3rd December 2021
Dear Emma,
I’m writing this in our bed. I know I don’t even need to hide the fact I am because you won’t be up for hours. And if you do come up you might not even notice what I’m doing.
Tomorrow will be fifteen years since we met. That is an achievement, something to celebrate. Well, I think it is. And I used to think you did too.
I’m pissed off but you’ve yet to realize. I went to kiss you good night but you turned back to your phone so it just skidded onto your chin. And I GET that Arthur Chump, or whatever his name is, is a big deal but actually it’s been a really shit weekend watching you glued to your mobile as Twitter explodes because the guy is a complete arsehole.
How is this your job anyway? He’s Linda’s client. She should be the one staying up into the early hours to prep for a meeting with his publishers. And, from what you showed me, I don’t think he should get another book deal anyway—and maybe that will finally make you leave Linda because, oh my God, you keep saying that things will change, but nothing ever does. You have a meeting with her this week but you’ve had meetings before and they don’t seem to make a difference. You shouldn’t be in that agency, Emma, and I know you are scared of going—I know you’re worried about how people will react—but it will be fine. You need to start seeing what we all see.
I’m sorry, I know these letters are meant to be full of endearments and reflections on our year, but I can’t help feeling that tomorrow is just going to pass you by—again, despite everything you said last year. Because, and I know I shouldn’t admit this, I’ve searched for your letter. And I can’t find one. And you have shit hiding places—the drawer under the bed under old issues of Grazia and that shoebox in our wardrobe that is inexplicably filled with single gloves. There is no letter.
I also stooped to dropping pretty weak cryptic hints this evening and you didn’t respond. Why do you think I suggested we watched The Sound of Music despite the kids moaning about it? It was meant to jog your memory: me, in lederhosen, a busy tube, the 3rd of December . . .
If you’ve forgotten again I don’t know what I’ll do, Emma—because what does it mean? How low on your To Do List am I? Am I just another thing to check off, another thing to manage? I don’t want to be that—I want to be the thing, the person, who makes you hop out of bed in the morning, someone you get excited about.
So I won’t assume you’ve forgotten again, I could be wrong. I really HOPE I’m wrong and you’re reading this and I’m groveling—but I have this horrible foreboding.
I want you to be blown away that we’re still here, still together after all this time. Still having fun, still catching each other’s eyes when the kids do something funny (or annoying), still having sex.
A lot of my favorite memories from this year are from last winter. After forgetting last year, you sat down over Christmas and promised me you’d make more of an effort, make time. And you did. You got home promptly so we could eat as a family, you took the odd half-day or late start so we could walk Gus together, get hot chocolate, go for pancakes in South Ken. There was the brilliant day we bunked off to Margate. And I ignored your surreptitious phone checks, and the way your expression would sometimes glaze, because I could see you were really trying.
But things soon slipped. There was always another Book Fair or meeting or phone call. It felt like there always would be. But it’s not your job that makes me so angry—I love that you love your work. It’s the in-between bits—the Facebook groups, Twitter rabbit holes, the committees, the voluntary schemes—you have to ask yourself, are they really all necessary? Because sometimes, when you’re tapping furiously on your phone in the evening, and I’m about to offer a shoulder massage because I feel sorry for you working late, it makes me so cross to find out it’s not work at all—you’re comforting some stranger in a Facebook group because she got fired. And there goes our relaxing evening because instead of watching a film or talking you’re twitching next to me about the poor woman in Raynor’s Park who lost her job who neither of us have even met.
Strangers don’t need you. We need you. We need to be around more than ever these days for Poppy and Miles. Everyone warns you about the early years but actually I feel like now they’re eight and ten they need us more than ever. And you’ve told me before how much it hurt to realize your parents were never interested in you and the things you did. But sometimes I see you smile, say something vague that doesn’t work as a response to what they’ve said, and I wonder if you realize you’re doing the same. I know you’re desperate for them to tell you things, to be there for them, but you need to be sure you’re really listening.
Sorry, I didn’t sit down to get at you. But we’ve always agreed that these letters are a chance to share our true thoughts every year, a chance to start a conversation. Well I’m starting it, Emma, because if you’ve forgotten again I really don’t know what I’ll do.
I love you, Emma, I love you so much. But sometimes I lie here and even when you’re next to me I feel alone. And I want to moan to my best friend about it—but that’s you. So I’ll put it here. Please listen, Emma, please.
Dan xx
P.S. And if you have remembered, and you are just playing this REALLY well, then a) I’m sorry for the rant and b) you’d make a fucking amazing spy.