‘OK. You’re coming too though, right?’
I take a breath and nod. ‘Yes. But you owe me.’
‘I know.’
21
ALICE
The next morning finds me standing in my hallway, another letter from Michael in my hands. The letters are getting closer together, like the more I find out about him the more he wants to talk to me.
I glance at my watch. I’m meeting Spence and the girls at the station in twenty minutes. My stomach tightens at the thought. The crowds. The smell. The rush of London. Part of me wants to cancel, to stay here. Safe. Reading Michael’s words. But I know I can’t do that.
The envelope taps against my palm. Icouldsave it for when I get back. But impatience gets the better of me, and my fingers are already ripping open the envelope. His familiar slanted handwriting is pulling me into his world, my heart fluttering like a cliché.
Dear Alice,
Today has been one of those rare perfect days, well rare for around here, anyhow. Even though I’ve not had a drop, I felt two pints down all day. It’s amazing how just one letter can change your life, isn’t it?
I don’t miss the irony.
So what is this letter, I hear you asking. Well, I don’t know if it was meeting you, or why I felt that maybe there is more for me than painting skirting boards, but I filled out an application for that art college, St Martins. You might have heard of it?
I smile. He’s doing it. Chasing his dreams. St Martins… St Martins… Where have I heard that before? I realise it’s from a Pulp song.
Anyway, they asked to see some of my stuff. I’m almost embarrassed to tell you that most of it consisted of pictures of you. Christ, that makes it sound like I’m a right bloody weirdo, but I just couldn’t get you out of my head, your dark hair, brown eyes.
I swallow. He’s describing me again. I shake the thought away. Lots of people have dark hair and brown eyes… right? The image from the mural flashes in my mind. I bring my eyes back to his words.
I’m rambling, sorry, I’ll get to the point… They’ve asked to see more of my work, to base it around a theme. And Kate got me thinking about my life, about this place that I call home. Because there’s beauty in the mundane, hidden in the cracks buried beneath the weight of everything.
My smile stretches wider because the tone of this letter is full of optimism. It’s still him, still dry, but he’s changing. Searching. Just like me, I guess.
I’ve started putting together a portfolio: people in the crowd, hands touching shoulders, weeds flowering between the cracks – I even stopped outside an old shop that’s been boarded up for the past year. It’s the kind of place you just walk past, immune. The window was cracked, bits of rubbish hanging around beneath the wall, but instead of seeing the dirt, the grime, I could see how light was still filtering through. There was just something so beautiful about it. It reminded me of the canal that night.
I’ve got a cat in hell’s chance of getting in, but it’s worth a shot. Can you imagine me sitting in a studio, living off Pot Noodles? I know I’m a bit old to be a student, but I can feel my life slipping through my fingers.
I wanted to tell you how much I think about that night, not about the things I should have done or said differently, but about the way you made me see myself in a different light. I want to thank you for that, and even though I know you won’t get this letter, it feels important to write it down.
I feel a sting at the back of my eyes as I read.
Anyway, if ever you’re in London and happen to be by St Martins College, check it out for me, would you? And if they’re all youngsters give me a heads up so I don’t look like a total knob if I do get in.
I huff a laugh.
Oh, and there’s a pub right by it, according to the prospectus, The Coach and Horses. Been about donkey’s years. Reckon I’ll be spending plenty of time there… Maybe one day we can catch up. I’ll see if they have salad cream for your chips. Sounds like something city folk would do.
Anyway, take care.
Michael.
How is this happening? I tell myself again that it’s a coincidence, that this letter has arrived talking about London when I’m twenty—shit, no—ten-minutes away from leaving, means nothing.
But just when I need him, Michael is here. Again. Making it harder to tell which way is forward. I wonder, not for the first time, what it says about me. That losing myself in Michael’s words feels easier than the day ahead.
The taxi notification pings on my phone. I slip the letter in my bag, grab my overnight case and close the safety of my new home behind me.
* * *
