Читать книгу Chloe - Freya North - Страница 7

Chloë dearest,

How very strange to write in life that which will be read on death!

I hope sincerely that there will not have been too many tears – and that my funeral wishes were carried out to a ‘t’ (especially the jazz and champagne).

Over the last few years I was haunted regularly by images of my nearest and not so dearest swooping down and picking at the bones of my just dead self; fighting over the fleshiest morsels and leaving nothing but offal for the rest and best of you. I decided therefore – quite some time ago, I might add – to cut myself up into sizeable portions and divide my spoils amongst those deep and constant in my affections.

For you, C, my dearest indeed, I leave anything of velvet in my cupboard. I leave you The Brooch which I know you have coveted since you were tiny. It goes to you because I want you to have a little part of me – and it is my eternal hope that you will carry something of me deep within, as much as on your lapel.

And for you, dear C, I leave this map. There are four more and you will find them all. Wales first, then Ireland, Scotland and finally England. Trust me.

There is also a sum of money which will see you on your way and pay for train tickets and postcards. It will enable you to give up that lousy job and hopefully give you the independence to rid yourself of that awful boyfriend – you are much too good for the former and far too precious for the latter.

I am sending you on a voyage, dearest one, in the hope that, once you are quite travelled out, you might find a small patch that you can at last call Home.

I have great hopes for you.

Keep me in mind, my duck.

Jocelyn.