Page 2

Ten months earlier

LONDON

December 27th

A letter arrives through the slot with a snap.

I lift my head from the couch. Even from up the stairs, above the bakery, I always hear the mail come. I see the half-finished bottle of whisky on a cushion beside me, then look across to see that the cupboard—yourcupboard—is still closed. If that doesn’t deserve half a bottle of whisky, I don’t know what does. Soon it will be a new year and I can’t take you with me.

I say this every year.

And every year you come anyway.

If I could find the part of my brain where you hitchhike, maybe then the therapy would work. But, who knows, this year might be different. I check the time: half past nine, the post is early. My head is thumping as if there are a hundred hammers in there. In the cab on the way back from Mum’s last night, I watched the Christmas lights go off one by one, as I tried not to be sick on the back seat. I have nothing else to do today but recover from a hangover. I’m not rostered on at the travel agency, even though I told them I could work over the Christmas sale period.

My phone beeps.

Nick. Of course.

You feel OK this morn? ;) x

Christ. What did I send him? I check through the messages from last night: several about wanting to see him. Then I went quiet. What I always do. Today I reply; it’s the least he deserves.

Yeah, thanks. Went straight to bed. We should catch up soon.

Do I mean that?

I’m not sure.

I’m also not sure whether to put a kiss after my words. My fingers stay frozen. Was it you who took away my ability to decide on anything? God knows I’ve had a thousand sessions with Rhiannon, my therapist, but it never gets any better. Your fault. Whenever something goes wrong, it’s easier to put your name on it. It’s almost fun to blame you when the boiler breaks down, or the tube’s delayed, or I get food poisoning…or drunk.

I shut my eyes and press send, without an x, and then feel sick about that too. I’m pushing him away, just like Mum says I do with everyone. True to form, I don’t answer the messages from Anna and Neri, both asking about my plans for New Year’s Eve.

I pad downstairs, feeling sorry for the postman who has to work the day after Boxing Day.

Another beep.

Catch up tomorrow? x

Nick’s never dissuaded. I don’t get that. I would be. I feel guilty, so I add:

Sure. Few drinks?

Still no kiss.

I bend down to the doormat and pick up a leaflet about a new dry-cleaning service on the high street, something from a political party, and then—

I’m not thinking anymore about Nick.

Under the leaflets, there is a letter. I stare at it as if it’s alive and might bite. I’m suddenly anxious as hell, worse than I’ve been for months. This isn’t a bill, or a late Christmas card. The envelope is too white, too official. And a part of me is not surprised to see it.

I’m surprised by that.

Get a hold of yourself.I say it out loud, pleased by the boldness in my voice. Then, I reach out and turn over the envelope.

The name above the address is my old name.

My dead name.