Читать книгу Just The Way You Are - Lynsey James - Страница 15

Chapter 8

The battered shortbread tin sat opposite me on the couch. It looked a lot worse for wear than it had on its last outing. Its lustrous bottle green and red tartan was scuffed and the lid had a huge dent in it from when I’d shoved it to the back of my wardrobe, seemingly for good, six years ago. I looked at it, slurping my slightly cold coffee for courage. I had the flat to myself; Gwen had stayed the night at Tom’s again. To distract myself, I craned my neck to look out of the window; Manchester at five a.m. was quite a sight. The houses beyond the back garden wall were shrouded in a thick fog. It gave them a mysterious Victorian London look. A shimmering frost had been sprinkled on the leaves in the back garden, making them look like they were covered in icing sugar. Manchester in the early winter was always beautiful.

The contents of the shortbread tin weren’t the only thing stopping me from sleeping: I couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy and Leo. They’d fallen in love at a time where difference wasn’t celebrated, where everybody stuck to the status quo and didn’t dare deviate. It was criminal that they’d ever been separated. From what I knew about them, they seemed like two people who were meant to be together. I was going to do my utmost to make sure their story got the ending it deserved.

I turned my thoughts back to the tin and fixed it with a steely glare. It wouldn’t get the better of me.

‘There’s no good looking at me like that,’ I said to it. ‘It won’t make me open you any sooner.’

I was well aware I was talking to an inanimate object that wouldn’t answer back, but it dispersed some of the tension building inside me.

Today marked the first day of my search for Mr Writer and it was becoming increasingly apparent how unprepared I was.

I set down my coffee as a statement of intent and shuffled across the couch to where the tin sat. My hand drew nearer to it until I touched the cool metal lid. It felt smooth beneath my fingers and my breath caught in my throat as I prepared to open it. It was my very own Pandora’s Box and contained a whole section of my past I’d tried to forget. After a final deep breath, I gently pushed the lid off.

‘Oh my God,’ I whispered.

Inside was a large pile of letters. There was so many that they’d had to be jammed in and squashed down by the lid. Sandwiched between two was a pink gerbera daisy from a bouquet he’d sent me; I’d pressed it in my Essential Reporting book to keep it good. I picked up each letter in turn and read them again. Some made me laugh and others moved me to tears. Whoever Mr Writer was, he had a brilliant way of tapping into my feelings. As I lifted yet another one out of the box, I spotted something written in my own handwriting.

‘Here it is!’ I said with a triumphant grin.

Possible Mr Writers

1. James Kelly – barman at the Student Union. Does English Lit so he can write well; total book geek.. Likelihood – 8/10

2. Adam Johnson – posh bloke from Media Law class and lives in my halls. Drop-dead gorgeous, a bit stuck-up but generally nice. Wrote me a very nice note in a lecture once – “You look hot today”. Likelihood – 7/10

3. Dean Smith – Gwen’s boyfriend’s mate. Have seen him reading Pride and Prejudice, means he must be sensitive. Showed me his short stories one night so he can write well. Likelihood – 7/10

4. Max Burrows- best friend and I accidentally snogged him at Gwen’s birthday party. Has been known to be quite romantic at times, don’t know if he can write well or not though. Likelihood- 7/10

I giggled when I saw that Max’s name had been scored out multiple times. He’d never really been a prime candidate for being Mr Writer; I’d added him to the list after a drunken snog at Gwen’s twentieth birthday bash. In the heat of the moment, I’d imagined it had been him writing to me all along; that he’d been under my nose all this time and I just hadn’t realised. I’d scored his name out the next day. Our relationship dynamic was brother-sister; apart from that kiss and another when we were sixteen, he hadn’t laid a finger on me. Plus, Max just wasn’t the romantic type. You were more likely to find him playing rugby or having a laugh with his mates down the pub than penning gorgeous love letters.

I looked at the list again and felt a rush of excitement. It was going to be the starting point for my search for Mr Writer. I’d track down each one in turn, assess their likeliness and eventually decipher the identity of my mystery admirer. It was the perfect plan. Unless, of course, it turned out to be someone I’d never considered, but hopefully they’d let me know before I got too far down the list.

I grabbed my laptop, took a deep breath and began to type the first entry to my new blog. Taking Gwen’s advice, I was going to document my search for Mr Writer. I was hoping to give readers a journey they became hooked on and maybe, just maybe, one of them would give me some valuable information that would help.

Hi there! God where to start with this thing?! Well, my name’s Ava Clements, I’m twenty-six years old and I live in Manchester with my best mate Gwen. I’m a magazine journalist and love wine, cake and Bradley Cooper. Oh and I’m in love with someone I don’t even know.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I do know them, just not who they are. Maybe I should explain. When I was at university, I started receiving letters from a secret admirer. The letters were sensitive and beautiful; it seemed as though whoever was writing them knew me better than I knew myself. The letters kept coming until we arranged to finally meet up in December that year. I was so excited; what girl wouldn’t be? I couldn’t wait to finally see who’d been mad enough about me to send such beautiful letters. However, he didn’t turn up and the letters mysteriously stopped.