Letters from Yelena (23 page)

I got up, walked over to your computer and switched it on. As it whirred to life I told myself that I would only look for your writing on it, which would allow me to understand you more. I felt
I was only addressing the concern that Elizabeth had raised; that I should be reading your work. Just as the computer started up, a small envelope shaped symbol appeared in the corner of the
screen. Above it, the caption read: ‘You have 1 New Message – from C’.

I clicked on it. I can’t justify each decision from now on, I was caught in the momentum. As I opened the email there was a small portrait of its sender in its top left corner. A shiver
went through me as I saw that she had a thick crop of dark hair, but the photo was too small to distinguish her features. The email had only been sent a few hours ago, at 6.13pm. It read:

I read the message once, with an encroaching sense of horror, and then again and again. I feel feverish now, just recalling that moment.

The email seemed to demonstrate just how cursed I was by fate. Here I was, immersed in your home, pining for your return, and yet here was proof that you were flirting with other women. The
email instantly called into question the validity of all the hopes and expectations I had for us. During the dizzying hours that followed I urged myself to find it in me to trust. But then I had no
experience of rightfully trusting anyone. What I did have was the sense that I was missing something if all seemed well, and there, in tedious black and white, was the proof that my suspicions were
reasonable. Suddenly all my guilt about reading your letters evaporated.

After a few tense hours between the sheets, my mind told me not to simply give in, but to fight. I quickly decided that I must respond to this ‘C’. I had to message her back, to
neuter this threat. I was going to masquerade as you, to subtly investigate just what was going on. And then I was going to cover my tracks.

I carefully typed my reply, anxious to use exactly the right tone. It had to be both subtle and flirtatious, a careful approximation of the manner in which you’d have spoken to  her.
I  felt  strangely  comfortable  adopting  your  tone  – inquisitive, calm, and yet quietly attentive. I enquired about where I might find her new work,
mentioned it was a shame we’d not spoken for longer. I knew that my reply needed to be ambiguous enough to accommodate if you had just met her, or if you’d known her for a very long
time. At the end of it I mentioned that I was no longer using this email account, and I diverted her to a new email address, which I quickly registered and activated. I remember that it contained
some variation of your surname. It pains me to think it probably still exists, somewhere in the digital wilderness. And before I had even checked it, it was sent. I then deleted my reply, along
with her original email so you would never know she had been in touch.

I kept the new account open on the screen. A few minutes later a response appeared in it:

That was definitely where it should have ended – well, clearly I see now it should never even have gone that far. I needed to know if this ‘C’ was the elusive Catherine that
had left so suddenly. I needed to know if she posed any real threat. I needed to meet her.

The email felt like a clumsy, temporary solution, but I felt emboldened by the thought that I was tackling my anxieties head on. In a strange way, Noah, at that moment I felt proud that I was
fighting so hard to protect our relationship. Only now do I see how flawed my logic was, how twisted my concept of normal behaviour had become that night. You would be away for a couple more days,
and I told myself this would give me plenty of time to identify ‘C’, remove her from your life, cover my tracks and perhaps even prepare a fitting confession for when you returned home.
That night I almost slept well, because I was able to convince myself that very soon this mental intensity would be over, and I would be able to go back to enjoying my new life.

The following morning the sky was overcast, and it looked as if it would rain at any moment. I dressed smartly, already formulating in my mind how I would handle this meeting once it was
confirmed. My reflection in the mirror, with my hair now darkened, somewhat frightened me. I ran my fingers through it, and let it fall naturally down my back. To lighten the change in me I wore a
slash of red lipstick, with my black raincoat and high heels. There was just enough time to check for a response from C before setting off. Sure enough, there was a new message:

I didn’t have time to consider all the allusions of her response. I grabbed an umbrella, and made a quick obsessive-compulsive sweep of the house, thinking what a burden and a treasure it
had already become.

The square was well appointed for my purposes. It was overlooked by a small café from which the statue was clearly visible. Usually the square was a stamping ground for gothic teenagers
and romantic liaisons, but today the bludgeoning sky had rendered it empty. From the café, I had a perfect view of anyone arriving. My internal rhythm had increased to an almost audible hum,
and I felt slightly dizzy.

At 11:55 a very slender, dark haired woman in a red trench coat stepped into the square. She looked up to check that she was stood under the statue and then looked around. I leant against the
window to get a better view of her and yet her features remained imperceptible to me. At that moment the sky rumbled, and I realised that through an additional sheet of rain, C would be completely
impossible to identify. I scattered coins on the table and rose to meet her.

At that point I had no plan, Noah, no idea of what I would say to her. How on earth could I justify introducing myself when she was expecting to meet you at any moment? As I tied the cord of my
coat around my waist my mind worked quickly, flicking through a series of reckless options. I could create any reality for us both; all it took was choosing the right words. For a moment I wondered
if I could just pass her by; it might give me long enough to catch her face, and allow me to end this madness right now. As I left the café I honestly intended to do just that. God knows how
differently my life might have turned out had I stuck with that resolve; it almost does not bear thinking about. But as I drew close, she looked up, and I realised that I was looking into the eyes
of Catherine. Here at last was the proof that I was not good enough for you, Noah. I felt sick to my stomach. All the fears that I had struggled to keep tied down were suddenly torn free from their
moorings. They crashed around my head, smashing up all the furniture of my mind. But still I kept walking towards her.

My eyes widened, and my gaze locked into hers. It was inevitable then that we would speak; it was inevitable what would happen next. I would always react the way that I was about to, and the
consequences would therefore always be the same. My window of sanity had passed. She looked at me, baffled.

‘C?’ I asked. She looked at me, her eyes already slightly accusatory. It certainly looked like Catherine, and yet I didn’t feel angry at her, for worming her way back into your
life. I felt intimidated.

Of  course,  in  this  setting,  she  was  not  the  Catherine that I had seen in your photos. She had been captured only in snapshots, the profile
of her face, the sweep of her hair. Assembling all those images into one expectation was never going to be easy. But I did know that familiar dread inside me when looking at her, the same dread I
had had when rifling through those photos. Even if her face was thinner, slightly harder than I had expected, it was still Catherine.

‘Yes?’ she said. I faltered, and the rain started to come down.

‘I’m Anna, Noah’s secretary. I’m afraid he’s been detained.’ The words flooded out, and I settled readily into this new role. It fit me much better than the
queasy persona of a jilted lover. She looked back at me, and I felt assured by her acceptance. Her expression was not one of subdued anger, as I had expected it to be.

‘His car was scraped by a lorry when he was on his way here, and it was quite badly damaged. He’s okay, but his phone was broken and he has to go and get his car fixed as he needs it
to travel to London tomorrow. He asked me to call by to send his apologies.’

‘Oh. Oh right. I’m sorry – are you sure he’s okay?’ She looked deflated, concerned. The rain was coming down, and the thick droplets were suddenly soaking both of
us.

‘Shall we – shall we go inside for a coffee?’ I asked. ‘And get out of the rain? Then I can explain it all.’ I was already eagerly awaiting the ten or so steps it
would take to the café, during which time I could try and determine for sure if this was Catherine, and if so what she was doing back in touch with you.

‘Er – okay,’ she said, looking disappointed for the first time.

We stepped into the café, but those few steps were spent shielding ourselves from the onslaught. The sound was suddenly muted by the closed door. ‘Coffee?’ I asked.

‘Yeah sure.’ She looked ready to stand up. ‘To be honest, I’m just glad that Noah’s okay. I can meet him another time. That’s not a problem.’ She looked
slightly confused.

‘The rain is really coming down,’ I said, and looking past her I was relieved to see that this was true.

The waitress served me two coffees, and I carefully put them onto a tray. As I moved over to the window, she stayed silent. ‘I think we should probably stay inside until it passes,
it’ll hopefully only be a quick shower.’

‘Did you say your name was Anna?’ she asked. I wondered if she had somehow worked out exactly who I was. ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, clumsily. ‘Are you a friend of
Noah’s then?’

‘No,’ she laughed, and she shook her hair free of raindrops. I saw then that she had dyed her hair into a slightly darker shade, and that she had lost weight since those photos had
been taken. She looked younger, somehow, and she seemed to have less presence in the flesh than she did on Polaroid.

I wondered if, having lost weight and changed her hair she had seen your name on a literary listing and come to make your acquaintance as a new fan of yours. After all, it had been a good five
years since you had been in touch and it was possible that she could have presented herself to you as a different person, having perhaps felt deeply embarrassed by the manner in which she had left
your life before. Telling you that her name was C might have allowed her to have another chance with you. And you, aware of her striking resemblance to someone significant who had vanished from
your life, might have been intrigued enough to take her number, perhaps without as yet telling her that she closely resembled a former lover of yours. And perhaps consequently only I was aware of
what was really going on. Catherine was trying to worm her way back into your life by posing as another woman, and you, not knowing this, were allowing her. But why were you doing this? Maybe you
felt that her resemblance to Catherine would allow you to exorcise your demons for her through another woman. But this was Catherine, I told myself, nodding slightly as I thought it and as my eyes
met hers. In writing this down, I can see now how far the vague concept of logic had slipped.

I instantly decided that I should try and ingratiate myself with her, to find out exactly what it was about this woman that had made her so significant to you. Only then, I thought, by
understanding her charms, could I usurp her in your affections and remove her permanently from your life.

‘I met him at a literary convention the other week,’ she said. ‘I was overwhelmed by his last book and had written to him about it months ago, but didn’t receive a reply.
At the convention we got chatting and – I’m sure just out of politeness – he asked for my email address. A few days later I wrote to him, and to my great surprise he asked me to
meet him here. But now that he wasn’t able to come, I wonder if I’ve lost my chance to ever see him again.’

‘Not at all,’ I said. I must have looked at her admiringly, marvelling at her manipulations. To think that she was so determined that she hid the truth even from me, a perfect
stranger. Thank goodness, I remember thinking, that I
had
studied those photos. Otherwise she might have succeeded in her intentions. But now I had an opportunity to prevent her clawing her
way back into your life.

‘Not at all. Noah very rarely agrees to meet any of his fans. He must have felt a connection with you, to offer to do that.’

‘Do you really think so?’

I thought that she played the role of the naïve, star-struck fan, who happened to be beautiful, with great conviction.

‘Oh yes. I know from working with him that he very rarely spends time with other people at all. If he has invited you to meet, it must be because the two of you really hit it off. He
wouldn’t have done it for any other reason.’