knee-jerk reaction, perhaps: another example of me not thinking straight. But it certainly wasn’t because I was angry with you. I completely understand why you couldn’t go through with it, and I can promise you that I bear no ill feelings toward you whatsoever. Not now. Not ever. I could never think badly of you, and I hope you believe that, or our love will have failed somehow. You once said it a long time ago – our timing has always been off. I would have been a very lucky man if I’d managed to get you to stay here for me when you were that young, beautiful, go-getter girl I knew for only one day. Our paths crossed again in a way that I promise you I will never forget, and even when we get our bleak moments, Evelyn, we have to remember to be glad of that. I, for one, will always remember the happiness I’ve felt just to know you and love you, and not for one minute would I have wanted to miss out on that.
Life hasn’t been easy lately. I should have handled some things differently, and I will try to put it all right as best I can. But I suppose this is my long-winded and rather clumsy way of saying that I want you to know I have no regrets about us. You are part of the fabric of me. If you hadn’t been in my life, I would have lost out on knowing so much of what I now know about myself, and about my capacity to love, and I will hold this belief until my dying day. My hope is that you feel the same – that you don’t regret a thing that happened between us, or how it turned out, and you never will, no matter what happens down the road.
I’m sure it’s unlikely we will ever meet again – though I personally will never say never, because that’s just how I like to think. But, nonetheless, I will always love you, and knowing you’ve loved me will always brighten my days.
Yours, Eddy
‘The date . . .’ Evelyn looks at me. ‘March 10. He wrote this eight days before he was beaten up.’ Her face turns grey, in a way I’ve never seen before, not on any living person. ‘He said he’d been thinking of me more so than usual, and he hoped there was nothing wrong. Well, it was impossible for him to know this, but I was quite sick.’ She is clutching her fingers, and I can tell she’s working herself into a small frenzy. ‘I had to go in for surgery. The magazine must have forwarded the letter to my home.’ She is looking at me with wide, riveted eyes. ‘Obviously, Mark must have received it. He’d have seen the postmark and guessed who it was from.’
‘But he didn’t open it.’
‘No. Mark would never read someone else’s post.’ Her face floods with tenderness when she speaks of her husband.
‘But he didn’t throw it out, either.’
She is off looking into space, clearly trying to piece together the more elusive bits of the puzzle. ‘Of all the places he could have put it . . .’
‘He put it where he knew you would find it, Evelyn. Because like you said many times, he was a good man. Do you think he knew that Joanna Smart was you?’
Evelyn gasps. ‘Good heavens! I don’t know! The book wasn’t published then. I was finishing it while I was convalescing.’ She’s frowning. ‘I suppose it’s possible he knew. I never told him I’d written it because I didn’t want to hurt him, or embarrass him. But he did have friends in high places. It’s possible he knew someone at my publishing house.’