Page 105 of Postscript

‘I’ll get you some water.’

Alone with the envelope, I read the words on the front.

One for the Road.

It’s late Saturday night, early Sunday morning. The crowds are leaving the pub, being shouted out and abused by the doormen. The lights are on full, the smell of bleach is strong as the staff attempt to flush the crowds out. Others are going home, or are continuing on to a club. Sharon and John are practically eating each other’s faces alive, as they have been all night, but what seemed mildly unappetising in the dark is far uglier in the harsh bright lights.

‘One for the road?’ Gerry says to me, looking bleary-eyed, with a charming grin. Eyes always smiling, with devilment, with life.

‘They’re throwing us out.’

‘Denise,’ Gerry calls. ‘Work some magic, will you?’

‘Already on it.’ Denise salutes him and heads directly to a handsome young bouncer.

‘Stop pimping my friend.’

‘She loves it,’ he grins.

Denise turns and winks, already successful at securing a last round.

‘Always one more,’ I say, kissing him.

‘Always,’ he whispers.

My alarm sounds. It’s 7 a.m. I roll onto my side and turn it off. I need to get up, out of bed, go home, shower, get to college. I feel Gerry stirring beside me. His hand reaches across the bed to me, warm like a furnace. He moves his body and presses up against me, full, wanting. His lips brush the nape of my neck. His fingers find me, just where he needs to to convince me to stay. I press back against him, responding.

‘One for the road,’ he says, sleepily.

I feel his words against my skin. I hear the smile in his voice. I’m not going anywhere else but to him.

‘Always one more,’ I whisper.

‘Always.’

I stare at the envelope on the desk before me, in shock. How did I not consider this, in all the analysis and calculations since his death? One for the road, he always said it. There’s always one more. Always. Ten letters, it should have been enough, but seven years since I read the final one, here’s one for the road.

Dear Holly,

There’s always one more. But this is the last.

Five minutes for me, but who knows how long for you. Maybe you’ll never read this, maybe you’ll never sell the house, maybe it will get lost, maybe somebody else is reading this. A beautiful daughter or son of yours. Who knows. But I’m writing this with the intention of you reading this.

I could have died yesterday, it could have been decades ago. You could be putting your teeth in a glass beside your bed at night, I’m sorry I didn’t get to grow old with you. I don’t know who you are in your world right now, but here in my world, at the time of writing this, I’m still me, you’re still you and we’re still us.

Let me take you back there.

I’m sure you’re still beautiful. I’m sure you’re still kind.

You’ll always be loved, from here and away, from near and from far.

I have experience in loving you from afar, remember? It took me a year to ask you to go out with me.

I’ve no doubt it will ever change, all I know is that the less life I have in me, the more I love you, as if love is filling the spaces. When I’m gone, I think I’ll be filled with nothing but love, made of nothing but love for you.

But on the off chance I do hook up with somebody on the other side, please don’t get mad, I’ll drop her as soon as you arrive. If you’re not looking or waiting for someone else.

Good luck with your new adventure, whatever it is.