Читать книгу The Perfect Mother - Margaret Leroy - Страница 9

There’s a postcard for me. At first, I don’t see it: it’s hidden under a letter from Richard’s parents, thanking Sinead and Daisy for their thank-you letters. I’m smiling to myself, at these flower-chains of gratitude and obligation that could go on for ever, when my eye falls on the postcard. I pick it up with care, as though it could hurt me. I’m glad that Richard has gone to work already. He doesn’t need to know.

There are four pictures. I look at them for a moment, not wanting to turn the card over. They’re conventional, touristy scenes. I read the captions. The Reichstag. Charlottenburg Castle. Kurfürstendamm. Unter den Linden. These places sound familiar, though I don’t know how to pronounce them. Charlottenburg Castle is white and opulent under a vast summer sky; Kurfürstendamm and Unter den Linden are shown by night, with lots of neon. The caption says, ‘I love Berlin.’ The dot of the ‘i’ in Berlin is a little red heart.

My heart pounds. I turn the card over. I can see the thought that went into this, how it was undoubtedly all planned, composed on a piece of rough paper, then copied out so carefully in this neat, rather childish handwriting.

Darling, I do wish you’d write. It’s been so very very long. And I hear you’ve got a lovely little girl of your own, now. It’s honestly no exaggeration to say that I would adore to see her.

And then the address, as before.

Darling. Like a lover. Like somebody who loves.

I have a brief moment of hope, a hope as glittery and enticing as a shard of coloured glass: you could cut yourself on it. Then rage that this comes now—rage at this wretched timing, when Daisy is ill, when I’m so full of this desperate anxiety. I hide the card at the bottom of the bin.