Term began and I applied for a job at a coffee shop. I loved my first term’s class, which was about feminist literature depicting New York City, and I got on well with the other students Tim and I were sharing the house with. Daniel, whom I’d worked with on Clouds, asked if I’d like to produce his production of David Hare’s Skylight, so I found my way back into the drama society. Rob and I made plans for him to visit me in Durham for a whole month just after Christmas, and I called my mum to arrange to introduce them in London after New Year’s.
I missed my friends in the US and tried to email Greg and Jess as much as I could, but logging-in to my email always came with an element of dread. Matthew’s messages had dried up over the summer when he realised I wasn’t responding, but we had seen each other for the first time since Christmas at a tea party at Valerie’s house. The encounter was civil, each of us adopting perfect personas, but it prompted the resumption of his daily email attacks. In my replies, I attempted to reason with him, to be polite and to offer him friendship, but everything I typed became fuel for more viciousness. At present, though, they were just words. Words that cut, got inside my head, and made me cry in my bedroom alone; but, thankfully, also words that could be made to disappear with the touch of my laptop’s power button.
Then the first letter arrived. Double enveloped. Forwarded from Matthew. Using my real name on the external address.
Rupert Cochrane
F&R Solicitors
PO Box 101
London
SWxxxx
Harriet Moore
Care of Albert Sumac
PO Box 666
London
SWxxxx
31st October 2004
Dear Ms Harriet Moore
It is my duty to inform you that, as requested in the will of Rose Shaw, we are bound to enquire about the status of your relationship with Albert Sumac as of November 2004. At the reading of the will in December 2003, Mr Sumac requested you not be made aware of the terms of the document in case they influenced any decisions you might make, but now it is imperative I bring certain details to your attention.
As laid out in the will of Rose Shaw, written and signed 8th September 2003, Harriet Moore and Albert Sumac were bequeathed (and I quote):
* These sums are to be paid one year after the testator (Rose Shaw)’s death on the sole condition that the beneficiaries are in a committed relationship. Should this not be the case, all funds should be donated to the Cats Protection Agency.
Thus, it is my duty to enquire whether or not you are currently in a ‘committed relationship’ with Albert Sumac. I have already contacted Mr Sumac and he has responded in the negative, but I need written confirmation from both parties before I may proceed with executing Ms Shaw’s last wishes.
As such, I would appreciate it if you could respond to my query as soon as possible using the above address.
Yours
Rupert Cochrane
F&R Solicitors
One week later, I received another typed letter:
Natalie
You will be hearing from my solicitor, but I thought it polite to inform you myself first. Under advice and with little choice given your inability to discuss such matters reasonably, I am in the unfavourable position of having to take legal action against you (see enclosed).
As I’m sure it will yours, this breaks my heart. I have tried to reduce the sum as much as possible. All the legacy items have been halved, though, of course, you have already lost your own half, and so your total deficit is nearly doubled. I wish it could have been different.
I have also halved the rental cost of the Kew flat, because in theory we were living there together, though, of course, we both know I left for half the summer because you became unbearable. Gas and electricity are difficult to calculate for the period, so I have let you off there.
My sadness is in knowing that none of this would have been necessary had you been able to show me some respect and follow through on your offer of friendship. I have tried to settle with you, but your stubbornness has made you unable to recognise a friend when you need one, and this, I’m afraid, will now have to serve as another part of your learning process. A lesson more expensive than any of those at Rosella. Perhaps now you will understand that getting your own way and having everything on your own terms is both expensive and lonely. Perhaps, anyway. No doubt you will find a way to blame this on me.
I am willing to discuss this:
I am sorry it has come to this. I tried not to believe it for a long, long time, but I fear I was avoiding the truth: you are cold, Natalie. You give me goose-bumps.
Yours sincerely
Matthew Wright
Details of funds to be recovered from Natalie Lucas of 30 D***** Road, Durham, DH** 4**
| Rental legacy Durham flat/house @ 50% of £53,000 | 26,500 |
| Furniture (private purchase) | 1,254 |
| Travel to and from Durham (two visits with regard to the rental legacy) | 150 |
| Decorations/books, etc. | 70 |
| Three months’ rental of Richmond flat @ 50% of £2,550 | 1,275 |
| Theatre and foreign travel legacycd @ 50% of £12,195 | 6,097 |
| GRAND TOTAL | £35,346 |
What’s your reaction after reading this? Do you laugh? Is your mind’s mouth hanging mid-air in amazement? Are you incredulous? Do you have the number of a good lawyer in your address book?
You, reader, whatever your reaction, would surely have known what to do next. But, just in case my powers of authorship have failed thus far, I must reiterate certain details about the girl who found these letters on the doormat of her third-year student home – about me:
Thus, once again, my bedroom door was closed and I was sobbing secret tears of self-pity. Downstairs, my housemates made pots of tea and chatted about choosing dissertation topics; in two hours, I would be due at a seminar on Jessica Hagedorn’s The Gangster of Love; on my computer screen flashed an email from my mum enquiring what my plans were for the Christmas holidays; and beside my bed lay a snapshot of Rob and me taken at a Mets game the second time we were in New York. All around, life was normal and comforting, but in my hand lay a page that seemed to shred my insides. From gallbladder to gut, tiny paper cuts were appearing, slicing my capillaries and dicing my conscience. In itself, this was nothing new: inside, I’d been screaming for months. All across America, in National Parks and Second Cities, I’d peered over my shoulder expecting to see an army of Uncles out for my blood. What was new was that now, on top of all my internal demons, an external and altogether more frightening one was suing me for £35,346.
What did I do? Exactly what I shouldn’t have done, of course. I contacted Matthew. I selected an email at random, hit reply and ranted my own schizophrenic barrage of emails, shouting in capitals that he was a SICK BASTARD WITHOUT A LEG TO STAND ON, then begging in italics that we resolve this and find a way to proceed as friends.
When my tears finally dried and the agitation in my fingertips turned to cramp, I lowered my laptop lid and paced into the bathroom to wash my face. I chatted to Tim in the kitchen as I buttered a slice of toast, then grabbed my bag and slammed the door. I strode down to campus, climbed the stairs to my class and contributed to a discussion about Hagedorn’s depiction of racial dismorphia. That evening, I attended rehearsals for Skylight and spoke excitedly to a guy called David about applying for the new student slot at the local theatre: a week’s run in their studio space, directed and produced by us, any play we wanted, applications due Monday. Then I cycled home, cooked a bowl of pasta, watched two episodes of 24, season three, with Tim, brushed my teeth, and closed my door.
At which point, the thoughts I’d stopped myself from thinking all day finally bullied their way into existence.