Page 34 of Book People

But then, of course it would. He’s not a man comfortable with the halfway point, with the in-between, the shades of grey. It’s all or nothing for him, and right now, all he can do is nothing.

It wouldn’t be fair to push myself on him and it wouldn’t be fair to argue. If the shoe was on the other foot, I wouldn’t want him here either, and arguing will only make me look like a dick.

‘Okay.’ I clutch the envelopes in my hand as I get slowly to my feet. ‘Thanks for the whisky.’ I turn and go to the door, then pause before it and turn back. ‘It wasn’t a mistake, Sebastian,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sorry you kissed me. I’ll text you tomorrow.’

I don’t wait for him to reply. I leave.

It’s only a few steps across the high street and then I’m back in my little flat above my shop.

I sit on my own couch and force the kiss from my head, giving my attention to the envelopes in my hand.

They’re all love notes from C to H, none of them addressed or stamped. Which means they weren’t posted. But if they weren’t, how did they get to him? Were they put into a letterbox? Then again, that would mean that anyone could potentially have picked one up and opened it, and if they were afraid of being discovered, which I think they were, surely they wouldn’t have risked that? So, not letterboxes then. They must have been slipped directly to him somehow.

I take a note from its envelope and sit back, unfolding the crackling paper, staring at the red ink. It’s faded with time, the handwriting old-fashioned and flowing, but I can still read it.

I can’t sleep now. Every night, when I close my eyes, all I see is you. I like it. It feels as if you are visiting me. I don’t mind being so tired during the day when you visit me every night, even if it is only in my dreams.

C

I pull out another and this time it’s different. This time the ink on the page is black, the handwriting forceful, with slashing capitals and hasty punctuation.

Three days and I miss you. I can’t bear not seeing you. Can you think of an excuse to get away? Even for an hour. Even half that and I would be happy.

H

There is longing in the words, I can feel it, and it makes my chest ache.

I pull out another one.

We don’t need anyone’s permission. And he won’t stop us. He doesn’t have the guts. We could go north or even across to Europe. I can’t stand being apart from you, not a second longer.

H

I swallow, the ache in my chest tightening. Who is ‘he’ that could stop them? And were they stopped? Is that why they didn’t end up together? What happened?

I pull out more.

It’s hard for me to get away in the evenings. I know you know. Perhaps tomorrow? After lunch? He’ll be out for most of the day. As forMrs Dalloway, well, it’s an interesting book. We should discuss face to face, I think.

C

So, I was right when I read aboutWuthering Heightsover Sebastian’s shoulder: his great-grandfather had been giving her books. The romanticism of it thrills me beyond measure and the eventual tragedy of it makes my throat ache along with my chest.

Perhaps she died and her family returned the letters to him, and that’s why he has all hers. Or maybe he did something awful and she returned them. Whatever happened, their affair didn’t last.

I open another one.

We can’t go to Europe now, love. It’s too dangerous. I think war is going to come whether we like it or not. Can you meet me tonight? Same time, the usual place. I won’t keep you long, but we need to discuss this.

H

I stare down at the note, frowning. The war he mentions would have to be the Second World War, which dates these notes to before 1939.

Was that what happened in the end? Was it the war that interrupted their affair?

I reach for my phone, bite my lip a second, then text Sebastian quickly. It’s a terse note, no mention of what happened between us earlier.

Did your great-grandfather fight inWW2?

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