The Accidental Love Letter

by Olivia Beirne

‘Thank you.’

  I beam at him.

  ‘How about we all have Christmas together, this year?’ I say, hearing the words out loud before I’ve registered them. ‘We could invite your grandchildren, Gus. And I could cook. I make a good roast, so I reckon I could manage a Christmas dinner.’

  I look around the room at the four smiling faces.

  Nina walks over to me and places her arm in mine.

  ‘That sounds like a great idea, Bea.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I shake my mouse and stare at my screen, the blank Word document blinking back at me. Bubbles of excitement pop under my skin as I prop my dusty phone between my cheek and shoulder.

  ‘Thank you for calling, your call is important to us. Please note that our opening hours are Monday to Friday, nine a.m. to six p.m. Somebody will answer your call as soon as possible. We are currently receiving a high volume of calls.’

  I roll my eyes as the timer clicks to eight minutes.

  Eight minutes I’ve been on hold to the council. As soon as I pressed ‘call’ I seemed to go straight on hold, which is a continuous loop of the same droning voice.

  ‘Thank you for calling, your call is important . . .’

  I hold the phone away from my ear, desperate not to hear the speech again.

  I finally managed to pluck up the courage to speak to Angela this morning about my story. I told her I wanted to write about Sunfields, and how it is closing down. People should know about it. People would care.

  Maybe someone would be able to do something about it.

  So, like a good reporter, I’m starting this investigation by collecting quotes. My first stop being the council.

  ‘Thank you for calling, your call is important . . .’

  That is, if they ever pick up the damn phone.

  ‘Hi.’

  I flick my eyes up at Faye, who is leaning over my desk.

  ‘Who are you on the phone to?’

  I move the receiver away from my mouth.

  ‘The council,’ I say.

  Faye frowns.

  ‘Why?’ she asks. ‘You’re not allowed to make personal calls in the office, you know.’

  I try not to scoff at her.

  That’s rich, coming from the girl who spends half of the working day taking selfies.

  ‘Thank you for calling, your call is important . . .’

  ‘It’s not a personal call,’ I say, ‘it’s for my story.’

  Faye’s eyes flick down to my notepad, and her face twitches.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘right. The story Duncan gave you.’

  I feel a stab of annoyance.

  ‘He didn’t give it to me,’ I say tightly, ‘I had to go find it myself so—’

  ‘Hello?’

  I jump as a loud voice trumpets down the line. I almost drop my phone in fright.

  Argh! Why is it so loud?

  ‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Hello, could I please speak to somebody about homes?’

  I notice Faye furrow her brow next to me and I try to ignore her.

  Go away.

  ‘Council tax?’ says the voice.

  I pause.

  What?

  ‘Err,’ I say, ‘no. Residential homes, please. Or care homes. That department.’

  ‘Is this regarding council tax or an update of address?’

  I open and close my mouth.

  What? What on earth is she talking about?

  ‘No,’ I start again, ‘I need to talk to somebody about residential homes.’

  There is a long pause and I watch the seconds tick away.

  Ten minutes. I’ve been on this phone for ten minutes now, and I still haven’t—

  ‘Please hold.’

  I jolt as the phone switches into an odd country song.

  Great.

  What song is this?

  ‘Are you writing a story about a home?’ Faye asks.

  ‘Sort of,’ I say, my face flushing.

  ‘Has Angela approved this?’

  I shoot her a look.

  ‘Yes,’ I say tightly, ‘actually, she said—’

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh!’ I jolt again, my heart flipping over. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ a man’s voice resonates through the phone, ‘you’re through to the council tax department. How can I help?’

  What? Why? I specifically said not council tax!

  ‘Oh,’ I say, trying to sound calm, ‘sorry. I don’t know why she put me through to you. I need to talk to someone about residential homes.’

  ‘Right,’ the man says in a bored voice, ‘well, we deal with council tax in this department.’

  I take a deep breath.

  ‘I know that,’ I say slowly, ‘but I need to please speak to someone about residential homes.’

  ‘Would you like me to transfer you?’ he asks.

  Without quite meaning to, I shove my fist into my mouth.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I manage.

  And just like that, the phone clicks again and the monotone voice spills back down the line.

  ‘Thank you for calling, your call is important . . .’

  ‘Why are you writing a story about care homes?’

  I glance across at Faye, who is still sitting in the chair next to me.

  Why does she care? Why can’t she just leave me alone?

  I force my twitching face into a smile.

  ‘Because,’ I say in a strained voice, ‘I want to write about—’

  ‘Hello operator . . .’

  Argh! The operator? Why am I back with the damn operator?

  ‘Hello!’ I chirp, my voice flying up seven octaves higher than usual. ‘I need to talk to somebody about council tax, please. NO!’ I shout, as my brain catches up with my words. ‘Not council tax! I need to talk to someone about residential homes.’

  I hear the operator tapping her keyboard, and I try to control the urge to hurl the phone across the room.

  ‘Sorry,’ the girl says, ‘did you say council tax?’

  If she puts me through to council tax again, I will storm down to the council’s offices and break their headsets.

  ‘No,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘I need to talk to somebody about residential homes. I’m a reporter from the Middlesex Herald and I’m writing about Sunfields Care Home being shut down by the council. I’d like a quote, please.’

  The last part spills out of me in a high-pitched warble and, to my horror, the phone goes dead.

  Did she hang up on me?

  Did she hang up on me?

  ‘You’re writing about a home shutting down?’ Faye asks.

  I jump and slam the receiver down. I’d almost forgotten she was there.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, heat flaring up my body. ‘Yes, I am.’

  *

  I stick a stamp in the corner of the envelope and tuck it in my bag as I make my way down the stairs.

  16.58: Leave work.

  17.05: Post letter.

  17.15: Catch bus to Sunfields.

  17.45: Arrive at Sunfields.

  I jump down the final stair when I hear footsteps scurry behind me.

  ‘Wait!’

  I turn to see Faye a few steps behind me. I hold the door open for her and we walk through reception together.

  ‘Thanks,’ she pants, ‘are you getting the bus?’

  I feel my insides shrivel.

  I once made the mistake of telling Faye which bus I get, which led to her saying how she could get the same one as me and resulted in an hour of non-stop talking about her weekend and how many boys she’s dating.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘not today.’

  Faye frowns at me. ‘Are you not going home?’

  ‘Nope,’ I say, as we push the front door open, ‘I’m going out.’

  Har har. I’m going out. I have plans on a weeknight. Look at me go.

  ‘Bea?’

  I spin round as I spot Priya, leaning against the building. Her phone is clasped in her hand and her body is wrapped
in a large puffa coat. I stare at her.

  What is she doing here?

  ‘Priya,’ I say, walking towards her, ‘hi.’

  ‘You took ages,’ she says grumpily. ‘I need your help. Please don’t say you’re seeing your boyfriend tonight.’

  I feel a zap of heat whip through my body.

  ‘Boyfriend?’ Faye repeats. ‘I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Bea!’

  Oh, great.

  ‘I’m Faye,’ Faye says, toddling up beside me. ‘I’m Bea’s friend from work.’

  Friend? Are we friends?

  ‘Oh,’ says Priya, sounding distracted, ‘hey. I’m Priya.’

  ‘Right,’ I say quickly, desperate to stop any further conversation about my imaginary boyfriend. ‘So I’ll see you tomorrow, Faye.’

  Faye looks at me and her smile quivers for a second.

  ‘Yup,’ she says, turning on her heel, ‘bye, then.’

  She saunters down the street and I turn to Priya, who has pulled her phone back out and is holding it in front of her.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask nervously.

  Priya has never met me outside work. I didn’t even realise she knew where my building was.

  ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Actually, no.’

  I try to steer her down the street as the icy December wind grips my face, but Priya roots herself to the ground.

  ‘Look at this.’

  She turns her phone to face me and I feel my shoulders sag. It’s a message from Josh.

  Miss you.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, ‘right.’

  ‘He sent it this morning. What do you think it means?’

  Priya bats her large tadpole eyes at me and I stare back at her hopelessly.

  I really am terrible at this.

  ‘That he misses you?’ I offer.

  What else am I supposed to say?

  ‘Come on,’ I say, hooking my arm in hers and steering her down the street, ‘let’s go home and talk about it there. It’s freezing out here.’

  Priya refuses to budge and I jolt backwards.

  ‘No,’ Priya says, ‘I’ve been thinking about this all day and I need to go and see him.’

  I blink at her, my mind scrabbling to work out what the time is.

  I need to be on my bus in three minutes.

  ‘Bea,’ she grips me tightly, ‘I can’t go on my own, will you come with me? Please?’

  *

  I shove my hands deeper into my pockets as Priya paces up and down the pavement like an incontinent Labrador.

  ‘Priya,’ I say wearily, burying my head into my scarf, ‘can you just knock on the door? Or, like, not knock on the door and then we can go home? I can’t stand here much longer, I’m freezing.’

  We’ve been loitering on the pavement for the best past of half an hour. A shimmering sheet of ice has crackled across the street and my breath has started to fog in front of me like hairspray.

  Suddenly, Priya stops pacing and stares at me.

  ‘Is it the right thing to do? To see him?’ she asks, blinking her large eyes at me. ‘I mean, he said he missed me. Why would he say that if he didn’t mean it? I have to see him. Right? That’s what he wants me to do? Maybe he wants to get back together.’

  I stare at her as her questions bounce off my head.

  ‘Sure,’ I say eventually, ‘just go see him.’

  ‘Right,’ Priya says, finally breaking her restless pacing and stepping towards Josh’s flat, ‘right.’

  ‘But,’ I say quickly, reaching forward and grabbing Priya’s arm, ‘do you want to get back together, Pri? I mean, he was pretty horrible to you and you’ve been, well,’ my grip loosens on her arm as I stare into her watery eyes, ‘you were heartbroken.’

  I keep my hand on Priya’s arm as she blinks the tears away.

  ‘I just have to know,’ she says in a small voice. ‘I’ve been imagining this conversation for weeks. I can’t leave it.’

  I nod, letting go of her arm as my skin cracks in the frozen wind. She steps towards his house and I follow her.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, ‘I’m going in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You don’t have to wait for me.’

  I nod again.

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thank you for coming with me,’ she says, her voice wobbling, ‘and just for, you know,’ she shrugs, ‘being there.’

  I reach forward and pull Priya into a hug.

  ‘Always,’ I say, giving her a squeeze.

  Priya lets me go and nods, turning on the spot to face the front door. She lifts her hand to knock and gasps, before ducking down hurriedly. I run forward.

  Oh my God, is she hurt?

  ‘What?’ I cry. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Get down!’ Priya hisses, tugging me to the floor.

  ‘What?’ I manage, as I hunker down next to her. ‘Why?’

  I try to look through the window but Priya forces me back to the ground. I turn to her and see that her dark eyes are swimming with tears.

  ‘He’s in there with another girl.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I smile up at Sunfields as I walk towards the house. I see the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling through the living-room window and the proud wreath is stuck firmly on the door, like a real home.

  I reach the door and wait to be admitted. I barely even look at reception as I walk straight into the living room, my heavy bag weighing me down.

  I managed to slip away from work a few minutes earlier today to get the bus, I don’t think anyone even noticed. Duncan shut himself in his office all day, he didn’t send any of his ridiculous mid-afternoon quotes, and Faye was too absorbed by her phone to notice me leave.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ I say, as I walk into the living room.

  Sylvia lowers her book and Gus raises his eyes to look at me as his hands shuffle a pack of cards.

  ‘Hello, Bea,’ Sylvia says. ‘I think Jakub is just making a cup of tea.’

  I drop my bag on to the table, suddenly noticing that Nina isn’t in her usual spot.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, unzipping my bag, ‘so, I was thinking, how about we do our Christmas Day meal on Christmas Eve? That way your family will be able to come, Gus – and any other family members anyone wants to invite,’ I add, my insides squirming.

  I don’t think anybody else has any other family.

  ‘Lovely,’ Sylvia says, going back to her book. ‘That sounds good, doesn’t it, Gus?’

  I look over at Gus, who has dipped his head towards his cards. For the first time since I’ve met him, he’s not smiling at me.

  ‘What’s that?’ Gus asks.

  Sylvia skims her index finger down a page, her face taut.

  ‘Having a Christmas meal on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘So you can invite your family,’ I add, desperate to make Gus smile.

  What’s going on?

  Finally, Gus lifts his eyes to meet mine. Although the smile is back on his face, the usual spark behind his eyes isn’t there.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘yes. Although, I don’t think Sam and the boys will be able to make it.’

  He keeps his eyes locked on to mine for a second, and then looks back down at the cards. For a moment, I almost see a flush of colour skim across his lined face.

  A hot flash of emotion sparks through me.

  Why not?

  ‘Oh,’ I say, keeping my voice light, ‘okay, well, that’s okay. It will just be the five of us, then.’

  I smile broadly down at Gus, who keeps his head lowered towards the cards. Anger nips at my skin.

  Why aren’t his family coming? What could they be doing? I’ve been coming here for weeks now and they haven’t come to visit once. I don’t think I’ve even heard them make a phone call.

  I look over at Sylvia. Her face is still taut as she keeps her eyes fixed on the pages of her book.

  My hand reaches into my pocket and grips my phone.

  What could be more important than your family?

&nbs
p; ‘Bea?’

  I look round to see Jakub hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Can you come here for a second?’ he asks. ‘Nina wants you.’

  I glance down at Sylvia and Gus. They both have their heads buried in their activities and haven’t even noticed Jakub.

  What’s going on?

  ‘Sure,’ I say, following Jakub out of the living room. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s fine,’ Jakub replies, as we walk down the corridor towards the fire exit, ‘she just wants to speak to you.’

  I frown as Jakub pushes against the fire exit. An icy wind storms through the open door and I instinctively fling my arms around my body.

  ‘Out here?’ I cry, my body shaking. ‘Why is Nina outside? It’s freezing!’

  I step out into the small garden and into the blanket of inky darkness that swallows me up as soon as I shut the door. Only the faint flicker of the orange street light in the distance allows me to spot Nina, who is sitting on a wooden bench. Her body is wrapped up in her large coat and her small hands are curled around some paper. Next to her, swaying in the wind slightly, are two red balloons.

  ‘Hey, Nina,’ I say, walking over to her, ‘are you okay? It’s freezing.’

  Nina looks up at me. In the darkness, I can barely see her features, but I notice her swollen face, squeezing her eyes into two small pouches of skin. I feel a flash of pain as I sink down next to her, and suddenly I can’t feel the sharp wind scratching at my skin. I reach forward and place my hand on hers.

  Has she been crying?

  ‘Hello, Bea,’ Nina says quietly, ‘I was hoping you’d be here today.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say quickly, shocks of icy air filling my lungs. ‘Nina, it’s freezing out here. Let’s go outside, it’s the middle of winter.’

  Nina looks away and I stare at the side of her face as she looks forward, into the darkness. I look down at the paper on her lap and I notice neat handwriting curling across the page. Under the faint shadow of the orange street light, my eyes pick out two words. My heart jumps.

  To Melanie

  Nina’s eyes follow mine and she smiles.

  ‘She loved Christmas,’ she says, ‘she always did.’

  I tighten my grip on Nina’s hand.

  ‘Have you written her a letter?’ I ask, the words forcing their way out of my mouth.

  I’ve never done that.

  Nina gives me a small nod.

  ‘She wasn’t meant to die,’ she says, her voice barely audible. ‘She was too young. She was never meant to die.’