my heart was broken; for a while, I even gave up performing because it reminded me of him so much. Eventually though, life moved on as it always does. I met a lovely man named Roger Jeffries around a year after Leo left, we got married a year after that and had two wonderful kids, Carolyn and Thomas. Roger died five years ago so I came over to England to live with Carolyn and her family.’
As I listened, I couldn’t help feeling that Ivy was the perfect candidate for a happy ending. If anyone deserved to be reunited with their teenage sweetheart, it was her.
The interview drew to a close around an hour later. Ivy had told me stories about her time with Leo, her life in New Orleans and her time as a jazz singer.
‘Wow, I can’t believe you sang with Louis Armstrong and Linda Ronstadt!’ I said as I started my second cup of coffee.
Ivy sipped the green tea that the barista had brought over just a few minutes before. ‘They were just the best people to work with. I’ve been lucky with the opportunities I’ve had in life but I gotta tell you, I’d give them all up to see Leo one last time.’ She took a short pause to drink her tea then looked at me with a knowing smile. ‘Anyway, now that the interview’s over, do I get to see your mystery letter?’
I nodded, fished it out of my bag and slid it across the table to Ivy. As she read it, her eyes widened and her smile grew wider.
‘Looks like somebody’s got themselves an admirer! Do you know who he is?’ She handed the letter back to me and stared at me, anticipation dancing across her face.
I shook my head, feeling a little pang of disappointment. ‘No, I-I never found out who he was. He started sending me letters when I was at university and we arranged to meet but he stood me up. The letters started again last week and he says he’s going to tell me who he is this time.’
‘Child, I’m gonna tell you somethin’ that you might not wanna hear, but don’t wait around for him.’
An imaginary block of ice came out of nowhere and dropped to the pit of my stomach.
‘Why not? He says he’s really going to do it this time and I believe him.’
Ivy’s face broke into a kind smile. ‘What I meant was, don’t wait around on him doing some big gesture to tell you who he is. Go and find him for yourself! Did you ever have any suspicions about who it might be?’
‘Well, sure I had a couple of ideas but–’
‘Then start there. What have you got to lose? You’re a bright young woman, I’m sure you’re more than capable of tracking down the man who wrote you those letters.’
‘It’s not that easy, Ivy; I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count. My dad wasn’t exactly a great male role model: he ran off when I was nine because he couldn’t hack fatherhood and sent me a letter saying he didn’t want to see me ever again.’ Tears brewed in my eyes and my throat became tight and itchy. Reliving the most painful events of my life wasn’t something I relished doing.‘Then there was my first and last serious boyfriend, Dave. He decided that buggering off round the world with his job was more appealing than a life with me.’
‘Honey, I can feel it in my bones: the guy writing these letters is different. You can ask anybody, I ain’t ever wrong. Get looking for him and find your Prince Charming, girl!’
‘You know, I might just do that,’ I replied. My insides buzzed with excitement; this meeting with Ivy had been just the push I needed.
By the time I left Starbucks, the sun was already disappearing behind Manchester’s red brick giants that loomed over the city like guardians. I’d already made my mind up to mount a full-scale search for Mr Writer. Not only that, I was going to find a certain Leo Browning too.
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
