The Love Letter (47 page)

‘Until you called Francis home from sea.’ Legs looked away, surprised how much it still hurt.

‘If you can call it that,’ Kizzy muttered. ‘I think he was already in a dry dock. I was naive to think that I’d love Francis just because we’d both lost our hearts elsewhere and might find comfort with one another. I knew when I moved in that I couldn’t ever love him. Then Hector left and the pressure became unbearable. When Poppy agreed that the best way to get him to come home was for you and Francis to get back together, I saw a way out. I’d begun to feel so trapped, it was a liberation.

‘Liz says we both take after her grandmother – my namesake,’ she went on. ‘Clarissa had our red hair and writing passion, and she couldn’t live without love.’

‘“I am two fools I know, for loving and for saying so”,’ Legs sighed.

‘How perfectly put,’ Kizzy smiled wanly. ‘Is that Byron?’

‘Donne. Francis wrote a thesis on him at university.’

Kizzy groaned and closed her eyes, relaxing into a strange laugh of relief. ‘Oh God, I should have known that. I feel like one of those hapless girls one sees photographed on Hugh Grant’s arm at parties, knowing full well that nobody will ever suit him as well as Elizabeth Hurley and vice versa. You two are just destined to be soulmates for ever.’

Legs closed her eyes for a moment, hardly able to believe that she could add Kizzy to the list of people telling her that she and Francis were the perfect couple. She rubbed her aching forehead. The smell of Stilton was making her feel queasy. ‘Friendship is love without his wings,’ she sighed.

‘Now that
is
Byron,’ Kizzy was instantly tearful once more. ‘Francis is in love with you, Legs. And his wingspan is wider than the Farcombe Hall roof.’

Legs unfurled her fingers to cover her cheeks, but not quickly enough to stop Kizzy seeing the red blush that was racing up her face. She had a sudden, ludicrous image of Francis soaring over Eascombe cove like a sea eagle while she perched nervously in the rocks uncertain if she could take off or not. They’d both been sea eagles once, but now she was more of a fledgling guillemot.

Kizzy’s green eyes were crossing a great deal now. ‘You two
must
get back together, Legs. Francis is lost without you. Édith is right; I should never have come between you, like Conrad Knight should never have got in the way in the first place. That’s my fault, too. If I’d got the job, you and Francis would still be together.’

‘You can’t think like that,’ Legs gaped at her in shock.

‘It’s true! I want to make things better. You have to see that there really was nothing more between me and Francis than two friends
comforting one another because they couldn’t have the people they really love.’

‘You’re in love with someone else?’

‘Mine is a lost cause.’ Kizzy nodded miserably. ‘In secret we met, in silence I grieve.’ Quoting Byron, she hiccupped and excused herself to go to the loo again.

Byron the namesake terrier was still snoring loudly on the sofa, emitting contented puttering noises from his dewlaps one end and occasional gentle parping Stilton farts from the other.

Yawning, Legs thought how much simpler it would be to share her life with a dog. She and Francis had talked often of their dream puppy, a blue-eyed Husky. They had even thought up pretentious literary names: Virginia Woolf if it was a girl, von Goethe for a boy. The nursery slope to raising a family together; childish make-believe befitting of their childhood romance, now lost in growing up and growing apart.

There’s had been a Peter Pan love, she reflected wretchedly. She’d once imagined it would never change, never grow old, but the truth was that it remained trapped in childhood. Then Wendy had run away with Captain Hook, which had been a terrible mistake. And now Tinkerbell was locked in her bathroom here.

Heading through to her little kitchen to put on the kettle, she picked up her phone from the surface and scrolled messages, more friends checking her whereabouts and wellbeing.

Francis 21.54.

There was his name. She felt cold and sweaty with remorse just at the sight of it, glancing towards the bathroom door to check Kizzy was still inside. Then she touched his name on the screen with a shaking thumb.

Bloody Jamie-go causing mutiny. Can you call him off? He likes you. If not, I will feed him nuts. Need you back so badly. Please say the word. ILY xxx

As she reread it, three things leaped out at her. But it wasn’t the kisses, nor the ILY. It was those three words ‘He likes you’. Byrne
liked her. She felt as though wings had sprouted to lift her three feet off the floor. Oh, what a mess.

‘That’s such a cool phone.’

She jumped in shock, dropping it back on the counter as Kizzy came out of the bathroom, yawning widely. She looked so pretty and young, a long red plait trailing from her bandana and snaking over one shoulder. She’d make a wonderful classic heroine, Legs decided, perhaps in a Thomas Hardy or a George Eliot.

‘Would you mind terribly if I slept on your sofa?’ Kizzy asked sheepishly. ‘I can’t face the night bus back to Docklands, and I promise I’ll be gone first thing.’

‘Sure,’ Legs looked at Byron warily. ‘Shouldn’t we take him out to a lamp-post?’

‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ Kizzy was already snuggling into the cushions, pulling a fake fur throw over herself. ‘He has the bladder of a camel.’

Legs was too distracted by Francis’s text message to argue, bolting into her bedroom and cranking the window up as far as it would go in the wake of Ros’s many security locks so that she could gulp a little fresh air. It was hotter and closer than ever.

Picking up her bedside reading to fan herself, she remembered Byrne saying the Ptolemy Finch books were formulaic.

He likes you.

She fanned her face faster.

Having known Francis since he was a boy, she had always found it difficult to see the man. Meeting Byrne, it was equally hard for her to imagine the little boy Poppy had abandoned. He seemed so evolved and adult, layer upon layer of depth and cleverness marking out his unique character.

He likes you.

‘Friendship is love without wings,’ she breathed, book held aloft like a flying bird.

Gordon Lapis had an extraordinary ability to write about friendship. Ptolemy and Purple were symbiotic, fiercely loyal and
the closest of allies. They had been through scrapes and escapades, survived almost certain death many times, showing incredible allegiance and trust. Sometimes they argued – Ptolemy was an opinionated sort and Purple’s recklessness bordered on lunacy at times – but friendship always won through.

Suddenly Legs slammed the book shut in recognition.

She had a word to tell Francis. If her phone was to hand she would text him it right now.
Purple.

She sat up excitedly. She had been agonising so much over her feelings for him, but the way forward was in fact incredibly simple.

Friendship. Legs and Francis had the makings of the very best of friendships. She couldn’t wait to make it work. She just hoped she could keep Tolly the car.

Despite setting three alarms, Legs overslept again the next day. Her head pounded more than ever as she stumbled around getting dressed, although she’d hardly touched a drop of wine last night. The empty bottle lined up on the kitchen surface was entirely down to the redheaded guest sleeping on her sofa. That guest now woke with a start as Legs trod in something wet and let out a shriek.

The dog with the bladder of a camel had, it seemed, created several wet oases of wee on the basement flat’s seagrass carpeting overnight and deposited a small and very smelly poo on the doormat.

‘Oh, hell.’ Still bleary-eyed, Kizzy started flapping about ineffectually underfoot with a roll of kitchen towel and a bottle of Cif. In the end, Legs was forced to abandon her in the flat, telling her to let herself out. She hoped Ros didn’t find her there. She also
hoped Kizzy didn’t snoop in the tea chest in the bedroom which contained all the photo albums of her Francis years, along with his love letters, her diaries and more personal keepsakes.

‘I’ll buy you lunch to say sorry!’ Kizzy called after her as she made her escape, carrying the doormat, poo and all.

Depositing it stealthily in the council’s dog waste container at the end of the road, Legs headed for the bus stop. She then had to wait so long for her bus that she had ample opportunity to watch two local dog walkers stop by the bin and point furiously at the Welcome mat poking out.

‘Did you see anybody fly-tipping in the poop scoop bin?’ one asked Legs as she sat fiddling with her phone, red-faced.

‘Gosh, how dreadful,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t see a thing.’

You’ll get struck down for your lies, she thought as she reread Francis’s text from the previous night. In hindsight, she was glad that she hadn’t had her phone to hand during her friendship epiphany. She doubted he would have quite grasped the ‘Purple!’ moment as she had. He’d probably have thought she was going on about cars again.

Instead, she now lamely texted
What has Byrne done?,
and stared at the words ‘he likes you’ until her bus finally arrived.

Staring out of the window as sun-baked west London slid by, she tried to envisage Byrne causing mutiny. Perhaps he was stoking discontent among the estate workers? There was something heroically Tolpuddle Martyr about him. But she could hardly imagine the assorted band of Farcombe retainers rioting.

The bus brakes hissed to a halt at traffic lights just as Francis’s name lit up her phone screen. Outside the window, a pneumatic drill drowned out the ‘Teenage Kicks’ ringtone.

‘Hello?’ she yelled as she took the call.

‘… Poppy to the pub … Dad there … pissed … ended up … huge fight …’

This time, Legs was the one unable to hear the conversation.
She covered her free ear to blot out the hammering kanga. ‘Are you saying your father and Poppy have had a fight?’

‘Jamie … started out … war of words … got nasty … gun … threatened to shoot the little bastard.’

‘Your father threatened to
kill
Byrne?’ At last the bus moved on and Legs could hear him. Her fellow passengers were agog.

Francis quickly recapped a confrontation at the Book Inn involving a drunken Hector propping up the bar as Byrne tried to coax agoraphobic Poppy inside for a disastrous lunch outing. ‘Jamie-go insists she can get over her agoraphobia,’ he snorted with derision. ‘And she’d been fine on a few walks around the grounds and so forth, but lunch in a public place was pushing it too far, particularly when she saw my father there. Poppy had a dreadful panic attack and locked herself in the loo; Guy had to break in with a crow bar to get her out. That’s when there was a huge public argument between Dad and Jamie-go, each blaming the other. In the end, the prodigal son more or less threw Hector out of the pub, shouting that the only thing wrong with Poppy was her marriage.

‘Dad was spitting mad. He turned up at the hall later and told Jamie-go there’s no money left so he must fuck off his property and leave Poppy alone.’

‘And he had a gun at this point?’

‘I believe so; I was upstairs discussing the Freud painting with Vin Keiller-Myles, but I gather Jamie-go told Poppy she must choose between him and Dad, and she told the Prodigal to leave.’

‘She threw Byrne out?’ Legs’ fellow passengers leaned closer.

‘She threw them both out. I think she expected the two of them to cool off and make up their differences before apologising, but Jamie-go’s disappeared like smoke, and of course Dad rushed back to your mother’s comforting arms.’

‘Let’s not bring my mother’s arms into this.’

‘Poppy clearly thought Dad was going to move back to Farcombe after a proprietorial display like that, but it seems he just wanted to show Jamie-go he’s still lord of the manor, even if he
hasn’t got the manners return to his wife. Now she’s going spare. She’s changed all the locks. You must tell your prodigal friend to pacify her. He’ll listen to you.’

‘I barely know him.’ She closed her eyes, realising that was a lie. She felt as though she’d seen into his heart, however briefly; she was a confidante who knew that his life was about to end. ‘I haven’t got his number.’

‘Then you must come back here,’ his voice deepened. ‘I need you to take control, Legs.’ He sounded worryingly like a gimp talking to a dominatrix.

‘I can’t get away from work. You know Gordon needs delicate handling if he’s going to reveal all.’

Francis let out an irritable sigh. ‘I suppose I can get Imee to slip more valium into Poppy’s cocoa. Whatever it takes to flog the Freud without her noticing. Let’s speak later. Say the word. I’m waiting.’

‘Hang on, did you say you’re flogging the little nude?’ She gasped, but he had already rung off. She smiled politely at her fellow passengers who all abruptly turned away and feigned fascination with the safety notices.

She wanted to call Francis right back and demand to know why exactly Farcombe’s financial crisis had got so bad that he was selling the Lucian Freud to Vin Keiller-Myles, but self-preservation stopped her. If he thought she was going to say the word, it was kinder to stay quiet until the words queuing up in her head had fewer question marks and explanation marks punctuating them.