Prologue

An envelope is lurking in the post box, addressed to me in unfamiliar handwriting. The flowers on the circular stamps catch my eye, with their blood red petals and green veined leaves. Poinsettias, standing out against a white background, with USA marked around the edge. I squeeze the brown padded paper and feel something irregular inside, unidentifiable. The postmark is smudged and illegible, providing no further clues.

I run up the two flights of stairs to our apartment, kicking off my shoes as soon as I’m inside, and stare at the package. Someone has taken the trouble to write my name and address by hand, making it feel strangely intimate. Combined with the American stamps, it arouses the faintest stirring of unease. I tear open the envelope and tilt it against a small table, shaking until the contents slip out and lie there, intruders among the everyday muddle of papers, pens and keys. The sight makes me catch my breath and take a half-step backwards. Then, after a brief pause, I reach out and pick up the items, turning them over between my fingers. I return them to the table and look inside the envelope, expecting to find a letter, but there’s nothing. Not that anything else is needed. I know who has lobbed this grenade into my home and understand the message.

My heart thumps as I stride to the front door and squint through the peephole. There’s no one there, of course, it’s not as though the envelope had been delivered by hand. Even so, it’s a relief to see the communal landing

is silent and empty. But just in case, I take the door’s safety chain and slide it into place. It’s a solid chain, securely attached, and won’t easily snap.

My arms feel cold, the skin raised in goose bumps. I rub them to restore some warmth and return to the living room, walking over to the window and resting my eyes on the view. Terraced buildings, with a mixture of brick and white stucco facades, form a square. A typical London square, reassuringly unchanging, comforting in its familiarity. Black iron railings enclose a garden whose greenery soothes my eyes, offsetting the dazzle of the late summer sun.

I take a deep breath and glance at the items on the table. They take me back to another summer in a different city, many years ago. And another letter that sparked off an unpredictable chain of events. Looking back to that summer in Paris, I see how blithely ignorant I’d been of what lay in wait. On the morning the letter arrived, I would have been going about my usual routine, thinking about the day ahead, while the postman was loading the envelope into his yellow van. Tracing its journey to my post box in my mind, I picture it as lurking among the white and brown mass of communication, a hot and luminous red, almost radioactive. But in fact, it had been a pale, understated green and not even addressed to me.

None of that could happen today, in this age of social media and instant communication, where people lay out the detail of their lives for everyone to see. But back then those technologies had not yet transformed our lives. Back then, people could simply disappear.

There was no return address on the back. With a shake of my head, I placed it on the shelf for unclaimed post. I didn’t know what happened to letters left to languish there, but I supposed the concierge waited a decent amount of time before putting them in the bin. That had, no doubt, been the fate of those earlier letters to Brad Wilson.

After locking up the mailbox, I crossed the front courtyard and pushed open the heavy door to emerge into the narrow street. I’d been living in Paris for almost a year, and the novelty had begun to wear off. In the early days, stepping outside had felt like walking onto a film set, giving me a faint thrill every time. But that morning, I walked as nonchalantly as any Parisian towards the metro stop on the bustling boulevard Beaumarchais.

ASM Langues, where I taught, was situated in a long and shabby street between boulevards Capucines and Haussmann, alongside sex shops and X-rated cinemas. Françoise, the receptionist, greeted me as soon as I entered.

‘Joanna, your lesson it is cancelled. His company rang just this morning.’

My heart lifted at the news. Instead of having to spend a dull two hours plodding through “meeting skills”, I could do what I liked with my time. And I’d still be paid, since the cancellation had been so last minute.

‘I telephone you at home, Joanna, but you have leave already,’ Françoise explained with a shrug. ‘He is ill just this morning, your student, so we don’t know before.’

The slight pang of guilt I felt on learning that my happiness had been caused by illness wasn’t enough to dampen the joy of having a whole day of freedom stretching out in front of me. It was probably just a cold, after all. I decided to walk home, and as I strolled along rue de Rivoli, the sound of American voices among the clumps of dawdling tourists reminded me of the letter to Brad Wilson. The short interval between the latest two letters suggested urgency.

I pictured a sick relative, a much-loved grandparent perhaps, lying on their deathbed with the whole family gathered around, except for the missing Brad, whose absence left a gap in the circle of mourners.

If the letters to Brad Wilson had been plain and formal looking, with the name and address simply typed onto standard white envelopes, they wouldn’t have aroused my interest. But coloured envelopes, addressed by hand…I smiled to myself. Perhaps I was influenced by the memory of using mauve paper when writing to my first teenage love, a holiday romance that continued by letter for a few months until gradually losing momentum.

Pale green. An unusual choice for an envelope. Surely only a woman would be using such a feminine colour. It had to be a love story. I imagined a sad, red-eyed woman living for the postman’s arrival, only to be bitterly disappointed every time he failed to bring a reply, unaware that it wasn’t a case of unrequited love but of misdirected post.

On reaching our street I made a slight detour into the boulangerie, all thoughts of transatlantic heartbreak momentarily forgotten. I joined the short queue, savouring the smell of freshly baked bread and eyeing up the patisseries in the glass-fronted display. Cream was oozing from the flaky pastry layers of the mille-feuilles and the réligieuses au chocolat seemed to be calling out to me, with their shiny chocolate icing and the smooth chocolate mousse that I knew was hidden inside. I resisted temptation and left the boulangerie with just a baguette, feeling virtuous.

In the courtyard of my apartment building, I glanced towards the shelf where I’d left the letter from America. It was partially hidden now, by a leaflet for a pizza restaurant. My eyes were drawn to the green corner jutting out from behind a lurid picture of a special offer Marguerita. It seemed ironic that it should travel safely all the way from America only to end up neglected and unread.

I couldn’t resist taking another look. I picked up the letter and inspected the handwriting. It was neat, evenly spaced and perfectly straight. Someone organised, I decided, someone sensible and disciplined. The French set great store by graphology, and maybe there was something in it. The capital letters were written with confident loops, and I pictured an elegant fountain pen, the nib gliding across the paper.

Just then, I heard someone approaching from the smaller rear courtyard, and feeling suddenly foolish, I shoved the envelope back onto the shelf. Looking up I saw Madame Perez, the concierge who lived in a tiny apartment on the ground floor. She was a middle-aged woman, a little on the plump side, never to be seen without her faded flowery apron. Originally from Lisbon, she retained Portuguese intonation when speaking French, which was hard for me to understand. She, in turn, had problems with my heavy English accent and halting, hesitant sentences. Because of this I generally tried to avoid talking to her, insisting that Philippe communicate with her whenever necessary. But on this occasion, as she called out a cheery ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle,’ I realised she was just the person I needed.

‘Bonjour Madame,’ I said, confidently enough. That was a bit of French that even I could master. ‘The letter, here,’ I pointed to the envelope sitting on the ledge as I continued in my faltering French. ‘It’s not to me but I find him in my box.’

Madame Perez shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter, you’re right to put it there.’

‘There is a Brad Wilson, here in the building?’

The concierge shook her head and indicated the mailboxes lining the wall. ‘No, you see the names? There isn’t a Brad Wilson.’ She took the envelope from me and laughed. ‘The postman, he gives it to you because he sees

the name is English, like yours.’ As she spoke, she returned the letter to the ledge.

‘Ah yes, I understand. And letters here,’ I asked, pointing to the shelf. And then, having run out of French words, I resorted to the international gesture of enquiry, hunching up my shoulders, holding out my arms, palms facing upwards and raising my eyebrows.

Until then, Madame Perez appeared to have made an effort to speak slowly so that I could understand. At that point, however, she launched into a fast explanation that I found impossible to follow. I seemed to have touched on a cause of grievance, which she explained indignantly and at breakneck speed. I tried to slow her down but was unable to interrupt the flow of words. When she finally came to a halt, I thanked her again and escaped up the stairs.

Back in the flat, I wondered what would happen to that latest letter. It would surely be thrown away. Even if Madame Perez handed it back to the postman, I couldn’t imagine anyone at the post office bothering to open it to find a return address. But there was no reason why I shouldn’t. As long as there was an address inside, I could send it back and put someone out of the misery of waiting for a reply that was never going to arrive. And avoid a continuing stream of green envelopes turning up in our mailbox.

I sprang up and ran back down the six flights of stairs. When I reached the courtyard, I slowed down, stopping to look around. There was no one in sight. I strode over to the ledge, plucked the envelope from among the junk mail and ran back up the stairs, clutching the letter in my hand. Sitting on my bed, I felt a twinge of guilt at opening post directed to someone else and was glad that Philippe wasn’t around, as he would surely disapprove. Yet it was simply an act of kindness to whoever was writing to Brad.

That sad, lovelorn woman I’d imagined earlier, pining for news of her lover.

Feeling a frisson of excitement, I ripped open the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was written on matching pale green paper. A single sheet, folded in half. Flipping it open and glancing at the top right corner of the headed paper, I noticed the address. A place called Birch Shade, New Jersey, conjuring up a gentle image of dappled shade, with sunlight filtering through the heart-shaped leaves of slender birch trees. My gaze shifted downwards, towards the neat black writing that covered the page.

Brad, (A bit plain, I thought, I had been expecting a ‘dear’ or a ‘darling’ at the very least).

How many times must I write before you’ll accept that you must come back? I understand that you panicked and fled but it’s time you realised that running away and hiding is not the solution.

We are managing to deal with the situation and of course you’re still Mom and Dad’s blue-eyed boy, despite everything. I always said you could get away with murder, didn’t I? And I suppose we can tell ourselves it was accidental. But your continuing absence is not helping, it looks so bad. Stop being a fool and get on the next flight home.

Carol

A chill spread through my body. This was not the romantic story I’d been expecting.