Chapter 5

It was on the train going home that I thought of contacting her parents. I had met them from time to time during my school life, but it was always clear that they did not like me, though they were always civil in that cool polite way people have who aspire to a higher class. They somehow managed to convey how far below their rank I was. It seemed to me that Nicola might go home to her parents, or at least keep them informed where she was.

I phoned as soon as I was settled at home. Her mother answered. I identified myself and asked if Nicola was at home.

"No, Mr Connors," she said rather abruptly. It seemed her opinion of me had not improved. "She is not here. I suggest you contact her flat in London. They may be able to help you."

With that she rang off.

So that was that.

Then I found her email address and sent a mail asking her to contact me. It bounced. The address was no longer in service.

Another dead end, and with no further ideas about how to find her, I returned to my normal life, though my worries about her frame of mind kept surfacing. I couldn't get her out of my head. Never a day went by without a thought of her cropping up in an unguarded moment. It was annoying but I became resigned to it.

I think it was the unresolved nature of our relationship that did it. I needed closure, and reassurance she was all right since it seemed she was not at all well, and now I knew I wasn't going to get that closure.

So life went on. The financial crisis was getting more pervasive, but I was still making a meagre profit, and I now had a few customers to deal with. Time flew and before I knew it, it was nearly the first week of December. Time to buy Christmas cards!

Yes, it is a chore, but it does keep people in touch with each other, even if it's the only time they communicate. I would spend a Saturday writing them and answering some of those that had already fallen onto the doormat, and some from the previous year!

For those who don't know, in Britain we have oblong letter-shaped holes in our front doors called letterboxes, through which postal personnel push the letters. The upside is that we do not have to go wandering down the drive in the pouring rain to retrieve the mail. The downside is that we have to go to a post box some distance away to post our outgoing mail.

So, as the first week of December began, a card dropped onto the mat, the first of all the cards by at least a week. I did not recognise the writing, though this was not a unique experience. So I tore it open and took out the card. A folded piece of paper fell from it and came to rest on the table.

The card showed a Christian Nativity scene, and inside:

To my dearest Kevin Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year All my love Nicola

At the foot of the card was a further inscription.

Please, Kevin read the letter I've enclosed. I never got the chance to say all I wanted to but I've tried to say it in the letter.

The sense of foreboding was almost tangible. I looked at the folded sheet for a long time as if it were a poisonous snake, and then...

I went and made a pot of coffee and stayed in the kitchen to drink it, then took the second mug into my office and worked. I avoided the dining room table all day as if it carried some fatal infection, but after eating my evening meal in the kitchen, I berated myself for my timidity and picked up the paper between finger and thumb as if it were a bomb, carrying it into the living room and settling in my armchair. I opened the sheet. Oh dear. Handwritten. Beautiful handwriting!

_Dearest Kevin,

This is very hard for me to write, but I've got to do it.

I need to try to explain why I've acted the way I have. When I came and stayed with you, I lied to you. I said that I had finished with Terry and was not seeing anyone. It wasn't true, and I don't know why I did it, except that I thought the truth might close the door to a relationship with you. The truth is that I had been living with him, and when he asked me to marry him I told him I wasn't sure. I didn't turn him down flat as I said. Anyway, I moved out of his flat and went to live with Sarah and the others, but I continued to see him, and spent a few nights a week with him.

I was trying to work out why I couldn't commit to any of my long term boyfriends. It was when I was looking through my stuff and found my year book. Do you know, you were the only boy who didn't sign it? It set me thinking that perhaps you would have the answer. There was always something special about our relationship, so I tried to find you and failed. I should have asked your parents, but I did not really know them and after our last meeting after the prom, I was afraid to. So I did that stupid thing on 'Sunday Love Songs', and no one was more surprised that I was when you got in touch with the BBC.

That weekend with you answered my questions. You were still the loving, caring self you always were. You looked after me so well. You didn't flirt, and you didn't try to take me to bed. When I flashed you that morning, you reacted badly. I knew then I wanted you, I think. I realised that none of the other men I've known quite came up to your standard. I panicked when you asked me about my life, and I lied rather than put you off and lose you again.