"Exactly." Jeanette beams, totally unreasonably. "The option where Bess understands after she's worked through her emotional response."
"I think Bess will see reason," says Lutek. "If we can raise enough to secure a mortgage, she'll quickly come around. It'll be worth it in the long run."
"And yes, there might be a bit of pain in the short run, but it will work out, Ed," says Jeanette, then adds with a wholly misplaced titter, "You don't even have to tell her you meant the sentiment in the letters if you don't want to."
Good. Because I absolutely won't and no amount of coordinated puppy-dog looks in my own home will make me.
But there's something else they need to think about. "You need to be aware that not only do I hate the idea of lying and to Bess of all people, I'm...also very bad at it."
"I'm happy to give you lessons in the art of deception, dear boy," says Carlos.
I open my mouth to protest and he continues, "Here's my number one tip: act doddery and confused. No one will pay you a blind bit of notice. You'll fool anybody."
"I can see one problem with your technique, Carlos. I'm thirty-two. I'm not sure it's going to be quite as effective when I do it. But I appreciate the tip."
“You know what?” says Mistral. “I’ll continue to place the letters and organise the clues as to who the supposed letter writer was. You don’t have to think about that part, Ed. None of you do.”
Lutek nods and I never had any doubt Mistral would somehow worm her way back into a position of orchestration.
My phone vibrates. I take it out and read Bess' message:
Yes. Fingers crossed the money coming is enough, but banks can be difficult. I'll do anything. ANYTHING. Unethical – yes. Illegal – maybe. #whateverittakes!
My stomach sinks and I look up at their faces.
They all look back at me and every single one of them is wearing a goddamn, heart-string-pulling expression of hope.
Wellis the first word that comes to mind.
Fuckis the second.
I guess I'm writing more letters, then.
Part Two
Chapter twenty-four
Bess
Iplodbacktothelibrary after having recorded the TikTok of the sixth wartime love letter when I should be skipping across the street. I have all the reasons. Viewing numbers are still astronomical, orders are still streaming in via the online store, MyWhatever It Takespainting sold for over ten thousand pounds. Things are continuing on the up.
Except. I've just checked my Gmail account.
The top email in my inbox is notification of the mortgage application I submitted last week.
Declined.
It's only one bank, but I can't make the books look any better. They're performing beautifully. The problem is, they've only been performing beautifully for about two weeks. I need at least a year, preferably two, of fat profitability – no matter what the bank.
I have to find some other financial weapon for my arsenal, and I have absolutely no idea how to acquire one.
My afternoon doesn't look like it wants to improve any time soon. Standing at the gallery counter is Jason Travers, the scrote I targeted in my megaphone TikTok. Jason is wearing jeans that look like they could house a whole other person and categorically doesn't look like a purchaser of fine art or hand-crafted jewellery. Judging from the sneer on his face, he's doing a committed job of scrutinising them, however.
He's here for another reason.
I say, "Hello, Jason," from the doorway and he lets out a tiny squeal and jerks around to face me.
"Geez, Bess. You could give a man some warning."
