Page 129 of The Stranger in Room Six

My own story would not be complete unless I told you how Mabel’s ended.

After her decision to remain in Italy permanently, she and I wrote several letters to each other.

My first was a long apology, explaining again how I hadn’t known what to do: the only way to keep my girls safe was to betray her.

Once the air had cleared, we talked about family.

In my case, Gerry, my girls and, of course, Imran; in hers, her son and her great-granddaughter.

But Mabel’s last, in that shaky, spidery writing, was different. She knew she was going to die, yet her writing was decidedly lucid:

If I do not see you again, dear Belinda, I want you to know how grateful I am to you for listening.

I won’t pretend that I wasn’t hurt by you.

But that is all over now. Thank you for being so kind and sympathetic, knowing exactly when to ask a question and when to pause.

You helped me heal. Most importantly, you gave me the great privilege of letting me into your own life and secrets.

My eyes blur with tears. I should be thanking her. I hear Mabel’s voice in the letter. It makes me feel as if she is still here, sitting right next to me. I may have helped her, but Mabel’s story taught me to forgive.

I like to think we both benefited from each other’s company, and dare I say it, love. The special kind of love that can only exist between two kindred spirits. For that’s what Mabel and I were. Two women who had done wrong in the eyes of the law. But who lived and learned to tell their tales.