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CHAPTER 9
Dear Sam,
So you’ve finally contacted me to meet up. Typical you. You never could make your mind up, could you? But opposites attract, even I know that. I never told you this at the time, but you know the night I met you? Well, that morning I’d read in Cosmo that Pisces vibes well with Virgo, because they’re opposites! How spooky is that? That’s why I smiled when I asked when your birthday was and you told me 28 August.I was like, this is a sign!
You were my family, Sam. That’s how I thought of you. Maybe because I met you so soon after Mum died – met you properly, I mean. That’s why you leaving like you did was such a betrayal. Being sensitive, I took it personally. But asking me not to be sensitive is like asking me to change my eye colour, and anyway it’s pretty hard not to take total rejection personally.
But I’ve grown up a lot since then. I know people are complicated. We’re all so complicated, aren’t we?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I was perfect, but I was perfect for you. Honestly, you were always such a neek at school. But that’s what I loved about you – not at school, but later, when we met as grown-ups. You’re still the cleverest person I know, although that’s not saying much – I know some right lemons. But you knew how to do stuff, and I didn’t appreciate that as much as I should have. I was young. I just wanted to have fun. I’m older now and I can see the value of all your old-school skills. Looking after Tommy has changed my priorities, you see.
My therapist was always going on at me to write you a letter. I never did, but now I can see why she suggested it. Tell you what’s weird though. I just thought this: if you ever read this letter, you’ll never be able to picture me now, while I write it. Isn’t that weird? Like, I know everything about myself in this moment, but you won’t even know where I was or when I closed my laptop and opened it again.
So weird.
But if you do ever read this, I do a few paragraphs here and there between seeing to Tommy’s needs. I’ve just given him his banana porridge. Weird. I’ve gone all funny just thinking that when you read this, in your reality, Tommy won’t just have had his banana porridge, will he? Because time will have moved on. He might even be talking or something by the time you read about the porridge!
Is it normal to think about this stuff when you write a letter? I don’t know, I’ve only ever written texts or WhatsApps and they land pretty much in the same time zone. Actually, I’m going to stop thinking about it because it’s actually freaking me out.
Tommy loves his banana porridge, by the way. You always took a banana with you to work, didn’t you? He’s in bed now, dead to the world, bless him. I’m putting my feet up with a magazine and reading my horoscope. You’ll never believe what today said! It said: A chance to come clean. Can you believe that? Well, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll tell you the direction my life took after you left, just to see the shock on your face.
I knew you’d text instead of calling because that’s classic you. I could plot you like one of those graphs on the government press conferences. I’m enjoying talking to you like this, Sam. Maybe this isn’t a letter. Maybe it’s more like a conversation. You were often so silent in conversations, so in that sense it’s the same. Except that when you don’t reply, I feel like I can cope.
CHAPTER 10
The last time Sam was in the Bull was with Naomi and Jo, and Jo’s boyfriend Pete, the Christmas before lockdown, he thinks. Jo got very drunk very quickly on espresso martinis and was sick on the pavement outside. Pete had to walk her all the way to her dad’s because the cab wouldn’t take her. Sam has never been sure why Jo drinks cocktails – or alcohol, for that matter; it never did agree with her. Naomi’s sister is a nightmare all round. A bit scary even.
He and Naomi met just round the corner from here, he thinks. At the Electric Palace. He’d gone with Darren and some mates to see a comedy gig. Naomi was at the bar. Sam was surprised when she remembered him from school; she was the It girl even then. She and her sister never troubled the yard or the sports field, instead taking up residence in the girls’ loos, shrouded by clouds of illicit smoke, not that he ever saw them with his own eyes obviously; it was common knowledge, part of the Harper girls’ myth. The pair of them had the glamour that comes with being a little bit beautiful, a little bit hard, a little bit dangerous.
‘I’m here with Jo,’ Naomi told him that night, staring so directly into his eyes it was like she was daring him to do something he was afraid to do. ‘You remember my sister, don’t you? She’s gone for a puff. We’re cheering ourselves up. We lost Mum last month.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, a little confused by her familiarity. At school they had exchanged not one word. Her mother, he seemed to recall, had a reputation for marching into school, jabbing poor quivering teachers in the chest and telling them to lay off her girls or she’d do something about it.
Naomi shrugged. The challenge in her eyes subsided. ‘Not your fault. These things happen.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for your loss. If you need to talk… I just… I know how it feels, that’s all.’
She cocked her head, her smile slow. ‘Aren’t you sweet?’
Out of nowhere, she reached forward and squeezed his upper arm, then laughed. ‘Sorry! I just had to see if that was real. You a gym bunny?’
It was his turn to laugh. ‘Landscaper. A lot of heavy lifting. But no gym, no. Just walking and… er, working, I suppose.’
‘And you used to be such a skinny little thing too.’
‘I’m amazed you even remember me. EvenIbarely remember me.’
She laughed so much at that, he thought she must have heard someone else tell a joke, somewhere nearby. He even looked round to see this person. But no, she was laughing at him.
Did he walk her home that night? Or was that after their first date, a long daytime walk over the cliffs, stopping for a drink at the Anchor Inn. Maybe that was a few dates in actually – he can remember them laughing a lot, making then losing eye contact, falling in love. The memory is hazy and golden. It confuses him, as early memories of Naomi tend to do.
He orders a latte; they said coffee, so it seems like the right move. The girl tells him to go and sit in the garden, as they’re not serving indoors yet. He can take off his mask when he sits down. The garden is actually a courtyard, which a year ago was a lot plainer. Now, there’s a large brazier, which is smoking a little. They should have lit twigs first, used more firelighters. You need to get these things raging hot.
There’s no one else here, only a discarded newspaper on a seat. He grabs it just as the girl from the bar brings his coffee, telling him she’s sorry it took so long. When she speaks, her face flushes red. He thanks her, unsure why she looks so embarrassed, heat flushing through him as it occurs to him his fly might be open or something. A quick check. No, thank God. And anyway, the blushing girl has returned into the pub.
A glance at the paper’s headline – further easing-up measures due next month. It is harder than he thought it would be, being back in Bridport, not just because of the disaster-movie-style eeriness of the deserted streets, the near-empty pub, but because everywhere is full of memories of himself and Naomi. On the way here, he passed an Indian restaurant, scene of one of their many arguments. A female client had been there, dining with a group of girlfriends. When Sam walked in, she recognised him and called him over. She was pink-cheeked, a little tipsy, as she introduced him to her friends:Girls,this is Sam, the gardener.She raised her eyebrows at them, some hidden meaning in her expression, their mouths and eyes rounding in apparent understanding.
‘Oh,’ they said. ‘Sothisis Sam.’
