Page 10 of The Love Letter

‘My dear girl, stop complaining,’ James had reprimanded her when she’d arrived home from a fruitless day on location in East London. It had rained solidly, and they hadn’t managed a single shot. ‘You’re employed, which is the most a young actor can hope for. The RSC will come later, I promise.’

If Zoe had noticed her grandfather’s slow decline over the next three years, she realised she had chosen to ignore it. It was only when he began to wince in pain that she had insisted he go to the doctor.

The doctor had diagnosed bowel cancer in its advanced stages; it had spread through James’s liver and colon. Because of his age and frailty, a gruelling course of chemotherapy had been ruled out. The doctor had suggested palliative care, to let him spend the time hedidhave left in a positive frame of mind, free of tubes and drips. If, as James deteriorated, that kind of equipment was needed for his comfort, then it would be provided for him at home.

Further tears filled Zoe’s eyes as she thought of entering the empty house in Welbeck Street; a house that only two months ago had been filled with the pleasant aroma of Old Holborn tobacco, which James had smoked illicitly up until the day he died. In the last few months, he’d been very sick, his ears and eyes failing, and his ninety-five-year-old bones begging to be finally at rest. Yet his charisma, his sense of humour, hislife force, had still filled the house.

Last summer, Zoe had made the heart-breaking decision to send Jamie away to school for his own sake. Watching his beloved great-grandfather deteriorate right in front of his eyes was not something she wished to put her son through. Because of their close bond, Zoe had known she must ease him into a life without ‘Great-James’, as Jamie called him, gently, with as little pain as possible. Jamie didn’t see the lines deepening on Great-James’s face, nor the way his hands shook as they played a game of Snap, or how he’d fall asleep in his armchair after lunch and not wake until early evening.

So Jamie had gone away to school last September and had thankfully settled down happily, while Zoe had put her burgeoning film career on hold and nursed an increasingly frail old man.

One bitter November evening, James had caught Zoe’s hand as she took an empty teacup from him. ‘Where’s Jamie?’

‘He’s at school.’

‘Can he come home this weekend? I need to see him.’

‘James, I don’t know whether that’s such a good idea.’

‘He’s a clever lad, more so than most boys his age. I’ve known since Jamie was first born that I wasn’t immortal. It was obvious I was unlikely to be around beyond his early years. I’ve prepared Jamie for my imminent departure.’

‘I see.’ The hand clutching her own teacup had shaken like her grandfather’s.

‘You’ll call him home? I should see him. Soon.’

‘Okay.’

Reluctantly, Zoe had collected Jamie from school that weekend. On the drive home, she’d told him how ill Great-James was. Jamie had nodded, his hair falling into his eyes and guarding his expression. ‘I know. He told me at half-term, actually; said he’d call for me when it was . . . time.’

As Jamie had run upstairs to see him, Zoe had paced the kitchen, worrying how her precious boy would react to seeing Great-James so ill.

That night, as the three of them ate supper in James’s room, Zoe saw the old man had brightened considerably. Jamie spent most of the rest of the weekend ensconced in James’s bedroom. When she’d finally gone upstairs and told Jamie they had to leave for school to arrive in time for Sunday curfew, James had opened his arms wide to his great-grandson.

‘Goodbye, old chap. You take care of yourself. And that mother of yours.’

‘Yes. Love you!’ Jamie had hugged his great-grandfather tightly, with all the abandon of a child.

They hadn’t talked much on the journey down to Jamie’s Berkshire prep school, but just as they’d pulled into the school car park, Jamie had finally spoken. ‘I’ll never see Great-James again, you know. He’s going soon, he told me.’

Zoe turned and looked at her son’s serious expression. ‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

‘Don’t worry, Mumma. I understand.’

And with a wave he was off up the steps and inside.

Less than a week later, Sir James Harrison, OBE, was dead.

Zoe pulled up next to the kerb in Welbeck Street, got out of the car and glanced up at the house, whose upkeep would now fall to her. The red-brick building, despite its newer Victorian facade, had stood here for over two hundred years, and she saw the frames around the tall windows were in dire need of repainting. Unlike its neighbours, its exterior curved out gently, like a pleasantly full belly, and it reached up five storeys, with the attic windows winking down at her like two bright eyes. Walking up the steps, she unlocked the heavy front door and closed it behind her, picking up the post from the mat. Her breath was visible in the cold air of the house and she shivered, wishing she could retreat back to the comforting, semi-isolation of Haycroft House. But work had to be done. Just before he’d died, James had strongly encouraged Zoe to take the leading role in a new film version ofTess of the D’Urbervillesdirected by Mike Winter, an up-and-coming young Brit. She had only given her grandfather the script to keep him from boredom during his illness – it was one of many that were sent to her every week – and had never expected him to read it.

Yet, once he had, James had grabbed her hand. ‘A part like Tess isn’t going to land in your lap every day and this script is exceptional. I entreat you to do this, dear girl. It will make you the star you deserve to be.’

He hadn’t needed to say ‘last request’. She’d seen it in his eyes.

Without taking off her coat, she walked down the hall and turned the thermostat up. She could hear the clanking as the ancient boiler was brought to life, and prayed that none of the pipes would freeze in the deepening winter temperatures. Wandering into the kitchen, she saw wine glasses and dirty ashtrays were still stacked by the sink, left over from the drinks-party-cum-wake she’d felt obliged to hold after the memorial service yesterday. She had perfected a gracious expression of gratitude as dozens of people had come to pay their respects and regale her with stories of her grandfather.

Half-heartedly, she emptied some of the ashtrays into the overflowing bin, knowing that most of the money fromTesswould go on renovating the old house – the kitchen alone was in desperate need of an update.

The answering-machine light was blinking from the worktop. Zoe pressed ‘play’.