Anne Billson - Stiff Lips

'For a dead man, he certainly gets a lot of mail,' I observed, though I didn't say what was really exasperating, which was that he got more mail than I did.

'A fair amount,' agreed Marsha. 'But it's probably only junk. You live in any old house like this, especially one divided into flats, and you're bound to get loads of things addressed to people who don't live here any more. I mean, look…'

She picked up another envelope. 'Here's one for Arthur Mowbray. We've had quite a few for him, and he hasn't lived here for God knows how long. Before my time, anyway. And here's another one… for… Nicholas Wisley Esquire? Get a load of that fancy handwriting, will you? Oh well, this one's a first — I've never heard of anyone called Wisley.'

I looked wistfully at the rogue envelopes as Marsha rounded them up and tucked them into the pocket of her towelling bathrobe.

'Don't you ever feel like opening them?' I asked. 'Just out of curiosity?'

I'd shocked her. 'Clare! It's private! Anyway, what would be the point? It's not as though they're likely to be anything exciting. Besides, life's too short; I get quite enough letters as it is, and I don't want to have to read everyone else's as well.'

And with that, she gathered up her own correspondence, slapped me affectionately on the back, and marched back into her flat with a hearty slam of the door.

A few days later, when, as usual, the morning postal delivery failed to shower me in a cascade of exciting letters and invitations, I picked up the latest envelope bearing Robert Jamieson's name and took a long hard look at it. The address had been written in loopy Biro on blue Basildon Bond.

Damn it, I thought. Why should he get more post than me? And, not daring to stop and think, I slipped the letter down inside the waistband of my jeans.

I needn't have bothered with the subterfuge, because Marsha wasn't around. I thought she'd probably stayed overnight with her boyfriend — a twice-divorced travel agent who lived in Fulham. But I felt guilty, and half-remembered reading somewhere that tampering with mail was one of the few crimes, like setting fire to Her Majesty's shipyards, that was still punishable by death. So I slunk back upstairs, ready to hide the protruding edge of the envelope with my arm, even though there was no one else around.

Not surprisingly, I made it back to my flat unobserved. I poured myself a mid-morning cup of coffee and settled down to read the letter, as comfortably and as naturally as though it had been addressed to me.

Dear Robert,

My lawyer advised me not to write to you, but I still think a personal appeal is more likely to succeed than a court order. As you must surely be aware, Ben is fast approaching his fifteenth birthday. His teachers tell me he is interested in foreign languages, and has some talent in that direction, but in order to develop his oral skills he needs to spend time in France and Germany. The chance of a school trip has come up, but unfortunately I am already stretched to the limit and cannot possibly take on any more work, what with the two part-time jobs and all the extra stuff I do at home.

I know you have probably been finding things as tough as I have, which is why I have never nagged you about the outstanding payments. But I was wondering if perhaps you could possibly scrape something together over the next couple of months? He is as much your son as mine, and even though you have never displayed the slightest interest in his welfare, I can't believe you are as indifferent as you want people to think.

All my love, Maggie

PS. He has been asking about you. What should I tell him?

PPS. Please get in touch. Even if you can't send any money, I would love to hear how you're doing.

PPPS. Do you still write poems? I've still got the one you dedicated to me.

The letter was undated. I studied the postmark, but it was nothing more than a smudged arc across a conglomeration of different coloured stamps in minor denominations. I felt sorry for Maggie, whoever she was. Surely someone should have written to tell her what had happened, especially if there was a child involved. But what kind of man would lose contact with his son like that in the first place?

I would have written and told her myself, except there was no return address.

I was wandering through an art gallery, searching for Sophie, convinced she had just passed this way. If only I could walk fast enough, I would catch up with her. I'd gone past some very famous paintings, such as Sunflowers and the Mona Lisa , before realizing I'd been here before. Or had I? Perhaps I'd only watched Sister Wendy talking about it in a television programme.

But then my ears tuned into a distant thudding, and I realized with a dull shock of dismay that the sound was coming nearer.

Ker-chunk ker-chunk ker-chunk

Coming closer, getting louder, echoing off the walls of the gallery as it came.

I found myself in front of Mantegna's Cristo Morto , the one with the famous foreshortening and the crinkled feet, the one on the postcard Sophie had sent me. The flesh was dead flesh, the colour and texture of mouldy green cheese, and I stared at it transfixed, unable to tear myself away even though I knew something dreadful was going to happen — I knew this because it had happened before, and nothing I could do would prevent it from happening again. I couldn't move and now it was too late, because the booming filled my ears. It was all around and there was no escape.

In a single swift and sudden movement, Christ sat upright on His slab and extended His arms out towards me. I gazed on Him with awe. His hands were enveloped in fluffy green oven mitts. He was offering me a fluted white dish.

I went up on tiptoe to peer inside, and what I saw made me gasp in wonder and delight.

It was a baked chocolate souffle, fresh out of the oven.

I had never before laid eyes on such an impeccable souffle. It sat there, gently quivering. My mouth watered in anticipation of the first bite — the delicate crunch as my teeth sank into crust light as a cloud, its barely there essence dissolving into bittersweet nothingness on my taste buds.

And then, all of a sudden, the souffle collapsed into itself, and was gone.

Christ grinned broadly, revealing supernaturally perfect teeth and gums, and said. 'What's taking you so long?'

'You just have to look at him to realize he's a complete bastard,' Marsha was saying. We'd run into each other in the hallway again, and now we were talking about someone I'd foolishly pretended I'd met when in fact I hadn't, not ever, and it was starting to get complicated; the conversation had taken an awkward turn and I was beginning to think I would be found out. Marsha had just started to say something else when from upstairs there came the crash of a door being flung open.

We broke off and looked at each other. This was the first indication either of us had had that Sophie was back in town.

We stared in amazement as she came hurtling down the stairs towards us. The French sun had restored a little colour to her complexion, but her hair was uncombed and her eyes were wild. She came storming down like a fury and charged right up to me until her face was inches from mine. I tried to step back, but the wall was in the way.

She exhaled sharply, a gasp of stupefied outrage, and I cringed. She had dragon's breath.

'Hi, Sophie,' I said.

'Hello, Sophie,' called Marsha.

But Sophie took no notice of her . 'You've been seeing him, haven't you!' she yelled into my face.

So the jig was up. She'd finally found out about Miles and me. The fact that our relationship was over didn't make it any less awkward or embarrassing to be rumbled now.