‘What a blast from the past!’ She reads the first letter quickly, moving on to the next. I pass over one of his drawings.
‘Oh my…’ She tilts the paper, lifting it up to the light. ‘It’s me…’
‘Yes. He—’ I clear my throat. ‘He drew you often. Applied to art college.’
She nods. ‘He drew me that night too. I don’t know where it is. Drew it with my eyeliner of all things. I’ll have to see if I can find it.’ She moves on to the next letter. ‘He was lovely…’ She looks up, eyes bright.
‘Yes. Yes, he was.’
She folds the letters and places them back on the table. I reach forward moving them away from the teapot and milk jug.
‘And where is he now?’ She takes another sip of her tea. ‘It would be great to catch up.’ She places her cup gently on the table, turning her attention back to her dog.
‘He… passed away. In 1985.’
She looks back up, hand covering her mouth. ‘No… That’s… that’s so tragic. He was… Goodness. I don’t know what to say.’
I wait a beat. She fiddles with the rings on her fingers. ‘I did think of him from time to time. I didn’t know anyone here when I first moved, felt very alone. I wish I’d got these, that we’d kept in touch.’
‘What can you tell me about him?’
‘Not much really, other than he was—’ she frowns as if trying to bring him to mind ‘—serious, but funny too. And handsome. I remember thinking that he seemed a bit… lost. Goodness, I even think I might have told him that.’ She grimaces playfully, shaking her head. ‘Ah, the confidence of youth.’
Something rings inside of me, like a bell chiming. It wasn’t Alice that made that night so special, it was the way she made him feel about himself. She turned the spotlight back at him, made him see himself differently.
‘He said you liked salad cream with your chips?’ I don’t know why this springs to mind, but I’m desperate to disprove this feeling of sadness that’s spreading through me.
She laughs. ‘I did! Back in the days when I would eat carbs without knowing why I could never lose that extra half a stone I was always carrying.’ She says this as if it’s a great conspiracy that she’s sharing with me.
It strikes me how different this woman is to the goddess he’d built up in his mind. Alice is pretty, friendly enough, but she’s, well, ordinary. Despite her wealth, her poise… I look around the room again. There is nothing that tells me about her personality. Even the books on the coffee table are there for show, a white cover about interior decorating. There is no real art on the walls,the room smells of strong perfume and reed diffusers. He spent months almost worshipping this woman, but now, as I sit here, I can’t help but think she wasn’t at all who he’d built up in his mind. It’s frightening, really, shaping your life around someone who would barely recognise you if you passed them in the street.
The hour passes quickly, but there is very little she can add to the details that I already have. She trails off, telling me more about her life after she moved here, her accomplishments, meeting her husband. She’s inspiring, confident, capable… there is no doubt about that. I show her the mural he painted of her, and she’s attentive, looks closely, her focus on the way she looked back then: how big her hair was; the weight of her earrings, and that she wore electric-blue eyeliner. But not much about the man who poured his heart and soul trying to capture her. Michael’s voice comes back to me:Maybe it’s like you said and you are my muse, after all.
She was his muse, but not in the way he thought she was.
‘It was lovely to finally meet you, Alice,’ I say as I stand, reaching for the letters and tucking them safely in my bag.
‘You too! What a trip down memory lane it’s been.’ She smiles brightly as we make our way to the door, the dogs yapping around her ankles again.
‘And you’re happy for me to include you in my article?’ I prompt, hand reaching for my phone. Holding it tightly in my palm.Please have replied, Spence.
‘Of course! And do pass on my condolences. To his family.’
I nod.
‘Well…’ She reaches out, shaking my hand. ‘Good luck with it all. And please send me a link to the article.’
‘Will do.’
She closes the door and I open WhatsApp, my heart sinking as Spence’s earlier message stares up at me.
I need space.
I’ve never felt more connected to Michael than in this moment.
He was chasing a ghost. Just as I’ve been chasing his.
47
