Chapter 33
33
GRETA
This may be the most important piece of writing of my life. No, forget ‘may be’ – it is. Because the thought of losing Ewan for good, when we’ve only just embarked on a romantic relationship, makes me feel ill. This has to work.
I’m vaguely aware that the others left a while back and when I lift my head to check the time, nearly an hour has passed. I quickly read over my letter, satisfied with my first draft.
But it will need to be perfect.
I tear off the pages I’ve filled and put them into my handbag, then leave the pad and pen on Paloma’s desk. When I open the door to the open-plan office, it’s humming with activity. I spy Poppy at her desk reading something on her laptop and make my way over.
‘Hello.’
‘Oh, hi,’ she says with a warm smile. ‘How’d you go?’
‘Good, I think. A start anyway. I should probably head back to work, though, see out the day. I’ve got some résumés to look through.’
‘Will you be able to concentrate?’ she asks.
‘I think so – now we have a plan and I’ve got my thoughts down. I still need to revise it, of course – and I want to run it past Tiggy…’
‘Always a good idea to get your bestie’s point of view,’ she replies. ‘Mine’s still a psychologist; she’s never shy about giving her advice – solicited or not.’
We share a laugh. ‘Tiggy and I are nothing alike, but I think that helps, her having a unique perspective on things.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’ll go – I don’t want to keep you any longer than necessary.’
‘Oh, I’m just helping vet some potentials. You’re my client , Greta. You’re still my number-one priority until the case is officially closed.’
I don’t ask what will determine that. Other than me ending up with Ewan, I don’t want to even consider what would constitute ‘case closed’.
‘Thank you,’ I say instead. ‘I suppose that makes me your client- ish .’
‘There you go,’ she says with a grin. She leans closer and lowers her voice. ‘She does say that a lot.’
‘Anjali?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You get used to it.’
I’m dawdling, but I know it’s because I feel safe here – in the agency, with Poppy. And once I step outside, I’m on my own.
Yes, I have a whole slew of people supporting me from the sidelines, but it’s solely up to me to deliver – literally, as I’ll be the one dropping off my letter to Ewan’s – and I need to do this on my own.
‘Well, bye, Poppy. I’ll keep you updated.’
She reaches up and lightly clasps my forearm. ‘You’ve got this, Greta. And I’m here if you need me – any time of day. I’ll even go over there with you to deliver it if you like.’
It’s a generous offer, but I meant what I told myself just now. I need to do this on my own.
‘Thanks, Poppy.’
And with that, I head out into the sunshine to catch the Tube back to Nouveau .
I watch Tiggy closely as she reads, clocking every nuanced twitch, brow furrow, and utterance. She reads the letter three times, back to back, before she looks up.
‘It’s good.’
‘Really?’ I ask with a relieved sigh.
‘Really. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, remember, and this,’ she says, holding up the pages, ‘is top tier. It does need to be cleaned up a bit…’
‘Of course, it’s only the first draft but… Will it work, do you think?’
‘Well, I’ve never actually met the bloke, so it’s hard to say…’
‘No, I know, I know.’ I leap up and go to the kitchen, where I swing open the fridge and study the contents.
‘I will say this,’ Tiggy says, having followed me. She gently reaches around me to close the fridge and I peer up at her. ‘It’s not just good, it’s beautiful .’
‘It is? I mean, that’s what I was aiming for.’
‘Well, you’ve succeeded.’
I exhale a sigh of relief.
‘And if he doesn’t fall instantly in love with you after reading it, he has no soul.’
This makes me laugh. Though, it could be nervous laughter, as I’ve been a wreck since I left the office. I was fine throwing myself into work – editing an article by one of our contributors, advising Lisa on a pull quote, and even during a quick impromptu meeting with finance. But once I stepped outside the office…
All I could think of, all I could picture , was Ewan’s expression when Harrison told him about our date.
‘What?’ asks Tiggy. ‘You’ve got a strange look on your face.’
‘I can’t believe it’s still today.’
‘Huh?’
‘It was only this morning that I went to The Daily Grind to see Ewan… Then everything exploded. Or im ploded.’
‘It’s been a day, that’s for sure,’ she commiserates.
‘It’s been a fortnight in a day,’ I retort. ‘This morning feels like it happened ages ago. Do you think he’s home yet?’ I ask, changing the subject.
Tiggy gently takes me by both shoulders. ‘Again, I’ve never met Ewan. I have no idea if he’d be home yet.’
‘Right, of course – sorry.’
She drops her hands and I move past her and go back to the lounge.
‘So, when are you planning on taking it to him?’
I flop onto the sofa while Tiggy leans against the breakfast bar.
‘I keep going back and forth,’ I say. ‘It still needs polish, as you said, but I could do that first thing in the morning – let it marinade overnight and approach it with fresh eyes. I also haven’t decided if I want to place it in Ewan’s hands or somehow leave it in his mailbox. Tomorrow night, maybe.’
‘I’ll go with you if you like? To drop it off.’
‘I thought you had a date.’
‘Babes, my “dates” are hook-ups and none of them mean a thing next to you.’
‘Thanks, Tiggy, but I don’t know. I keep going back and forth. Poppy offered too, but I think I need to go alone – in case he is home. Maybe he’ll talk to me.’
‘Whatever you decide.’ She yawns loudly and I look up from the coffee table, which I’ve caught myself staring at – again. God, I really am inside my head. My eyes flick towards the clock: 8.08p.m.
‘Have you eaten? I’ve just realised, I didn’t have dinner – or lunch. I’m hungry. Are you hungry?’
She crosses to me, her hand extended. ‘Hello, Tiggy Marsh. I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘Hilarious,’ I say, swatting her hand away. ‘So that’s a yes, then.’
She flops down next to me. ‘If you’re buying, that’s always a yes.’
The early-morning Uber ride to Ewan’s is an out-of-body experience.
The streets of London are a surreal blur, yet punctuated with these distinctive details that leap out at me. A red postbox, gleaming as if freshly polished. The faded paint of a yellow box junction on the road, still doing its job of keeping an intersection clear. A sixty-something woman wearing a red vest on a corner selling The Big Issue to commuters, smiling at passers-by. A huddle of smokers outside a BeanVibes (the sad bastards – both for the smoking and drinking sub-par coffee). Shopkeepers sweeping the footpaths outside their shops, stopping to chat to each other. Shiny back doors of terrace houses flanked by topiaries. Double-decker buses ‘merging’ into traffic. The meandering Thames dotted with barges.
I notice these details with a proud interest. They encompass London. They are London.
I love this city.
I’ve toyed with the idea of an overseas stint – an adult gap year, or two – but I suspect that even if it eventuates, I’d be happy to return to London. It’s home.
And as true as they may be, these thoughts are also an effective distraction from my building nerves – make that panic. Because I am about to lay my heart bare.
The car pulls up outside Ewan’s at 7.32a.m. and I take a deep, bracing breath.
I’ve had less than five hours of fitful sleep, and have been up since four, revising my letter. I’ve shown up straight from the shower wearing leggings and a long-sleeved T-shirt, with my hair tucked behind my ears and no make-up.
I am as ready as I will ever be to face the man who may or may not be – but I really hope is – the love of my life.
By bedtime last night, I’d decided to leave the letter at Ewan’s while he was at work, then message him to say, ‘Check your mailbox!’ But in the wee hours of this morning, as I climbed out of bed, exhausted but wired, I knew I had to deliver it in person.
Ewan deserves that.
I deserve that.
‘Thank you,’ I say to the driver as we arrive.
I climb out and look up at Ewan’s building. My stomach is doing gymnastics, but I don’t waver. I walk up the short flight of steps and press the buzzer to his flat. There’s a security camera on the console and I know that as soon as he answers, he’ll be able to see me.
Three rings, and nothing.
Bollocks. His shop manager usually opens The Daily Grind, but maybe he went in early.
‘Yes? Oh, hi,’ he says, his voice falling off the cliff of disappointment. He must have answered before he realised it was me.
‘Hi,’ I say.
Remy barks twice in the background. ‘Shush, Remy,’ he says.
It’s strange not being able to see him but knowing he can see me. I take a bracing breath.
Be brave, Greta , I will myself.
‘I know you asked for some time, but… I wrote you something,’ I say, holding up an envelope. ‘I just wanted to drop it off.’
He doesn’t respond so I keep talking. ‘I understand if it’s too late but I…’ My breath hitches and tears flood my eyes. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea showing up sleep-deprived and desperate.
‘Sorry,’ I continue, talking to the silence. There’s a loud beep and then absolute silence, and it takes me a moment to realise we’ve been cut off.
‘Fuck!’ I stab in the number of Ewan’s flat a second time. It rings and rings and then the three loud beeps sound again. ‘Fuckety fuck fuck!’ I shout right as a well-dressed, elderly woman exits the building, giving me a look that would turn me to stone if this were a Greek myth.
‘Sorry, madam,’ I say feebly. ‘Ahhh, fuck,’ I whisper to myself.
‘Greta?’
It’s him.
He’s half in, half out of the building’s front door wearing an oversized Take That T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms.
‘Hi,’ I say, dragging my eyes from the T-shirt to his face. ‘Robbie or Gary?’ I ask.
‘Sorry?’
I drop my gaze to the T-shirt, then he realises. ‘Oh, uh, neither. My mum was a Mark Owen fan, so…’
‘Ewan, I’m so, so sorry.’
‘I understand.’
‘You do?’
‘Well, no, actually. It’s just what you say, isn’t it?’
We look at each other, the silence taking form, and my eyes rove the features of his face, memorising it in case I never see him again. Oh god – he owns the coffee shop half a block from Nouveau . What if I run into him by accident, just going about my day?
Be brave, Greta, my mind whispers again.
‘I brought you this,’ I say, holding out the envelope. ‘I wrote it. For you.’
He takes it and a microscopic part of me rejoices.
He looks at it, turning it over in his hands. ‘Thanks,’ he says quietly.
‘You don’t have to read it now…’
‘I wasn’t…’
Our voices fall away.
‘I should go. I’ve got work,’ I say, ignoring that I didn’t ask my driver to wait and now I’m stranded.
‘Yeah, me too.’
‘Can’t keep the caffeine addicts waiting,’ I say. I smile, even though on the amusement scale, that was barely a one out of ten.
‘Right.’ He holds up the envelope. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Bye, Greta.’
And then he’s gone, the door to the building closing behind him, and I’m left standing on a doorstep in Central London, wondering if that’s it.
Ewan,
It’s a funny thing, the moment you realise something’s missing.
You can have the fullest life – the career you’ve always dreamt of, close family ties, a best friend who’s like a sister, colleagues you adore. You can live in the most beautiful city in the world, have a wardrobe full of clothes, and a lovely flat with a leafy aspect.
You can have all these things – all these people in your life – and one day, it occurs to you that you also want to be in love.
And not just the romcom version of love with its Sunday breakfasts at the dining table, sun streaming in the window, or playful visits to Portobello Market to try on silly hats and laugh at each other, or all the other parts of a romcom movie montage.
You want real love.
You want difficult conversations about ex-partners, and not-so-perfect love scenes where noses crash as you kiss, but the connection – physical and emotional – is real. You want to learn about each other gradually, conversing about trivial anecdotes that make you laugh, and big ideas that form the foundation of who you are.
You want the anticipation of seeing them, the warmth of being in their presence, the delight of making them laugh, the assuredness that you will be there when they need you – because when you love someone, it’s never a case of ‘if’ but ‘when’.
You want to grow together and explore – the world and life and all its possibilities – and perhaps one day create a family, first of two – or three, if there’s a beloved pet – then having a child, maybe two.
You want to lay yourself bare and say, ‘This is me. I’m kind and generous and selfish and vain. I’m clever and sometimes stupid and driven but also stuck and needing a nudge. I am awake to the wonders of this world but blind to what is in front of me.
I’m me – flawed, imperfect, but open and willing and wanting.
Wanting you.
If you will have me.
If you will let me explain.
If you will consider forgiving me.’
You want to say all these things when you’re on the brink of falling in love with someone and have behaved badly.
You want to be given a second chance because you’re so unbelievably sorry – for not being truthful, for failing to see what you had, for being swept up by a construct of what you thought you wanted…
You want to say all this and be forgiven and start again with, ‘Hi, I’m Greta. So nice to meet you…’ and with hope in your heart, see where it can go.
I’m so sorry, Ewan. Please can we start again?
Love,
Greta x