A letter had arrived.
Jonathan Stark, upon returning to his flat, had picked it up off the doormat, and placed it in the centre of the kitchen table. The postman had been early. On those occasions when Stark received mail, it was usually after work. Perhaps the postman was new. Perhaps the postman had been told to shift up a gear. Perhaps anything. Stark didn’t care. He was too excited to ponder the inconsistencies of the Royal Mail.
It was 7am. Stark had been for a three-mile run. He liked to go early. It set him up for the day ahead. If he missed a run, he felt stale. He started work at 8.30, giving him time for a shower and some coffee and toast and perhaps a little fruit. Maybe a banana. His nod to ‘five a day’.
But this particular morning, the shower and the breakfast would wait. Not the coffee, however. He would freely admit he was a coffee addict, liking it black and strong, and lots of it. Plus, he had invested in a rather complicated coffee machine. A rare display of extravagance, given the strict confines of his budget. The air in his tiny one-bedroomed flat was now rich with the scent of freshly ground coffee beans. He sat at the kitchen table, dripping sweat, sipping full roast from a mug bearing a colourful picture of Iron Man. He couldn’t remember precisely how he got it, but it was the only mug he had, and provided it didn’t leak, and it did the job, then it hardly mattered.
The moment was everything, to be savoured. The seconds before elation or profound disappointment. He rarely got letters. And if he did, they were usually bills. Rent demands. Unpleasant reminders from the bank. Other such shit. He knew exactly who had sent this one, because he was expecting it, and wasn’t expecting anything from anyone else. A plain, standard white envelope, with a window-box, and in the window-box, his name and address neatly typed. Bearing a first-class stamp. That was a good sign. A minor victory. It meant the sender was prepared to spend a little money on him. Then again, he thought, maybe they sent everything first class. Perhaps second class from a prestigious law firm was poor show. It was easy to overthink such things.
He licked his lips. They were salty. He got up, pulled a dish towel from a hook on the wall, dabbed his face. He sat back down. The coffee tasted particularly fine this morning. It was summer. The day looked like it would turn out warm and bright. His run earlier had been smooth and pain free. He could have run all day. The omens were there. He felt something good was going to happen. Irrational, he knew. But the response had been quick. He’d only sent the application off four days before. And here was the reply, before him on the kitchen table. Neatly packaged in its little white envelope. Either yes or no. That simple.
He took a deep breath, wiped sweat from his eyes, and tore it open, pulled out the letter. It was an A4 sheet, cream-coloured, folded into three precise sections. Looked expensive. Felt expensive. He couldn’t keep the tremble from his hand. He took another calming breath, focused, laid the folded letter on the table. Suddenly, he didn’t want to read its contents. He had been down this road before, years ago. Five years, to be exact. Receiving rejection letters. The hope, the disappointment. He was well practised. He would know in a single glance. If it was three lines or less, then it was too damned short. And short meant ‘no’. Beginning with We regret to advise you, ending in We wish you all the best for the future.
He picked the letter up, and with care, unfolded it.
And stared.
First thing. It wasn’t typed. It was handwritten. Looked like ink from an old-fashioned nib pen. This shocked him. This was something new.
Second thing. It wasn’t the factory-standard three lines. It was a whole goddamned page.
And the best thing of all – it started with the words We would be very interested…
He took a gulp of coffee. He’d never tasted better. His heart sang. He couldn’t keep the smile off his face.
The omens were true.
Today was the day.