Liv fell back onto the bed. It was lower than she expected so the back of her head smashed against the wall. She flailed like a beetle trying to right herself, and her leg became entangled with the bedcover. The futility of trying to get free made all the strength desert her body. Her limbs flopped, suddenly too cumbersome to move.
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, her heart thumping and her legs leaden. Possibly hours. It was like being locked in a bad dream. She watched a fly jerking in a spider’s web on the ceiling, until it became still. Time and space faded away.
When she blinked and looked up, the sky was darkening and streetlights glowed amber outside. She heard doors slamming as students returned home for the day.
Jake called her phone and she let it ring, too upset to speak to him.
Slowly, she propped herself up on one elbow and caught sight of an envelope standing up against the kettle. Liv detached herself from the bedcover and forced herself to stand up.
Olivia Green
When she saw Essie’s handwriting, her body almost caved in. The envelope was unsealed, and her fingers felt like they belonged to someone else when she took out the letter.
Several words and sentences had been scribbled out, as if it was a work in progress. Liv knew that she had to read it, even if the words cut through her like cheese wire. If she’d managed to cover up Essie’s death for so long and complete her book, she could find the strength to dothis. Her pulse galloped as she started to read.
Dear Olivia
I was once in love with a man called Grant Cooper…
Liv screwed her eyes shut, not wanting to read more, while alsoneedingit more than anything. She wanted to screw the paper into a ball and hurl it across the room, but she kept it in her hands. She held her breath, and started the letter from the beginning.
Chapter 33
The Letters
Dear Olivia,
I was once in love with a man called Grant Cooper.
My health has been failing for several years and living alone has allowed me to think about the past. Probably too much. I’ve been sitting here revisiting photographs and poring over old letters. My achievements may shine brightly, but they can never make up for my mistakes and regrets. It’s strange that I’m a writer, yet I can never find the right words to say to you. They flow on paper but not from my lips. One day, I hope to speak to you in person. For now, this letter allows me to lay down my sentiments.
When I met your father, it was a meeting of minds I’d never known before or found since. We shared an intellectual connection. Quite simply, Grant Cooper was the sentence to my paragraph, the full stop to my words. I believe everyone has a small pocket of their life when everything is perfect and the sun seems to shine. Mine was when I was with him.
At first, I didn’t know he was married with a wife and child, and I admit it suited me not to ask. I laughed with him and learned frommaginings were those of a headstrong girl rather him.We challenged each other. I pictured my future with him, though I can see now my imaginings were those of a headstrong girl rather than a woman. By the time I found out he was married, I was in too deep. I was in a relationship with Anthony at the time, but my pull towards Grant was all-encompassing. I never told Anthony who had captured my heart and I’m afraid I hurt him deeply. Even though my relationship with your father never became physical, I was devoted to him.
When Grant told me he was taking your mother to the theatre, rather than attend my publication party for The Moon on the Water, I kicked up a fuss and tried to get him to change his mind. He attempted to calm me down and was late when he rushed away.
When I learned of Grant’s death I was devastated. I wished I hadn’t made a scene and felt everything was my fault. Even worse, I couldn’t attend his funeral to mourn him. I began to drink and have never known if alcohol is my salvation, or my punishment.
My life has been full of soaring highs and the deepest lows. I married Ted Mason, a man I didn’t truly love. My next husband, Hank, fathered a child, something I could never give him. I utterly disgraced myself at a party, on the twentieth anniversary of losing your father. I couldn’t face the world and my readers any longer. I wasn’t the person they thought I was, that I could no longer pretend to be, and I shut myself away. When I received my diagnosis, I felt like it was my penance and that I deserved it. I’m not trying to gain your sympathy. I just want you to understand.
I realized who you were when you wrote to me and mentioned Grant’s name. You were looking for work and I found myself in a dilemma. Did I help out the daughter of the only man I ever loved, or keep her at bay?
I offered you the job, initially for a few months, until you found something else. Except, something strange happened. I found myself falling a little in love with you.Not in a romantic way, but I saw glimpses of Grant in you and it brought me a touch of joy I hadn’t experienced for many years. You were determined and fun, even reminding me of myself before my health diminished. I couldn’t tell you that I knew your father. It would raise too many questions, and then you’d leave me. And I couldn’t bear to lose you, too. The closer we became, the more difficult it was to reveal the truth. You said in your letter you wanted to write. I thought I could help you, and it might help me out, too. It would take time and I thought I had plenty of it. Except my health worsened and I wrote my will.
I see you look at my flat and awards with stars in your eyes. I know better than anyone that health, family and happiness are things money can’t buy. I see talents glimmering in you that are probably invisible to you. The longer you stay working for me, the more you might see them, too.
Please don’t stop cleaning if that’s your destiny. However, if anyone can refresh Georgia Rory and her story, I think it’s you. I’ve lost my passion for her, just as I’ve done for my own life. Maybe you can help it to return.
If you’re reading this letter I may have disappointed you beyond measure, and it makes me sadder than you’ll ever know. My student flat was the only place I could ever find any peace of mind and I’d like you to be its new owner someday, to sell it, or to use as a writing space, as I did.
I’m deeply sorry for any hurt I’ve caused, and I hope you don’t carry your anger with me around forever. If you ever think about me, one day I hope it will be kindly.
Live splendidly, Olivia.
Love,
Elsbeth x
