Daphne
Daphne
Daphne was sitting at her desk, trying to write a letter of apology. It was rare that one came across a first at her age, but this was one, and it was much harder than she’d anticipated. Especially because the recipient of the apology was to be Art Andrews.
Daphne had been feeling out of sorts for the past few days. Ever since they’d got back from the auditions. She just couldn’t shake the unaccustomed unease which, by process of elimination, she finally identified as remorse . She was, in actual fact, sorry. After all, she had more reason than most to understand the need for privacy, the value of secrets. Yet she had taken the secret Art had trusted her with and used it carelessly and selfishly.
Art had every right to be furious. And, to her immense surprise, Daphne realized she cared what he thought of her. Was that the definition of a friend? Someone whose opinion you actually cared about? Perhaps it was. And friends apologized to each other when they were in the wrong, didn’t they?
So, Daphne found herself, fountain pen in hand, agonizing over a blank sheet of paper.
Dear Art, she wrote.
Dear? Wasn’t that a little too familiar ? She didn’t loathe him as much as she once did, but that hardly made him a dear . She scrumpled the paper into a ball and threw it toward the wastepaper basket. Hole in one. Nice.
Hi! she wrote. Jaunty. Casual. Too casual, perhaps?
I feel I must say sorry for the way I’ve treated you , she wrote. She squinted at the words. While they were true, they looked so weak . So apologetic . She sighed, crushed the words into another ball, and potted another basket.
The wastepaper bin was almost full by the time she got as far as signing her name, two hours later, and even that wasn’t straightforward.
Love, Daphne , she wrote with a flourish, then groaned. She certainly couldn’t use the word “love”! He might get entirely the wrong idea. And even the name was a problem. Given that this was the most honest thing she’d written in years, she didn’t want to end with a lie. With the name “Daphne.”
Should she sign it with the nickname Art had called her? What was it? Daffy? No. Perhaps he wouldn’t even remember having said it, and wouldn’t it look a bit strange that she had?
Daphne rested her forehead on the cool leather top of her desk and tried to gather the strength to start again.