so quickly – it was going to be impossible for me to say anything afterwards. Maybe that’s old-fashioned of me.
Look, I basically just wanted you to know I was sorry, Lou. That’s it. I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.
It took a while before I wrote again.
Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.
I shut the lid and leant back against the front door and closed my eyes for a long time.
I decided not to think about it. I was quite good at not thinking about things. I did my household errands, and I took Dean Martin on his walks and I travelled to the East Village on the subway in the stifling heat and discussed square footage and partitions and leases and insurances with the girls. I did not think about Sam.
I did not think about him when I walked the dog past the vomitous ever-present garbage trucks, or dodged the honking UPS vans, or twisted my ankles on the cobbles of SoHo, or lugged holdalls of clothing through the turnstiles of the subway. I recited Margot’s words and I did the thing I loved, which had now grown from a tiny germ of an idea into a huge oxygenated bubble, which inflated from the inside of me, steadily pushing out everything else.
I did not think about Sam.
His next letter arrived three days later. I recognized the handwriting this time, scrawled across an envelope that Ashok had pushed under my door.
So I thought about our email exchange and I just wanted to talk to you about a couple more things. (You didn’t say I couldn’t so I hope you’re not going to rip this up.)
Lou, I never knew you even wanted to get married. I feel stupid for not asking you about that now. And I didn’t realize you were the kind of girl who secretly wanted big romantic gestures. But Lily has told me so much about what Josh does for you – the weekly roses, the fancy dinners and stuff – and I’m sitting here thinking … Was I really so static? How did I just sit there and expect that everything was going to be okay if I didn’t even try?
Lou, did I get this so wrong? I just need to know if the whole time we were together you were waiting for me to make some grand gesture, if I misread you. If I did, I’m sorry, again.
It’s kind of odd to have to think about yourself so much, especially if you’re a bloke not massively prone to introspection. I like doing stuff, not thinking about it. But I guess I need to learn a lesson here and I’m asking you if you’d be kind enough to tell me.
I took one of Margot’s faded notelets with the address at the top. I crossed out her name. And I wrote:
Sam, I never wanted anything grand from you. Nothing.
Louisa
I ran down the stairs, handed it to Ashok for posting and ran away again just as quickly, pretending I couldn’t hear him asking if everything was okay.
The next letter arrived within days. Each was Express Delivery. It had to be costing him an absolute fortune.
You did, though. You wanted me to write. And I didn’t do it. I was always too tired or, I’m being honest, I felt self-conscious. It didn’t feel like I was talking to you, just chuntering away on paper. It felt fake.
And then the more I didn’t do it, and the more you started adapting to your life there and changing, I felt like – well, what the hell do I have to tell her anyway? She’s going to these fancy balls and country clubs and riding around in limousines and having the time of her life, and I’m riding around in an ambulance in east London, picking up drunks and lonely pensioners who have fallen out of bed.
Okay, I’m going to tell you something else now, Lou. And if you never want to hear from me again I will understand but now we’re talking again I have to say it: I’m not glad for you. I don’t think you should marry him. I know he’s smart and handsome and rich and hires string quartets for when you’re eating dinner on his roof terrace and stuff, but there’s something there I don’t trust. I don’t think he’s right for you.
Ah, crap. It’s not even just about you. It’s driving me nuts. I hate thinking of you with him. Even the thought of him with his arm