Harriet Evans - Love Always

Louisa sent the tickets to me last Friday with a note.

Have taken the liberty of booking our tickets there and back; no payment is necessary as this comes out of the foundation’s budget. Please find yours enclosed. Look forward to what I am sure will be a memorable and moving day.

Love from Louisa x

She sent it to Jay’s address too, she knew somehow, with her organised ways, that I’d moved there. That’s Louisa al over: always serving others, efficient, brisk, but stil affectionate. I think back to the Louisa in the diary, the leggy blonde knockout stil in thral to her good-looking boyfriend. I sigh and bal my paper bag into my fist. Ten minutes til the train goes, and no sign of anyone. Perhaps they’re al already there, waiting for me. I square my shoulders and open the carriage door.

I’m the first. The carriage is warm like the station and I’m hot in my coat, I can feel myself perspiring. I’m tired stil from the previous night, and I just want to close my eyes and sleep. I put my overnight bag on the rack above and sit down in my seat at the table, looking around me. Both tables are al booked, the little tickets sticking out of the seats proclaiming the legend ‘London Paddington to Penzance’.

It is coming up for two months since I was last on this train, going down to Granny’s funeral. So much has changed since then that it feels like a lifetime ago, someone else’s life, even. I take a sip of my weak, grey-coloured coffee.

The automatic doors open with a whoosh and my head snaps up, almost of its own accord. The fact that I don’t know who to expect gives the proceedings an unreal, almost filmic air of excitement. And there, bustling down the corridor, is Louisa. I stand up, squint at her, the way I did when I first saw Guy again, trying to imagine her that summer.

‘Hel o, Natasha dear,’ she says. She pats my cheek and then kisses it. I had forgotten how nice she smel s. ‘Lovely to see you.’ She turns.

‘Frank, darling? Oh, where’s he gone? Frank? I wanted him to – there he is!’ she finishes, with relief.

And the doors open again to reveal the Bowler Hat, smart in a dark grey suit. He picks his way towards the table cautiously, as if afraid his height wil cause him to knock out a light fitting. ‘Hel o, Natasha,’ he says warmly. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Good to see you.’ He kisses me too.

My blood turns cold at his touch. It’s over two weeks since I first read the rest of Cecily’s diary, and I haven’t been able to face rereading it. I just can’t. But words and phrases are burnt into in my mind. Rather pleased with himself, like a polit ician. I look down to see its dul red colour in my bag, bound loosely with an elastic band, bulging from the extra pages folded up inside. I want to take it out and show it to him, shatter his smug, self-satisfied veneer, make him crawl on his knees to my mother, to Arvind, to his brother, to me and al my family, for forgiveness. Especial y to his wife.

But of course she doesn’t know, he has never told her the truth, no one has. It’s so strange, looking at him, noticing for the first time the liver spots freckling his pale, smooth cheekbones, the papery thin skin puckering around his eyes. I wonder what Cecily would say, if she could see him now. I stare at him.

Louisa sits down at the other table. ‘Frank, we’re here,’ she says, patting his seat.

‘Oh, right,’ he says dul y. I notice it now, it’s as if she’s his mother and he’s a child. I don’t think they realise they’re like this.

‘I got some croissants in Marks yesterday in case we’re hungry, Natasha, do you want one?’

‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ She stares at me. ‘It’s a long journey. You look rather tired.’

‘I am tired,’ I say. ‘I had a long night yesterday.’

‘Single girl, out on the tiles!’ she says, with an attempt at jol ity, but she’s trying too hard and her voice sounds a bit hysterical, as though she’s sorry for me. ‘Good for you! Was it that?’

‘Something like that,’ I say. I can’t bear to go into it with Louisa. The truth is I just want to be off, for this day to be under way, so that last night can begin to be a dim and distant memory. Last night, and today. Once today’s over, then the future can begin.

‘Oh, Natasha. You’re wearing that lovely ring.’ Louisa smiles, her eyes glistening. ‘It was Franty’s, you know. She gave it to Cecily, the day she .

. . the very day she died. Poor Aunt Frances.’

I glance at the Bowler Hat but he doesn’t betray any flicker of emotion. Does he feel guilt at al ? Or is he just used to this, every day? It occurs to me that perhaps he must be.

Louisa says, ‘It is lovely. How sweet of you to wear it. Where did you get it from?’ She asks this without rancour.

‘Arvind gave it to me,’ I say. ‘So I felt I ought to wear it today.’

‘Wel ,’ she says, looking at the Bowler Hat and then at the croissants. ‘It’s lovely that you are.’

I want to agree.

I went back to the studio last night, to get it. I wish I hadn’t, in a way. I wouldn’t be feeling like this today if I had.

I’d left, about six-thirty, to go and meet Cathy and Jay for a drink, and halfway down towards the Whitechapel Road I’d remembered and turned back, with an oath. Work is real y busy this week which is great, but I wasn’t anxious to spend any more time in the studio where I’d been since eight that morning.

I’ve been working that out, these last few weeks. And ‘Cecily’s Necklace’, as I’ve cal ed it, the charm necklace model ed on the ring and those charms I designed, has been reordered twice now, by Emilia’s Sister and by PipnReb, and another shop, this time on Cheshire Street, has asked if they can stock me – they cal ed me , not the other way round, which is amazing. Most amazing of al , someone claiming to be from Liberty came to the stal and bought a whole load of stuff on Sunday. It was only my first week there – I’m stil in shock. It’s the necklace with Cecily’s ring, they al want it. It’s like a sort of good-luck talisman.

So I was a little reluctant, therefore, to revisit the studio where I and Maya, the scary design intern I’ve hired, had been slaving away al day putting the necklaces together, but I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t. Today is important, and I wanted to wear Cecily’s ring for it.

Back at the studio, the writers’ col ective was having one of their readings in the basement, which normal y meant a piss-up starting at about five; I’d managed to avoid it, but it was clearly stil going on, and I could hear people chatting, laughing raucously, as I walked past. I didn’t turn the light on when I got to my studio; it was stil just light outside, and I dashed in to pluck the ring off the counter where I’d left it. As I was locking up again, I heard a noise down the corridor and looked down to see Ben coming out of his studio with Jamie, the Sophie-Dahl-alike receptionist. They can’t have realised I was there.

She leaned against the railing and he came forward and kissed her, his hands on her face, her long, beautiful corn-coloured hair glimmering slightly in the evening light. Two plastic cups, their clear sides stained with cheap red wine, were stacked at their feet.

I always knew Ben had a crush on her, even though he denied it. He was fascinated by Jamie’s love life, we were always discussing it – even that night in the pub right before we kissed. Now I know why, I said to myself.

Luckily I didn’t have to pass them to get down the stairs, they’re at my end of the corridor. I just pretended not to have seen them and walked off. I didn’t want to embarrass Ben. I didn’t want to be embarrassed, is more likely the truth. But I was embarrassed. I burnt hot at the thought of it, as I scurried away; why?