decision, to present a united happy family to Victor or to declare my exit. As I straightened the duvet, Ginny’s Maya Angelou poetry book fell to the floor and a sheet of paper dropped out.
My heart constricted. Ginny’s flamboyant handwriting with its curves and bold tails. I scanned the page.
Dear Jo,
I wish I could have this conversation with you, but, as you know, God had other plans.
I’ve left it to chance as to whether you ever find this letter because I couldn’t make up my mind if it was even a good idea to write it. I feel that the universe owes me a small recalibration of destiny, at the very least. And you know I was always a great believer in fate. (Remember the Ouija board? Maybe you should give it another go and I’ll try and commune with you!)
If you’re reading this at all, it’s because Dad has followed my instruction to give you this poetry book if he ever found out who Victor’s father is. And if he knows and has handed over my beloved Maya Angelou, then I’m assuming (posthumously from my wine bar in the sky) that you know about Patrick too. In the end, I was too tired, too bloody ill and too nervous of Dad’s reaction to tell him myself. I didn’t want to use my last precious weeks locked in a circle of recriminations. So I took the coward’s way out, but I’m hoping everyone will understand that I used up all my bravery on not letting Victor see how frightened I was of leaving him. Of leaving all of you.
So, assuming Dad was paying attention and this isn’t a bolt from the blue, I’d like to clarify a few things. And, dear Jo, whatever you think of me now, please know that I never, ever meant to hurt you. I feel nervous now about what I’m going to put into words. But I really do feel the need to write it down, for there to be one true record of what happened and my feelings about it, even if I can’t control how you – or anyone – react to it.
I’ve no doubt that you are sitting there in an emotional volcano – and who wouldn’t be? Friend sleeps with best friend’s future husband and doesn’t mention it, then, hey presto, eighteen years later, friend asks best friend to take in husband’s son… without breathing a word.
So. Let’s get the worst bit out of the way. The whole sex thing with Patrick. Argh. You’re never going to want to think about that. But just for one moment, remind yourself of how, two decades ago, we (well, perhaps just me) were on a mission to get women to stop apologising for enjoying sex and relish the opportunity when it presented itself. And because Patrick and I were friends, and we’d always done that stupid joking thing about hooking up with each other when we were thirty if we weren’t settled down by then, it wasn’t so outlandish that on a New Year’s Eve when we’d hit the mojitos pretty comprehensively that we tried it out.
In my defence, I had no idea that he was already in love with you. I don’t suppose you did either because you were obsessed with that bloke who never wore underpants under his trousers. Disgusting! (Can’t remember his name – chemo memory fog or maybe brain dying before the rest of me.)
I paused. I’d been so busy resenting Ginny, I’d forgotten how she used to joke about dying, how funny she was. Her great warmth that wrapped itself around you when she walked into the room. I felt a weak flare of hope in my heart that her having my husband’s baby wouldn’t be the only thing I’d remember about her forever.
With hindsight, it was crystal clear the next morning though. We agreed that we didn’t want to make it awkward for you and Cory, so we’d just chalk it up to too many cocktails and agreed never to mention it again. Although I tried to laugh it off, Patrick was straight onto Air Canada to get his flight changed so he could get back to London as soon as possible. At the time, I was mortified and pretty pissed off with him because he was acting as though he couldn’t wait to get away from me. I mean, I knew it wasn’t the start of any great love affair but his haste to disappear back to