It’s his first day at A&B Associates. And it’s the first time, saving his interview, that Edward has worn a suit in over three years. The shirt collar feels too tight and itchy against his skin. He tugs at it repeatedly, before undoing the top button and hoping that nobody notices. And, for most of the day, while he’s orientating himself and organising his new office, nobody does. Until he’s standing in the office kitchen, making himself a triple espresso from the very fancy and expensive coffee machine.
‘Settling in well already, I see.’
Edward glances up to see what he can only describe as one of the sexiest women he’s ever laid eyes on, standing next to the fridge holding something – probably something edible, he doesn’t see what and nor does he care – since he can’t take his gaze off every other inch of her. She’s quite tall and voluptuous, not especially slim, but she holds her weight in a way he’s never quite seen on a woman before: with such supreme confidence, as if she knows that she’s quite the most desirable female on earth. Her clothes are tight, hugging every curve of flesh, her shirt is unbuttoned just low enough to reveal the dip of her breasts. Her skirt isn’t short but, somehow, her legs are all the more enticing for being hidden beneath it, just her smooth ankles revealed, along with feet slid into tall, black, shiny heels.
Looking at her, probably open-mouthed, probably drooling, Edward feels something else he hasn’t felt in years. Not since before Greer got sick. He is, suddenly and completely, overcome with pure unadulterated lust. The experience is so surprising, so shocking to him that he’s lucky he doesn’t spill all three shots of his espresso down his trousers.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asks.
Still, Edward can say nothing. Only stare.
The incredibly beautiful woman laughs, then turns and leaves.
Edward is left staring after her, a ridiculous grin of undiluted joy spread across his face. He will not touch this particular woman, he knows. It would be career suicide, personal suicide too, most probably. But it doesn’t matter. She may be a goddess, but making love with her isn’t the point. She was a sign. She triggered his reawakening. And, for this, he will only always be grateful.
Ross hasn’t seen Ava for three days. She cancelled their Monday lunch. Then didn’t turn up to the Wednesday swing dance class. Something is most definitely up, but she isn’t answering his calls so he doesn’t yet know what. So, there’s only one thing to do, other than waiting patiently until she’s ready to tell him – something far too passive for Ross to ever contemplate – which is to track her down at the library.
He’s on his way there when, for some reason he can’t quite explain, he’s drawn to take a short detour along a street he never usually walks down. When he discovers that it is, in fact, a dead end, Ross turns to go back. Which is when he spots the little blue door, the window crammed with papers, pens and all kinds of writing paraphernalia. He squints to read the little handwritten note in the corner of the window, inviting him to step inside and Learn the lost art of letter writing …
Ross has never particularly wanted to write letters. He’s quite happy with phone calls, texts and emails. Frankly, he’s never given the topic a second thought. And so he can’t explain why, despite being headed to find Ava, he does exactly what the little handwritten note has instructed him to do, he turns the handle of the little blue door and steps inside.
Clara looks up from one of Marthe’s letters. Fortunately, she’s not crying.
‘Hello,’ he says, looking around, still a little confused.
‘Hello.’ She tucks the letter away. ‘Welcome to Letters.’
‘Aye, thanks. I dunno why I’m here, though.’ He grins. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever written a letter before in me life.’
Clara stands, managing a smile. ‘Well, then you’ve come to the right place.’
‘O, aye?’ He laughs. ‘Then I suppose I should buy some paper and a pen.’
‘What kind would you like?’
Ross shrugs. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
‘We’ve got plenty to choose from.’
‘Why don’t you choose summit for me then, lassie?’ he says. ‘I bet you’ve got a better eye for these things than I.’
Clara crosses the carpet, stopping in front of the rows of drawers, a few feet from Ross. He watches her as she opens and closes drawers, examining papers.
‘You know, lassie, you’re a lot stronger than you think.’
Clara stops, mid drawer, and turns to him. ‘Sorry?’
‘You think you can’t cope with things,’ Ross says. ‘But y’ can.’
Clara frowns. ‘Do I—have we met?’
‘Naw, but I just know things, about people,’ Ross says. ‘Women usually, it’s a gift.’
‘Oh?’ Clara raises an eyebrow, rather amused despite herself. ‘I see.’
‘You’re pregnant,’ he says, matter-of-fact.
Clara’s eyebrows drop. She stares at him in amazement.
‘But … What … I don’t—I’m not even … How the hell do you know that?’
Ross gives a little shrug. ‘I told you, it’s my gift.’
‘Well, bloody hell.’ Clara gasps. ‘Clearly … it certainly bloody is.’
‘And I’m telling you, it’s only when y’ think you can’t cope that you can’t. Y’ can do anything life puts in front of you, if only you believe y’ can.’ He smiles. ‘Even motherhood.’
Clara stares at him.
‘Although,’ Ross considers. ‘Don’t let that stop y’ asking for help. It takes strength to reach out to others. Don’t try to do it all alone, okay?’
Clara nods.
So does Ross. ‘Good.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, back to me letter …’
Clara returns to the moment and matter at hand. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Refocusing on the drawer, she picks out a piece of paper and hands it to him. ‘Here you go.’
Ross examines it: blue as a bird’s egg with a white lace trim.
‘Oh aye,’ he says with a grin. ‘She’ll love that.’ He still has no idea what he’ll write, though he expects it’ll come to him.
‘I’ll get you a pen,’ Clara says, and she does.
She shows him to the little writing desk and he sits. And, when he finally puts pen to paper, he finds that, yes, the words come to him easily, so easily in fact that he hardly knows what he writes.
Thirty minutes later, still smiling, still bemused and still wondering quite what happened, Ross closes the door of the little shop behind him. Realising he’s now late for Ava’s lunch hour, he hurries along the little cobbled cul-de-sac, and back towards the main road. At the intersection, he pauses, turns his face up to the sunshine and steps out onto the street. The driver sees him too late and is speeding too fast to be able to stop. Ross is still looking skyward when he’s hit.
‘You’ve got to play for people, in public.’
Finn shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘But why not?’
It’s a conversation they’ve been having in circles for days now. Neither will budge. Until, finally, Greer lowers herself to using her one bargaining chip.
‘If you do it, I’ll do it.’
Finn frowns. ‘You’ll go busking? How would you even hold the violin? And you don’t even know how to play, I don’t—’
‘No.’ Greer gives him a meaningful look. ‘I’ll do it – the thing you suggested before, when …’
‘Oh. Oh.’ Finn brightens visibly. ‘You sneaky little minx.’
Greer grins. ‘I know. I’m very, very naughty. Especially since I want to do it too.’
‘You do?’
She nods. ‘Yes, but, being unburdened by earthly desires, I can hold out a lot longer than you can. Infinitely longer, in fact.’
Finn scowls.
Greer waits.
‘All right, then,’ he huffs. ‘I’ll do it.’
Greer claps, though, of course, her hands make no sound.
‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘Then so will I.’
Finn laughs. ‘I’m going to have to watch out for you, aren’t I?’
Greer nods. ‘Yep, I’ll resort to anything when I want my own way. Just ask Edward.’
Finn smiles. ‘I think it’s a little early for that, don’t you?’
‘Perhaps,’ Greer says. ‘We’ll see.’
Edward is walking home, hurrying along the street in order to get there as soon as he possibly can. He found the train journey from London a little stressful. He’d forgotten what rush hour on the Underground was like, all those sweaty bodies pressed together, too many armpits exposed. Of course, he hadn’t been able to get a seat on the King’s Cross to Cambridge train so had stood all the way. But he doesn’t care, so long as he gets home to see his daughter before bedtime and, hopefully, Greer too.
And then, much to Edward’s surprise, he sees her right there. He’s standing on the pavement, waiting at the crossroads to turn onto Mill Road, and he looks up to see her hovering on the roof of a three-storey Victorian house, looking down across the street. He follows her gaze and it rests on a busker standing outside a little shop, holding a violin under his chin, tweaking his bow. Strangely, he has no open case, no empty hat, no place for passers-by to drop coins. And then, all at once, Edward recognises his next-door neighbour. He’s suddenly hit with a rush of jealous hatred, stunned into immobility, just as he had been by lust only a few hours before. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth.
And then, the musician begins to play. The music is so beautiful, so sorrowful and sweet that it brings tears to Edward’s eyes. He watches the musician, this other man his ghost wife loves, play. And, try as he might, as the music soaks into him, Edward can no longer conjure up any hatred, any loathing for this person, someone who can create something so entirely sublime. Instead, he listens and watches. Memories rise up, pain pulls at his heart, opening it wider and wider until joy begins to seep in. Tears slide down his cheeks as he stands at the crossroads. And, for the second time that day, Edward is suddenly overcome with gratitude.