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‘I’ll call you,’ he repeated, then closed the door behind him. The action dislodged the letters that had been stuffed into the letterbox. Holly walked towards them, feeling a little numb. She bent down to pick them up, her movements stiff.

And there, right on the top of the pile, was this year’s Dear Stranger letter.

Chapter Four

Dear Stranger,

I don’t really know how to start this letter – it’s the first time I’ve done it and it feels a bit ridiculous. But I’ll give it a go. I suppose there’s something about knowing I’ll never meet you that makes it easier, to be honest. Pam was right about that – I’ll give her that.

You see, I’m alone. Have been for years. My son, Richard, died in a car crash eighteen years ago. Almost eighteen years to the day, as I write this. There’s something about the Christmas period that puts everyone in a rush, isn’t there? The rush to get home or get out to see friends. The rush to start having fun or relax, in whatever form that may be. Did you know that you are up to four times as likely to be involved in a car accident around Christmas than at any other time of year?

When Richard died, that was it. My husband, Charles, couldn’t cope with it, and it tore us apart. We stayed together, and I still loved him and I like to think he still loved me, despite it all. But he was a shell of himself, and when he died, seven years ago, I felt almost relieved. It’s awful to say that, isn’t it? I wouldn’t say it to anyone I know, but writing this letter doesn’t feel like talking to a real person. I suppose that’s what Pam was on about when she suggested it. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want Charles to die. It cut me up, and of course I would rather he was still here. But I can’t deny the relief I felt, at not having to pretend anymore.

Charles blamed me, I think. He never said anything, but I know he blamed me. Not so much for Richard’s death, but for the fact that when we lost Richard, we lost our grandson too. His mother took him away from us, told us they never wanted to see us again. I loved that boy, so much. He had his mother’s steadiness and his father’s passion – I wonder if he still has both, or if one or other has been eroded away over time.

I suppose there is no point in lamenting what we have lost – at some point, you just have to accept it. But as I write this, sitting in my local café – it’s called Impression Sunrise and it’s got lovely coffee, you should stop in if you ever chance upon it – and staring at a painting of a rainforest, wishing I was there, I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if Richard hadn’t got in the car that day. Would I have someone to lean on now?

Because I quite wish I had someone this year. I’ve just been diagnosed with cancer. Pancreatic cancer, to be exact. And I suppose there’s something about confronting your mortality that makes you take stock of your life. Of your regrets, the mistakes you made. And right now, I’m not only facing the possibility of death – I’m facing it alone.

Do you know what? I’m not sure writing this has made me feel much better. I’m not sure it will make you feel better, either – so clearly I’m doing it all wrong. But maybe it will? Because aren’t you alone too? Isn’t that the whole point of this – that we know we’re not the only ones? Perhaps there’s a kind of comfort in that. I wish I had inspiring words of wisdom to give you, but that’s somewhat difficult, given I don’t know anything about you, and good advice should be tailored to the individual, don’t you think? I’m not sure you’d want to take advice from me, in any case – I’m hardly an example of how to live your life.

So I’ll leave you with a ‘Merry Christmas’ and be done with it. Merry Christmas – and good luck, whoever you are. I hope that you find joy in the next year, somewhere – even if that is just in looking at a painting of a rainforest and imagining the taste of the air there.

With regards,

Emma Tooley

Holly pulled the duvet up around her shoulders and read the letter for the third time. She’d been holed up in bed since Daniel left, the obligatory chocolate on her bedside table, next to the lamp, which had a tendency to flicker every now and then. It was easier to keep reading the letter, to absorb this stranger’s – Emma’s – grief and loneliness, rather than contemplate her own. Because she didn’t want to face the fact that Daniel had left her, that she had proven herself to be unlovable yet again. She didn’t want to face the fact that she was truly alone at Christmas, especially while her family were together, without her.

She also didn’t want to face the fact that she should be feeling worse. Shouldn’t it feel like a part of her soul had been torn away? Wasn’t that what you were supposed to feel when someone broke up with you out of the blue like that – if you really loved them?

I want someone to build a life with, Holly.

So do I!

Maybe, but not with me.

Was he right? The answer sat too uncomfortably in her chest, so she pushed it away, concentrated on the letter. Maybe it was because of what had just happened with Daniel, or maybe it was because this letter was different, more frank in its grief and loneliness, but it spoke to her more than any of the others ever had.

A car crash. This woman, Emma, had lost her son in a car crash. If anyone could relate to that, it was Holly.

Then the words about her local café. The Impression Sunrise Café. It gave her a jolt every time she read that bit. Because she knew that café. She’d been to that café. And she’d even googled it to be sure – there was only one coffee shop in the whole of England by that name, as far as she could tell. The one in Devon, where she and Lily had stopped on that fateful day.

She knew what Lily would say, if she was here with Holly now. Maybe it was fate, you receiving this letter. Maybe you were meant to get it.

But the only reason Holly was reading this letter was because Lily was no longer in her life, and so it couldn’t be fate. It was too damn depressing if it was.

This was the third Dear Stranger letter she’d received, and she’d never met any of the senders. She never would have been able to – there were no return addresses on the letters, no contact details. But this time . . . If she was right, and it was the same café, then she knew the village where this woman lived. And she knew the woman’s full name. Not everyone signed off with a surname, but this woman had. She could find her, with some well-placed googling, she was sure of it.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. Daniel. She scowled and turned it face down. And that was what decided it. She didn’t want to sit here alone, lamenting her failed relationship. She didn’t want to spend the next few days jealous of all those with family to share it with, remembering her past Christmases with her sister and her parents in a way that made her heart hurt. Didn’t want to remember the years before the crash, when she would have been cooking with her dad in the kitchen, listening to her mum tell more and more elaborate stories after one too many mulled wines. And didn’t want to remember the night that had changed it all.

No, instead she’d do something productive. Whether or not she was ‘meant’ to get this letter, she had decided to act. To throw off the duvet in one fluid movement and grab her phone, ready to look it up, to test her theory.

Then she saw the time. Somehow it had got late without her realising. Ok, she’d sleep first. She’d sleep and wake up early, and then she’d track this Emma Tooley down – find her and make her realise that there was someone out there who cared. That she was not as alone as she believed.

‘So, don’t hate me, but I’m not going to make drinks this evening.’ Holly flicked her indicator on, turning left, out of Windsor, and towards the M4.

‘What? Why?’ Abi’s voice came through the Bluetooth on her car. It had taken two years for Holly to work up the courage to drive again, and she’d made sure to invest in an in-built satnav as well as a Bluetooth connection so that she’d never again have to touch her phone while driving. ‘And please bear in mind while answering that I will only accept a limited number of excuses, such as the flat burning down, you’ve contracted something contagious, or you are currently ill with food poisoning.’