Dragging a hardback chair from the spare room, I place it under the opening to the loft, step onto it, ignore my pounding heart reminding me what happened the last time I attempted to venture up here. Reaching above my head, there is a momentary wobble, and I launch my arms to the side to steady myself. I breathe deeply, stabilise myself, and when I am sure my footing is secure, I lift my arms again, take hold of the padlock with one hand, slip the key inside, fingers fumbling.
The key turns and I hear myself exhale a sigh of relief.
Opening the hatch and lowering the loft ladder, I guide it slowly until it reaches the floor.
The loft ladder’s pretty treacherous – I need to get someone to come and fix it – so don’t venture up there if I’m not here.
Stephen’s words reverberate in my ears and I do not know if I am being foolish ignoring them. I only know that I have foraged through the rest of the house and found nothing. The loft is the only place left to search.
Placing one foot on the bottom rung and holding on to the ladder firmly with both hands, I test my weight on it, feel its steady grip against the floor. Tentatively, I take a second step and then a third. The ladder feels solid beneath my feet and I make my way to the top without a hitch. I think about Stephen’s note of warning, cannot waste time speculating why he didn’t want me up here.
Shining a torch around the dim loft space, I find a light switch, flick it on, a naked bulb illuminating overhead. A throng of boxes are stacked haphazardly, the disorder at odds with the organisation of rest of the house, and there is a moment’s dislocation, as though I have inadvertently entered someone else’s home.
Pressing gingerly on the plywood floorboards to test their strength, I lift myself into the space, the musty air like a church hall that has been closed all winter.
Turning around, I see it immediately, though it takes me a second to assemble the separate parts in my mind. I step towards it, place a hand on the white wooden frame. My breath catches in my throat, wondering if this was what Stephen was trying to protect me from: the sight of my son’s dismantled crib. With unsteady fingers, I trace the wooden slats, imagine Henry sleeping soundly inside: the quiet snuffle of his breathing, the flicker of his dreaming eyes, the soft curl of his fists. Something stirs inside me, a sense that my son is still with me. I feel an intense closeness to him, as though our separation is a matter of days rather than years, as though I can sense an echo of his recent presence.
Forcing open my eyes, I instruct myself to breathe deeply, pull myself back into the present. I know it is grief causing me to imagine such proximity to Henry, but a part of me cannot bear the thought that it is already such a long time since I last held him in my arms.
My hand runs across the smooth edge of the crib and I wonder why we have kept it all this time. Whether, when we moved here a year ago, I refused to part with it, could not bear the thought of being separated from anything that had once felt the warmth of Henry’s skin. Whether, somewhere amidst this assembly of boxes, I will find Henry’s babygrows, his toys, his blankets, his bedding, as though each inanimate object is impregnated with his essence: particles of his soul held in the fabric of his clothes.
A question emerges from the shadows: why Stephen and I have not had another baby. Whether the grief has been too profound. Whether we have tried and, thus far, failed. Whether the presence of the crib in the attic is not a symptom of my enduring heartache but a signal of hope, of what the future may bring.
I allow my hand to linger on the white wood before stepping away. I know that if I stay close, I will be compelled to keep touching it, as if drawn to it by some gravitational force.
Surveying the boxes in front of me, I am not sure where to begin. Perhaps if I knew what I was looking for it would be easier, but the boxes are not labelled with their contents.
The first box I open contains a pair of old curtains. In the next box I find some crockery wrapped haphazardly in pieces of kitchen paper: a brightly coloured teapot, a quartet of stripey mugs, a large serving plate in Mediterranean blue. They are so unlike the stark white crockery downstairs that I wonder when Stephen and I bought them.
When I open the next box, I’m greeted by a series of cardboard wallets in a variety of muted colours. Lifting the flap of one, I find a collection of letters. On the front of each, in looping font and midnight-blue ink, are written two words: My darling.
A voice in my head tells me that these are private, that I have no business reading Stephen’s personal correspondence. And yet, even as the voice whispers for me to stop, I watch myself pull a letter from its envelope, begin to read. The feeling of wrongdoing prickles my skin, but as my eyes skim the first line and then the next, I am aware of the world falling silent around me.
Delving into the wallet, I pick another letter, find the same elegant handwriting and blue ink. I read line after line, have the sensation of rolling down a steep hill without anything to halt my fall. Every word is like an assault, an arrow piercing straight into my chest.
I read another letter, and then another, my eyes scanning each word, telling myself that I must be mistaken, that there has to be a simple explanation. And yet I cannot ignore the dates at the top of each one – six weeks ago, eight weeks ago, ten – my stomach churning with a truth that demands to be acknowledged.
I read letter after letter until my eyes are aching. I try to catch my breath, but it is as though a thousand tiny dust motes are trapped in my throat.
Because in my hand is a stack of love letters. Letters containing intimate details about Stephen’s life. Letters addressed to ‘my darling’， filled with outpourings of devotion.
Every letter has been written in the last three months. The most recent, just four weeks ago.
All these letters have been written while I have been married to Stephen.
And yet none have been written by me.
Every single one is signed with the same elegant flourish. The same graceful fountain pen. The same two-syllable name. Signed by a woman I have never heard of before. A woman called Livvy.
LIVVY
BRISTOL
Livvy sat on a park bench, looking left and right, then down at her watch, wondering if it was too late to bail. Pulling out her phone, she sent her mum a quick text to ask if Leo was okay. A reply came back almost instantaneously.
He’s absolutely fine. Having a whale of a time in the garden with your dad. You take as long as you need. xxx
She had not told her parents the truth about where she was going, had said only that she needed to run some errands. With two days until the move to London, her parents had required no further explanation. Dominic was not due back from Sheffield until tomorrow afternoon, and Livvy’s To Do list seemed to be growing exponentially. She didn’t really have time to be here. She didn’t know why, in truth, she had orchestrated the meeting. Only that, since last weekend, she had been aware of a constant hum of restlessness and hoped this conversation might help resolve it.
Pulling her jacket across her chest and fastening two of the buttons, she questioned again whether she definitely wanted to do this. Whether she might be lifting the lid on Pandora’s jar, releasing something that, once escaped, could never be put back. Because even if she never told Dominic that the meeting had taken place, Livvy would know that it had. She would have to carry that secret and live with the knowledge that she had transgressed a boundary, betrayed his trust.