Alice’s eyes follow me as I walk away.
11
ALICE
I tap the top of the postbox for luck. The sun is smiling down on me so I’m hoping that the third time is the charm. And I know that three letters in a few days might be a bit over the top, but there has been something almost meditative about writing to him. Almost as though we’re having a conversation.
No reply yet, but that doesn’t mean anything. He could be on holiday.Or in an old people’s home,my voice of reason pipes up. I squash that down quickly. I’d asked the postman about the letters earlier, almost scared him to death when I yanked open the door. He looked at me like I was unhinged, but he said he’d ask when he got back to the main depot.
After, I’d stared at a blank page for a long time. The pen in my hand hovering, waiting for my permission. I didn’t know how to start. I’d writtenDear Michael? Dear Sir? Hi? Hey?Before crossing them all out and resting my forehead against the desk.
I tried to picture him as he’d be now. Grey hair rather than the black I conjured up in my mind, hearing aid, dodgy knees, but the thought just made my stomach drop and the words I wanted to say came out all wrong. Stiff. Forced. Not because there is anything wrong with writing to him as he might benow, but because it felt like I was scratching out the connection that I’m feeling. The Michael I know is thirty, smells of turps and paint. He’s the man who has made me laugh and speaks as though he knows me. So I started writing to him like he’s still there, in 1985, waiting for her to reply. Because even though I know the similarities between us must be a coincidence, I can’t help but think that his letters found me for a reason. That I’m somehow tied to their love story. After an hour of failed attempts, it was only when I considered this that the words started to flow in the same way as they used to, before Ryan left, before my career took a nosedive. I’ve told Michael about that. Questions coming back in my mind like he was sitting across from me as I wrote.
I know what you mean about feeling like an imposter, that feeling of not really fitting in.
I pictured him taking a sip of builder’s tea, blowing over the rim.
When did that start?
It started when I was a kid, I guess. I was a spare part, or more like an extra part? You know like when you try to put together a flat-pack piece of furniture and there are a few extra bits lying about the place even though the wardrobe is still standing?
Aye. You could be describing me.
Wrong-sized screw for the wrong shaped hole.
That’s me.
Talking to him makes me feel seen in a world where I’m quickly becoming more invisible.
Christ, maybe this is my subconscious telling me I’ve got a screw loose? I’m a bit old to have an imaginary friend. My lungs expand with a long breath in. He’s not imaginary. He’s out there somewhere, I just need to find him.
With a renewed sense of determination, and a slow exhale, I slide on my sunglasses and make my way to the library. I’d requested microfiche copies of newspapers from Yorkshire in 1984 and 1985. An online search for Concrete Fingers has come up blank so far. But today, with the sun out, and the streets humming with a kind of optimism, anything feels possible.
I could just go to the address on the top of his letters, but I’m not quite ready for that yet. Besides, it was always a golden rule for me and Ryan – build up a relationship first, then meet face to face. Sources are much less intimidated and more likely to open up if they feel like they already know you. There is also the distance to consider; it’ll be a five hour round trip and he might not even be there when I arrive. Better to wait. To have a time and place to meet.
My phone vibrates. It’ll be Mum again, asking if I’ve got a job, no doubt. I’d finally visited my parents at the weekend. An awkward Sunday dinner where I ended up sliding back into my old role, making the gravy while my nieces and nephews stormed around the house demanding help with their sticker books. Washing up when Kyle started regaling them about his antics at work, the heads around the table thrown back in laughter while I savagely attacked the gravy tin with a bright pink dish scrubber in the shape of a smiling face, the cut-out smile distorting into a frown as I rubbed away the baked-on roast chicken juices.
I pull out my phone, my stomach puckering at Giuditta’s name on the screen. After over a week of radio silence, I’d gritted my teeth over the end of my career, but my jaw unlocks at her name.
‘Hello?’ I say, putting my finger in my ear against the traffic and moving aside to let a double pushchair past.
‘Darling! Sorry to be so late getting back to you, I’ve had an absolute mare of a time. Henry got D&V and then so did therest of us. Honestly, it’s been horrific – imagine the scene fromBridesmaidsbut add screaming kids into the mix. Anyway. Here I am, and half a stone lighter, I might add. So…’
I don’t have chance to respond before she dives in.
‘I read your pitch and it’s so exciting! I’ll lay it on the line for you, I can’t commit to a whole column, but let’s see if it’s got legs as an article and go from there, hmmm? I’m thinking of it as a nice autumn piece, just the type of story that can be sipped with a spiced pumpkin latte.’
‘I…’ I stop outside the library. Wide steps leading up to the tall stone pillars and wooden door.
‘Hello? Alice?’
‘I… Yes! Yes, I’m just going to the library, actually. I’m trying to find out more about Michael and…’
‘Wonderful. Write him up as a bit of a hunk, eh? Even if he’s not, we can always do a bit of Photoshopping. It’s a bit of fun, a bit of fluff… We slip it in the weekend supplement between the mains.’
My shoulders drop, my throat tight. I can picture Ryan’s face, the laughter as he’d teased me for smiling over the supplements on a Sunday morning. We would divide the paper up; he’d read the broadsheets first. But on a Sunday, I always wanted something indulgent, something that went with warm croissants and good coffee, and the delicious aftermath of slow morning sex.
His jibes were gentle and good humoured, but I knew what he thought of the stories about celebrities, make overs and star-crossed lovers. To him, dropping down to a freelance feature writer for The Weekend was like asking Tom Cruise to star in an episode ofEmmerdale.
