his reality now. It always had been. I should have known that. I needed to do something before I had a drink to forget. I knew that wouldn’t work, either. I’d just dwell on it.
I looked out of the open window. The sun was setting and the air was still. I needed to get out. I pulled on my shorts and trainers and ran downstairs. On the floor by the front door was some junk mail and I picked it up to take it out to the recycling bin. I wasn’t expecting any mail; in fact, I didn’t think I’d get anything there at all, as nobody knew where I was living now and all of my bills were paid online. I riffled through the pile as I walked to the bin in the alley. Among the leaflets and flyers was an envelope with my name typed on it. There was no address or stamp; it must have been hand-delivered.
I opened the envelope, thinking the estate agent must have sent a receipt for the deposit I’d paid, though I couldn’t figure out why it had been hand-delivered. Inside the envelope was a card. I pulled it out and frowned.
It was postcard-sized. On one side was a photo. A photo of me. It was taken last summer in my garden at home; I recognized the red halter-neck dress I was wearing. I’d bought it one lunchtime last year for an awards evening for Tom’s work and I’d worn it for his birthday. We’d invited some people round and had a barbecue in the garden. I hadn’t seen this photo before, but I thought it was taken at that party. I was sitting on my own at a table in the garden, with a glass of white wine in my hand. I could see the bubbles in the wine and the glass was frosted with condensation. It looked as though I was midconversation with someone but I couldn’t see who. I was smiling and looked happy. Carefree. I couldn’t remember feeling like that at home, yet that smile looked genuine.
I was confused. I hadn’t realized anyone had taken a photo of me that day. Who had sent me this? I turned over the postcard and saw, written on the back of the card, a message, in a computer font that looked like handwriting. It said, Thinking of you.
* * *
? ? ?
Though I ran for an hour that evening it didn’t do anything to clear my mind. I came home and showered then stayed up late, sitting by the window in my living room, looking down the road at the river. Music was playing on my laptop and I’d lit a few candles as it started to get dark. The curtains were open and outside I could see the lights outlining the banks of the Mersey. In front of me, propped up on a vase of flowers, was the photo. I found a notebook and started to write down a list of everyone who was at our house that afternoon. Oliver was there, as well as a few of our other neighbors. Josh and his girlfriend at the time. They broke up shortly afterward. Sarah was there with her husband, Adam, and their children. Some of Tom’s colleagues and their wives came along for a couple of drinks. My parents were there with my sister, Fiona. She was over from Australia for a holiday. Tom’s parents had passed away a few years before; I shuddered to think how they would have reacted to my leaving their son. They really would have wanted revenge.
Who had taken the photo? I thought back to the party. I thought I was the only one taking photos that day. I remembered printing them out later that week and realizing I wasn’t in any of the shots. And when I looked at that list of people at the party, I knew that only Josh knew my address yet I thought he hadn’t arrived at the party until later in the evening; he’d been out for the day with his girlfriend and they turned up when we were all indoors. I just couldn’t remember what time they turned up, but who could I ask?
And then I realized it must have been Tom who’d sent this to me. He hadn’t taken a photo of me for