NICK
I chewed my food and when I swallowed it felt like I was trying to get a brick down my throat. The silence was so dense I could probably have lifted up my steak knife and cut right through it.
I looked up at the woman opposite me and pulled my face into a smile. She smiled back, looking genuinely happy, and guilt pierced my heart.
What was I doing here?
Andy had set me up on a date with one of Amanda’s friends, Lucy. And she was lovely – pretty, with shiny brown hair and a full belly laugh. She was interesting and funny and talked a lot – and clearly liked me. And yet I knew I was being sullen and ungenerous with my conversation, and I hated myself for it.
When we finally said goodnight, I felt nothing but relief. I let myself into the house, stepping into the hallway – and as I did, a shiver ran through me. I stopped and closed my eyes. I hadn’t felt Emma’s presence in this house for a while, had assumed she’d gone, maybe moved somewhere else. So why did it feel as though she was here now, tonight?
Could she be trying to tell me something?
Trying to tell me the day was nearly here?
A gust of wind slammed the door shut and I jumped. What the hell was I doing? Andy was right, I realised. I was holding back, not really living my life the way I wanted. Because every time I did something I thought,What’s the point, I could die tomorrow?
Something had to give.
Before I could change my mind, I ran upstairs and pulled the loft hatch down, then clambered up the stairs into the dark, stuffy cavern. As I balanced at the top, slightly tipsy, it occurred to me that it would be ironic if I fell from here and killed myself right now, looking for Emma’s letter.
I crawled on my hands and knees across the wooden floor and dragged a cardboard box out of the corner. There was a thick layer of dust across the top, but when I opened the flaps the letter was right there waiting for me, as though I’d left it there knowing this day would eventually come.
I tucked it in my pocket and climbed out of the loft and back down the ladder. In my bedroom I took the letter out of my pocket and lay it on the duvet in front of me.
All these years I’d been so determined not to read what Emma had to say. But what if it could help me move on with my life? What if she was telling me I was wrong, all this time?
I left the letter on the bed and went downstairs to pour myself a glass of whisky, then went back upstairs. My hands were shaking so I threw the drink down my throat. The burn was good, a reminder of the fact that I was still here, still living.
Still able to make decisions.
I picked up the envelope and tore it open before I could think about it any longer. My hands were shaking so much it took three attempts to unfold the piece of paper, and even when I did it was hard to focus on the words.
But then I did.
Don’t get on that train.
I stared at the page, the words blurring into each other. It was a warning.
And there was a date.
Sunday 12 March 2006.
That was less than a year away.
The walls of the bedroom closed in on me, my vision blurred.
The air felt too thick to breathe.
I stood suddenly, scooping the letter off the bed, and ran back down to the kitchen. Heart hammering, I found some matches in the drawer, then held the letter over the sink and let it burn until it disappeared. As the last of the embers drifted down, I let my head drop and the tears came, thick and fast, splashing into the sink, my chest heaving.
A while later I was sitting on the kitchen floor. It was chilly and there were goosebumps on my arms. A heaviness sat in my chest and I tried to take a deep breath but I just couldn’t seem to get the air into my lungs. Was I having a heart attack? Was Emma wrong, andthiswas the moment I was going to die?
Eventually, I got my breathing under control, and pulled myself slowly up to standing, my head spinning. The only evidence that the letter had ever existed was a couple of scraps of blackened paper by the plughole, and I turned the tap on and ran it until they washed away.
That was it. It was over. I had a date. Now I just had to decide what to do about it.
But while the letter might not exist any longer, the words were imprinted into my mind, and they hung over me like a dark cloud for the next ten months. Some days the cloud was so heavy I couldn’t get out of bed, and it was on one of those days thatAndy made me an appointment to see my GP and practically dragged me there. I was given more antidepressants and sent home.
