3rd December 2014
Dear Emma,
I knew you were bored of being PA to Brian, building contractor, and wannabe professional darts player (who knew!). There were just too many days when I’d walk in and you’d be playing with your hair—I liked the side plait, no, I didn’t think you should get a bob, it’s not going gray—or holding a hairbrush and pretending to be interviewed by Kirsty Young on Desert Island Discs (I know that’s what you’re doing, it’s not a big flat, Emma) not to realize. But you were SUCH a Secretive Susan about the new job—how had I not noticed the eight different interviews? (Worryingly you could be conducting a long-term affair and I would definitely not cotton on.)
Linda from the Morton Literary Agency knows what’s good for her. And to be made an Associate Agent after about two seconds flat just shows it. It does seem to be your dream job—despite the fact your boss is a bit unhinged (I mean, the warning signs were there—who gives someone a job because they can do six down on a cryptic crossword?) and it’s not exactly sitting around reading all day, in fact you never seem to get round to any of the free books you’re sent.
But the best thing? You love it. You’ve shelved the hairbands and hairbrush and now you are emailing or reading or editing or managing a crisis. You love being in the book world.
And you need to stop worrying about Poppy and Miles. They are the least neglected children in London. Now that Matt’s brought in Amard, I can work from home more—I feel too young to have an assistant, but man, I love the power. The kids adore Hattie who plays endless games with them and ignores ALL my healthy food instructions. We’re doing well, and you need to trust us more. Poppy is still going to come to you with her worries (“what and when is my next snack”) and Miles is not going to forget who you are! You’re being dramatic when you say things like that. Can I be honest? Sometimes you panic if you’re not needed. Because you worry that your children won’t know you are always there for them. But they will grow up knowing ABSOLUTELY that they are loved, that you are interested in them. History will not repeat itself.
Things should also get easier in the new house. So, as long as the chain holds and no one gazumps us (I’m so up on housing jargon these days), we’ll get more space so we’re not tripping over each other all the time. I think you crave that more than any of us—I forget sometimes that you were brought up in that quiet, adult home with your own room, the ability to find a space just for you.
And fine, yes, I’ll admit the main reason I want it is for its storage space alone—you know how a big attic gives me a hard-on. And this one has wooden loft boards and fucking integrated cupboards in the eaves. Imagine how much of your crap* we can put up there (*beloved belongings). I’m going to buy sticky labels for the cupboard doors. Do you know what? I’m going to go all out and finally buy a laminator for home, because HELL YEAH that small box room is going to be our home office.
I mean obviously I’m going to have to work to kick my Rightmove habit (I’m down to twenty clicks a day, I think that’s healthy, yes?) but I’m so excited to get in there and make it a home. I know it’s a bit of a fixer-upper but you’re right about the light. And I know you have designs on that window seat, a perfect reading nook you called it. And an EN SUITE, Emma, no more sharing with those disgusting small people who splash everything. Two sinks. A sink each. We’ve basically made it.
The kids are so on board. Miles has taken his role of building inspector pretty seriously. I mean, yes, he is slightly All the Gear and No Idea but to be fair to him, his little hammer did alert us to that dry rot in the gross pink haunted house and he looks good in his little yellow hat. Formal. The estate agent looked pretty alarmed to see an official with us.
Although we might need to manage Poppy’s expectations. Yesterday she asked about the swimming pool. She has expensive tastes which we might need to rein in. (How does she know what a jacuzzi is? Who are her friends? We need to do more due diligence on these people. Or, at the very least, get in with their parents who sound wealthy.)
But it’s happening, Emma, we’re moving to our own place and we can decorate it and not have to ask a landlord if we can paint a wall a slightly wacky shade or put up some pictures. It will be OURS.
I love you and I hope this makes you as happy as it makes me. God, I am so glad I met you all those years ago.
Dan x