Page 143 of Still Me
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 around you makes me want to punch things. I don’t sleep properly anymore because I’ve turned into this stupid jealous guy who has to train his mind to think about other stuff. And you know me—I sleep anywhere.
You are probably reading this now and thinking, Good, you dickhead, serves you right. And you’d be entitled.
Just don’t rush into anything, okay? Make sure he really is all the things you deserve. Or, you know, don’t marry him at all.
Sam
x
I didn’t respond for a few days that time. I carried the letter around with me and I looked at it in the quiet moments at the Vintage Clothes Emporium and when I stopped for coffee in the dog-friendly diner near Columbus Circle. I reread it when I was getting into my sagging bed at night and thought about it when I was soaking in Margot’s little salmon-colored bathtub.
And then, finally, I wrote back:
Dear Sam,
I’m not with Josh anymore. To use your phrase, we turned out to be very different people.
Lou
PS For what it’s worth, the thought of a violinist hovering over me while I’m trying to eat makes my toes curl.
31
Dear Louisa,
So I had my first decent night’s sleep in weeks. I found your letter when I got back from a night shift at six a.m. and I have to tell you it made me so bloody glad that I wanted to shout like a crazy person and do a dance, but I’m crap at dancing and I had nobody to talk to so I went and let the hens out and sat on the step and told them instead (they were not massively impressed. But what do they know?).
So can I write?
I have stuff to say now. I also have a really stupid grin on my face for about eighty percent of my working day. My new partner (Dave, forty-five, definitely not about to bring me French novels) says I’m scaring the patients.
Tell me what’s going on with you. Are you okay? Are you sad? You didn’t sound sad. Maybe I just want you not to be sad.
Talk to me.
Love,
Sam x
The letters arrived most days. Some were long and rambling, some just a couple of lines, a few scribbles, or a photo of him showing different parts of his now-completed house. Or hens. Sometimes the letters were long, exploratory, fervent.
We went too fast, Louisa Clark. Perhaps my injury accelerated it all. You can’t play hard to get with someone after they’ve literally heldyour insides with their bare hands, after all. So maybe this is good. Maybe now we get to really talk to each other.
