were in that blissful holiday bubble of beaches, picnics, ice creams and meals out. Flying kites. Laughing at in-jokes. Enjoying being a family.
There must have been rows. What family holiday didn’t include at least one or two? And yet there were none that Dan could recall. In his mind, it was perfect.
Now he was returning to relive the highlights. He’d do a whistle-stop solo tour, soaking in the memories. When daylight started to fade, he would head up to the clifftop where that photo was taken. He’d find a secluded spot overlooking the sea to park and watch one final sunset. He’d wait until no one was around before rigging up the car with the items he’d taken from the flat: duct tape and a length of garden hose bought days earlier in anticipation of this moment. Then it would be time to slip away.
It was selfish. He knew that. Especially when you considered the family he still had. But he couldn’t do it any longer. He couldn’t keep going; fighting the awful pain at his core, the unrelenting agony. No, he’d reached the end. It wasn’t like they wanted him around, anyway. They were already doing fine on their own. They’d be better off without him.
And yet he felt like he ought to call. To say goodbye at least.
Dan looked over at the glovebox, where he’d put his mobile after turning it off. He thought about it for a few minutes as he made his way on to the motorway. He kept on thinking about it for the rest of the journey, unable to decide.
What if hearing one of their voices made him change his mind? What if he broke down while speaking to them and they realised something was wrong? Also, if he turned his phone on, there were bound to be loads of messages from work. Mind you, those he could ignore.
He decided to call the house once and let fate decide. If they answered, then so be it. He’d speak to them and see where that led him. But if they didn’t answer, he’d take that as a signal to carry on without hesitation.
It was 4.45 p.m. when he parked in a lay-by. He was already well over the border into Wales. After three more gulps of vodka, Dan made the call.
Sweating in the heat now the car’s air-con was off, he let it ring for more than a minute.
No answer.
He lit a cigarette, smoked it to the butt and, despite what he’d told himself, tried again.
Still no one there.
‘That’s that, then,’ he said aloud. Not even an answerphone to leave a message on.
He switched the phone off, ignoring the eight voicemails and six texts from the office, and dumped it in a rubbish bin before getting back into the car and starting the engine.
He was nearly there. The agony was almost over. He’d been living with it for the best part of two years now. But his ability to cope, or at least to carry on despite the pain, had been eroded by the events of the last few months. He could have done so many things differently. He wished that he had, but there was no going back. The past was the past, whatever his regrets. And yet that didn’t stop everything that had led him to this moment churning around and around in his thoughts.
Thursday, 6 April 2017
Dear Sam,
Here we are: letter number two. I really wanted to write this yesterday, believe me, but it didn’t happen. Things got hectic. There were a couple of incidents, as I’ll explain later. There just wasn’t time.
Getting going with that first letter was hard, but once I got into the process, it felt good. By the end I had a real sense of achievement. You probably think that’s silly: to be patting myself on the back about something as simple as writing a letter. But it wasn’t simple. Not for me. Nothing’s been simple for a while. Not since, well, you know what.
I said I wasn’t going to dwell on the past, so I’m not. Writing to you is supposed to be a way of moving forward. But in order for me to properly confide in you, I need you to be able to understand where I’m coming from. I’m not the same person I used to be. I’ve changed a lot since you last saw me.
You could say I’ve had a breakdown.
There, I’ve said it. It wasn’t as hard as I expected. It’s been my big secret, you see. It’s not been a breakdown in the traditional sense. I’ve done it quietly, behind closed doors, keeping up a front in public; looking strong on the outside when I’m going to pieces inside.
You hear about functional alcoholics: people who maintain their jobs, homes and families despite a huge dependence on drink. I’m a bit like that. A functional fruitcake, you might say. I don’t have my job any more – I’m not that functional – but most people I know haven’t got a clue how messed up I am inside.
The official reason I stopped working was to be a full-time mum to Ruby. No one questioned that after what we’d been through. But actually I couldn’t hack it any more. I tried going back for a few days after the dust had settled and realised that if I stayed, I’d end up having a very public meltdown. At that point I could barely handle the commute to and from the city, never mind the job itself. So I handed in my notice. Thankfully, they let me go straight away.
The rest was manageable. I had enough time to make it look that way, at least. I fell apart in private and stood tall in public. Mainly for Ruby, if I’m honest. She needed me to be okay. Without her, I’d have probably been sectioned.
I never sought any help. Not until recently. That’s what led to these letters. But I’ll save that story for another day.
I’m worried that learning about this will make you feel bad, which is definitely not my intention. I don’t blame you for what happened, nor for the repercussions. It’s important you know that. But if I don’t give you the full picture, you’ll never understand. You won’t grasp how a basic task like writing a letter could be difficult for someone like me.
It’s safe to say I’m not the high-flyer I used to be. Far from it. Simple tasks have the power to confound me nowadays. My overactive brain, once the key to my success, has become my Achilles heel.
Anyway, Sam, on to other topics. I bet you’re wondering what happened with Rick, my new friend from Ruby’s school. That was what I promised last time.
Things went well to start with. We bumped into each other at the parking spot that had sparked our first conversation. He was looking every bit as handsome as I remembered, dressed in a navy suit and an open-collar sky-blue shirt. He said he’d come straight from work, but you’d never have guessed it. He looked as fresh and unruffled as if he’d dressed moments earlier.
I’d only settled on an outfit ten minutes before leaving the house: black slim leg trousers with a cream tunic top; smart casual, with my hair tied back and a dash of make-up. I wanted to look like I’d made an effort, but not as though I’d spent ages in front of the mirror. I had done, but that wasn’t something he needed to know.
The conversation flowed as we walked together to the schoolyard. He was quite the chatterbox, but in a good way. He wasn’t one of those guys who rabbit on about themselves. He seemed genuinely interested in me and my opinions, but without being intrusive. I know what you’re thinking, Sam: too good to be true. What’s the catch? Well,
