Page 14 of The Lavender Bride

13

On Thursday evening, when I get back from work, I check my mailbox. There’s a single letter with a British stamp. For a second, I’m excited. Is this the reply from Esther? Then I realise it’s not her handwriting, it’s Father’s. Cold fingers of dread run up my spine as everything snaps into too sharp focus.

I grasp the banister and sprint up the stairs. It’s got to be bad news. I’ve not heard from him in nearly five years. He’s only going to be writing now if something terrible has happened. It’s got to be Mum. Is she sick? Dying? My thoughts hit a dead end there. I will not even think the absolute worst.

I fumble with the door key, my fingers shaking too much to get it in the lock. Once it’s open, I stumble inside. Please let Mum be all right! Whatever god is up there, don’t let anything have happened to Mum. I dump my handbag on the floor and tear the envelope open.

I hastily scan the letter. There’s no mention of Mum. I blink and shake my head and read again. Slowly and carefully this time.

Audrey,

It pains me to have to write to you. I’d thought I’d made myself entirely clear when you left home that you are no longer my daughter. However, it appears that for as long as you bear my name, I share some responsibility for your actions.

Members of my congregation have brought it to my attention that you are going out with a certain Rex Trent who is, I am told, a film star. There have been stories in the newspaper about you going on dates with this man. This must stop immediately.

The fact that you’ve chosen to live in Hollywood is bad enough. You know my thoughts on that den of iniquity. I only hope God smites it as he did Sodom and Gomorrah. I have kept your whereabouts from my congregation, simply saying you were working in America. Once these shameful articles started appearing, there have been questions about your behaviour which is making my position impossible. I cannot preach about the dangers of sinfulness when my own daughter is embroiled in such shameful goings on. You are making me a laughing stock within my own congregation.

It is clear to me that this Trent is merely out for what he can get and once he’s got what he wants, he’ll move on to the next silly girl.

Your judgement was always weak and easily swayed. Living in Hollywood has clearly destroyed what little common sense you had. I urge you to leave that place before it corrupts you further and return to England.

Your dutiful

Father

My knees wobble and I sit down heavily on the sofa. The letter rustles and I smell pipe smoke. I sniff the paper. It’s very faint but unmistakable.

My stomach roils and I feel sick. I dig my nails into my palms. The pain snaps me out of the past. I screw the letter up and stuff it in the waste bin. But the smell remains. I cross to the window and throw it as far open as it will go. Exhaust fumes and the aroma of fried chicken from the flat downstairs float in to me.

I take a breath and then another. It’s as if Father’s reached across the Atlantic and is yanking me back into his orbit. I shake my head to try to clear it. I’m not a child any more. I’m twenty-three. I live in Hollywood. I have a job. I have a boyfriend. Father can’t rule me any more.

I wash my hands, scrubbing at the skin, rubbing around the cuticles. I dry my hands and sniff them. They smell strongly of carbolic. Nothing else.

I glance around my little flat. Father’s letter has polluted it. This has been my haven and now it’s as if he’s been here with his jibes and his lies. Weak. Easily swayed. Silly. I can hear his voice saying them. I’ve run all of this way but it’s not far enough. It will never be far enough to get away.

He only wants to control me and if I’m not doing exactly what he wants then I’m worthless to him. After nearly five years of silence, he’s written because I’m embarrassing him! Not to find out if I’m all right or if I’m happy but because of my supposedly ‘shameful’ behaviour.

I stand and pace to the window. I’m too jangled and jittery to sit down or cook myself a meal. There’s only one place that helps when I feel this way. I reach for my door key and head out again.

* * *

Cocooned in the darkness, I watch The African Queen. I munch my way through a box of popcorn as Katherine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart bicker and fall in love. The darkness of the cinema eases some of the ache around my heart.

Father can send a letter. He can bluster and storm but he can’t reach me across the Atlantic to haul me back. Maybe it’s a sign of how much of a success I am in Hollywood that he’s felt compelled to write now. He’s ignored me for nearly five years. Not a single word in all that time. Yet now I’m living the life he told me I’d never achieve, he wants to stop me.

Well, I won’t let him. I’m not giving up Rex and I’m not leaving Hollywood. I’m going to keep on going out with Rex and every time my photograph is taken, I’ll imagine it winging its way across the Atlantic back to Sheffield and the disgusted look on Father’s face when he sees it.

That way, I win. Not him. I will never let him win again.