I made a swift exit once Danny came. You know how I feel about that dickhead.
Anyway, I really hope we meet again, and I can get your ring back to you.
Best be off.
Michael.
I pause and scan to the top of the paper, the date – 11 May 1985 – sits there right beneath his address on the top right-hand side of the letter: 26 Millbank Street, Stonewell.
South Yorkshire.
The radio in the background fizzes and pops, and an advert for double glazing comes on. I wonder who is the Alice he was writing to? I cross my legs on the carpet, the paper crinkles, and a blast of warm air blows through the open window.
Even though it’s warm, my skin chills as I fold the letter away and add it to the pile of documents next to me.
His voice, then. A strong Yorkshire burr:I hope you’re settling into your new place, your new everything. It’s not easy, is it, losing your job, ending up back home.
I shake my head. It’s like he’s writing to me. But this was writtenyearsago. I just have things in common with this other Alice. And if I’ve got this letter, then that means she didn’t get it. What if I could get it back to her?
The comforting smell of old paper and dust cocoons me as I read it again, engaging my brain to look for the bare facts… She just sounds so similar to me.
I rotate my neck, forcing my muscles to relax. My laptop bag catches my eye from the corner of the room, taunting me: go on, you know you want to.
I dismiss it; I’ve got unpacking to do. I fold the letter, then pick up the photo of my family and place it on the windowsill next to Spidey. I try to focus on the park across the road, standing on tiptoes until I can see the bridge but quickly drop to my heels, my head turning towards my laptop bag.
A quick search wouldn’t hurt, right? I give a quick imaginary thank you to Spence for making sure that the Wi-Fi is already up and running, find the passcode, and slump back onto the floor. My fingers tap into the search bar: missing letters 1985. Michael+Alice but all that comes up are crossword clue sites. Huh. I try my name and address. Nothing. I search ‘Letters lost in the post for forty years’. There are a few cases, one that was apparently stuck behind a machine in a sorting office, another was a wedding invitation that arrived seventy-five years too late. I feel a familiar flicker, a spark of an idea that I know in my gut means I have a hook for an article. It’s been a while since I’ve had this feeling. I change the search to Michael 1985 and then my screen is flooded with pictures of Michael J. Fox in a Delorian. Fair. OK. Right. Let’s think this through. I scan the letter again.
I’m a journalist, a historian, who writes about facts. I lean into the real lives of people. I can hear his voice:I know you’ve got a soft spot for history, so here’s a bit of mine.I’ve always had asoft spotfor a northern accent. Reading and swooning over Heathcliff as a teen pops into my mind, as does my twenties crush on Jon Snow. But he feels real, familiar somehow… My pulse shifts, out of time with its natural rhythm.
I type in the street name into Google Maps. It’s still there, a long street with terraced houses, a few shops. I start to zoom in and?—
The loud reverse sounds from the van pulling up outside brings me back to the future. I snort. Back to the present. Christ. I’m losing my shit. There’s a loud knock and just an hour later, I’m left with a house full of boxes, piled up around the walls. I sit down on the green sofa Ryan has let me keep.
Big of him.
I don’t know when things turned so brittle between us. At first it was him tentatively telling me about the job offer. We’d been lying in bed, a usual lazy Sunday morning.I need to tell you something, it’s about a job offer. The New York Times.I’d grinned, actually grinned, assuming the offer would be for both of us. I quickly imagined us both walking along the busy streets, eating bagels, a crisp broadsheet under our arms… the scene already primed and lined up in my mind. Then came the hesitation, the confirmation that it was just him they were interested in.
Days later, when it came to light that he hadn’t been headhunted, and that he’d been actively applying, things turned sour. I wasn’t jealous, I was hurt. If he’d have told me, I could have at least prepared for the screaming headline that was ripping the carefully collated pages of my life in two.
I glance back at the letter sitting on my windowsill. Maybe Michael’s letter has come at just the right time? My ticket to finding my way back to the woman I was.
* * *
‘It’s weird, right?’ I say, pouring a glass of wine from the bottle Josie – TikTok influencer and social media star – has broughtwith her. She’s offered to help me get settled in but declined my offer to stay over, preferring to expense the posh hotel in town.
I tap the top of the letter. ‘Why has it only just arrived?’
‘No idea. Have you checked if there was an Alice living here before?’
‘I haven’t had chance, but this is a pretty new build.’ I balance my glass on the stack of romance novels that I’d never had on display in our old house. I wipe my hands on my jeans and pull open my laptop, from on top of a box filled with God only knows what. Ryan’s handwriting is facing away from us.
‘What about the chip shop?’ she asks, taking a large sip of her wine.
I begin searching, noticing as I do that my red nail polish is chipped. Josie leans forward; I get a waft of her ‘guys, you’ll never want to use another brand’s shampoo again’ apple scent. She’s sold over 200 bottles since posting yesterday, she’d eagerly told me, handing me a bottle when she arrived on my doorstep as a housewarming gift.
She’s quiet, looking around the room, to the boxes and bare window, her eyes drawn back to mine.
I met Josie when I first moved to London. She was dating one of Ryan’s friends at the time, a relationship that only lasted a few months. But we hit it off and became close friends. The three of us made quite the trio when we would get invited to restaurant openings, the occasional film awards. Spencer would join when he could, but it was difficult for him to visit as often. Sometimes he’d bring Georgia, but we’d see each other mostly when I came home to visit. Josie and Spence took an instant liking to each other. Same no-nonsense sense of humour. I also suspect it was a bond over notreallyliking Ryan, although neither of them has ever said. Georgia adores her too.
