ALICE
By the time I return from my massage, I’m feeling very zen, aided by the glass of afternoon fizz. While waiting for an Indian head massage, I’d emailed Royal Mail, describing the letter, and hoping they can give me a realistic explanation about how it’s only just been delivered.
I’ve also started to put together a profile for my namesake, Alice. Things he mentioned in his letter. My own belief in love and relationships as a whole might be broken, but if I can get this letter back to her, it might do something to ease the ache inside my own chest. And there is something so… dare I say romantic about the way he writes to her that makes me even more determined to find her. What if she went all Mrs Haversham when she never got the letter? I haven’t got much to go on, a first name, a date, a place I knew she was in the vicinity of for a night, and… well, that’s it really. Still, you never know where just a name and a place can take you.
I’d also circled a job in the obits department of the local newspaper. It might not be the same tier as theLondon News, but it’ll be something to occupy my mind, help me step back intohistorical research, and help me make some contacts in the local news industry while I figure out what to do next.
I slide the key in the lock, make a plan to wrap myself into a pair of soft pyjamas, get a takeaway, and binge-watchBridgerton. I’d never got round to watching it, no matter how many times I told Ryan we needed to keep on top of what was popular with our readers.
Just having that plan in mind makes me feel more grounded. Stable. Ish.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it and head straight upstairs, my plan of action a bullet-point list in my mind. Number one, change into pyjamas.
I heave my biggest suitcase onto the bed, the zip unlocking a blast from my past. The whole room suddenly smells ofus.My legs feel like they’re too weak to hold my body. I sink onto the edge of the bed, bringing a turquoise jumper to my face. I can almost feel Ryan’s strong hands rubbing my shoulders as I sat at my desk.
What am Idoing?
I throw the jumper back on top of the case.
This is not part of the plan. I donotwant to spend the whole evening battling with the memories of my life before I moved home. I make a mental strikethrough of my list and replace the top entry withgo to the laundrette. The washing machine isn’t plumbed in yet.
I begin ripping out items of clothing, things that I need in my life right now. Not the dresses and high heels that I would wear to the many parties we were invited to. No. What I need are pyjamas, leggings, joggers,trainers.
Once the pile is collated, I throw them to the bottom of the stairs ready to put into a bag.
The dresses and sharp-creased blouses I shove back into the case, then getting to my hands and knees, I push the case underthe bed. The air is still thick with the lavender incense-stick Ryan favoured when he would write.
I open a window to let out the smell, head back downstairs and fill a large bag of elastic-waisted comfort clothes and close the door behind me.
The laundrette is a few miles away, but after the glass of Prosecco at lunch, I don’t risk driving. Instead, I walk to the bus stop that I used to pass on my way to college, just a few streets from where my parents used to live. They moved to a small village about an hour away not long after I finished uni. I never had my own room there. It never felt like home. More often than not, I would stay at Spence’s anyway. Part of me thinks that maybe I should just bite the bullet, have a few strong coffees and drive the hour to my parents’ house, but the last thing I want to do today is rock up with a bag of laundry like I’ve just come home from uni.
The bus is fairly empty. I climb on, heaving the bag onto my knees, taking the time to watch my old neighbourhood pass me by. Not much has changed really. The bookies is now a kebab shop; the White Lion is now a wine bar.
I get off at my stop, and pop into the corner shop to buy some laundry tablets. Rain is beginning to fall in fat droplets as I scurry along the path, my hair immediately drenched and plastering to my scalp and cheeks; the bag strap weighing down my shoulder. The laundrette is further along than I thought. Thunder cracks above and I swing open the door just as lightning flashes white.
The room is empty, save the row of machines sitting resplendently and flush against the perimeter of the room. Two machines are whirring and clunking, going about their business. I shake my head. In London, people are not as trusting, but around here, it’s fine to drop off your undies, grab a coffee andcome back, safe in the knowledge that your knickers will still be waiting for you even if the cycle has finished.
The strip light above hums, the room filled with clean cotton and tumble-dried warmth. It’s oddly comforting despite the thunder-clap outside. Rain is streaming down the window, my own dishevelled reflection staring back at me. I open a washing machine door and begin piling the clothes inside the cavernous drum. I hold a black pair of leggings in one hand, a white shirt in the other. No matter. I’ll do two loads. It’s not like I need to be anywhere anytime soon. I shove a load of coins in, setting it to a gentle wash.
I crouch down, putting the whites back into the bag, my hand stilling, catching on the edge of something.
Another crack of thunder is swiftly followed by a flash of white. My hand is shaking as I untangle the envelope from a white vest top. The handwriting blisteringly familiar.Michael.It must have somehow got mixed up in the pile of laundry I threw to the bottom of the stairs, right beneath the letterbox.
Another letter from Michael isnoton my to-do list: pyjamas, Bridgerton, take-away, that was the plan.
But.
This could be helpful.
This might provide more clues to help me find Alice.
Yes. This is good.
Not so good a delivery service from Royal Mail, but still…
I make my way to the row of empty blue plastic chairs, and stare at the envelope in my hands. The postmark is the same, the stamp still has a much younger picture of the queen I grew up with. My finger skates across the name, the address. I catch my reflection in the door of the washing machine, warped and distorted like I’m not even really here. I give myself a mental shake then I turn it over and slide my finger beneath the seal.
Dear Alice,
