Chapter 1 #2
I rip open another box. Things I didn’t want to leave in Ryan’s or the removal firm’s care.
There’s a photo of me and my siblings Kyle and Jules on the beach on a family holiday.
Kyle is only about five in this photo; I’m eight and that makes Jules ten.
I smile and place it next to me. I pull out a plastic wallet with my passport and documents in, my old teddy that I bought when Mum had taken me shopping.
I remember it because it was a rare treat, to be out with Mum on my own.
I bring it closer, the purple fur tickling my nose.
It was the day after I’d got my head girl badge for getting the top scores in the year.
I’d held my success in my chest as I’d rushed into the kitchen.
Kyle was crying over a grazed knee, Mum cooing over him.
Dad was deep in conversation with Jules about some project or other.
I couldn’t wait to tell them, but it wasn’t the right time.
‘Dish up, would you love?’ Mum had asked, all attention on my siblings.
I’d spooned the shepherd’s pie onto plates, placed the dishes on the table and we’d sat down.
I remember feeling so invisible in that moment, as I often did.
Middle child syndrome, I guess; Kyle was the baby, Jules was the eldest and most demanding, and I was the reliable one.
As the conversation and attention on my brother and sister continued, the words had shot out of me.
‘I’ve got the top scores out of the year.
’ The room had quietened, all focus now on me.
‘And they’ve made me head girl.’ Mum quickly slapped a plaster on Kyle’s knee, Dad left my sister’s side, and they were all smiling, clapping and pulling me into hugs over the cooling dinner.
That night, Mum had come up to my room, stroking my hair in the way she did when I was younger.
‘Let’s go shopping tomorrow, eh? Just you and me. It’ll be our little treat. Just us.’
I sit the teddy next to the photo, then pull out the first award me and Ryan had received for our column.
I can hear our shrieks when we were told we’d won, how we’d fallen into each other’s arms, popped champagne, spent the afternoon in bed, swigging from the bottle and eating cheese, olives and, later, ice-cream from the tub.
It had been so decadent, so very us at the time.
We were a successful couple at the beginning of our very promising careers.
We had just moved into a beautiful new home, and had tentative, playful plans for a wedding abroad.
Baby names had been thrown about in a post-coital haze…
hypothetical children that would be born far off in the future but who would be brilliant and funny, like their father, who would have my thick, dark hair and ambition. Children that would now never be born.
It was by accident that I’d started writing for the column.
I’d actually gone for a job as research assistant at the newspaper.
Ryan was already a junior journalist and was there to apply for columnist. He wasn’t particularly handsome, but he had the kind of confidence and smile that made everyone like him.
He was clever and funny, opinionated but not in a closed way.
That’s how I ended up working with him. While we were waiting to see the editor, he’d commented on the cover of a magazine with a book on the front, which I’d picked up from the coffee table while we waited.
‘Have you read it?’ he’d asked. I’d looked up, startled.
‘Yes. I loved it.’
‘You did?’ he’d challenged, but his mouth had lifted into a smile. ‘Can I ask why?’
‘Because it’s about the human experience, it’s about love conquering all.’
‘You think love conquers all?’
‘Don’t you?’ I’d replied.
‘No, I think it destroys rather than conquers.’
‘Oof. Been dumped recently?’ He’d laughed then, and moved to the seat next to me.
We’d debated the book; he had good points which I volleyed back with a counter-argument. When we talked about this a year later with our award and an almost empty bottle of warm champagne, he’d said that he had almost forgotten he was there for a job interview. And I’d said the same.
When the editor, Giuditta, came into the room from behind, neither of us had been aware of her listening to our opposing views. And when she called us both into the office, looked at our résumés she had leant back in her chair.
‘How would you feel about writing a column together?’
I’d floundered. I wasn’t a journalist; I was a historian.
That’s what I studied for my degree, that was why I was looking for a job further away; London had more opportunities in my field.
I was there to research, but when she’d gone through the terms, and Ryan had flashed me that smile and I saw the challenge as he’d said, ‘I’m game if you are? ’ I said yes on the spot.
I place the award on the floor.
Giuditta’s face flickers in my mind: the day she’d told me that the column wasn’t working without him; that she didn’t have a position for me any more.
But that she’d, of course, be really interested in any new ideas or articles I had brewing.
And just like that, my life in London ended.
I can still feel the dark weight of it all, the days and nights that rolled into one, how the decision to come back to Shropshire felt like running away.
And now I’m here, back in the place where I grew up.
And where I definitely do not have any articles or ideas brewing.
The clang of the letterbox startles me out of my thoughts. I reach over and drain the cold coffee, unfold my legs, and make my way to the door to retrieve the mail.
Most are flyers for local takeaways, a few bills for the ‘homeowner’ and one, handwritten, addressed simply to ‘Alice’. I run my fingers over the lettering.
‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics plays into the room. The reception is a little rusty, the music fading and re-emerging, the signal adjusting to my new address.
The envelope looks old. The paper almost nicotine yellow, the edges scuffed and curved, as though it’s been passed between different hands, at different times.
My new address is written in blue ink, the lettering itself swooping and leaning to the right.
There is a postmark from Yorkshire, a stamp that looks like it should be stuck in between plastic sheets as part of a collection.
I turn the envelope over, run my hands beneath the seal and open it, eyes scanning to see who it’s from: Michael.
I don’t know anyone called Michael.
Do I?