Emily is having the time of her life. As she tells the writer about her day – a day of museums and art galleries, of cocktails at the Ritz and oysters in Borough Market – the writer sits back in her chair and smiles to herself. She is happy she has been able to give Emily this experience, happy that she can make something good happen out of a trip that might just break her own heart.
‘And have you seen all of London that you wish to see?’ the writer asks.
‘I don’t think you could ever see all of London could you?’ Emily replies. ‘I think Dr Johnson was right about that. How could anyone ever tire of this city? But I’ve seen what I wanted to see for this trip if that’s what you mean. I’m ready to help you with the next stage.’
‘Yes,’ the writer says slowly. ‘The next stage.’
‘I’ve reserved first-class tickets on the train to York the day after tomorrow and I’ve booked us into a hotel near York Minster.’
‘Oh, you’ll love the Minster,’ the writer says, even though she has never actually seen it herself. The writer had wanted to stay in Harrogate, which was much nearer to Haverford, but the train journey was difficult, with several changes and Emily did not want to drive too much on what she called ‘the wrong side of the road’ so in the end the writer had conceded that York would be just fine.
‘But this part of the trip isn’t about me. This is about you.’
Emily knows the whole story now, everything about the writer’s life before she became a writer. Before New York, before her first husband even. Everything. The writer has never told anyone everything before.
‘We will drive from York to Haverford if that’s all right with you. There used to be a branch line, back when I lived at Haverford, just outside Cranmere. None of those little village train stations exist anymore.’ She wonders what it will be like to be back in Cranmere and how it will have changed.
‘It’s not too far,’ Emily says.
‘Not too far,’ the writer repeats.
The writer hears somebody calling her name. ‘Elizabeth Smithson?’ the voice asks and she jumps for a moment. Nobody should know who she is here.
And then she remembers. Of course people know who she is.
‘I’m such a fan of your books,’ the woman gushes. ‘I don’t want to bother you or anything; I just wanted to tell you how much I love your work.’
‘Thank you,’ the writer replies, relieved that the fan didn’t want a picture or an autograph.
‘Have you let them know you’re coming, Ms Smithson?’ Emily asks, as the fan walks away, whispering to her companion.
‘Who?’
‘The people at Haverford House.’
Elizabeth Smithson shakes her head. ‘Not yet, dear,’ she says. It has been harder for her to make that phone call than she’d thought it would be. ‘I thought I would call from York.’