It took a hundred and seventy-eight attempts before I settled on a letter that was humble, friendly and non-proprietorial in the correct proportions. In most of the ones I binned I’d veered towards acute prostration (‘I’m not worthy to live on the sole of your shoe’). But when I’d toned the apologies down I wondered if I sounded too cold, like I wasn’t sorry enough. So they got crumpled up and thrown at the wall also.

And as for the sign-off line – ‘Yours sincerely’? or ‘Yours most sincerely’? or ‘Thank you for your time’? or ‘With best wishes’? or ‘With warmest wishes’? or ‘Love’? or ‘Lots of love’? or ‘All my love’? or ‘I suppose a ride is out of the question?’? Which one gave the right message? By then I was so confused I wasn’t sure what the bloody message was, anyway.

Dear Luke, I wrote in the letter I eventually posted. You may be surprised to hear from me. I’m back in New York for a short while and I would be grateful if you could spare some time to see me. I’m very aware of how badly I treated you when we were going out with each other and I would appreciate a chance to apologize in person. I’m contactable at the above address. If you don’t want to have anything to do with me, I fully understand. Yours sincerely, Rachel (Walsh)

I thought it sounded apologetic without being ridiculous; friendly without being predatory. I was quite proud of it, until the moment I’d slipped it into the box, when I suddenly saw that it was the most terrible letter ever written. It was a very hard job to force myself to walk away and not hang around to intercept it when the postman emptied the box.

I desperately hoped he’d reply. But I tried to prepare myself for the possibility that he mightn’t. There was a big chance that I wasn’t the important figure in his life that he was in mine. He probably barely remembered me.

Unless he remembered me all too well, and hated my guts, of course. In which case, I wouldn’t be hearing from him either.

Four days in a row I lingered by the front desk around the time the post was delivered and four days in a row I was sent away empty-handed.

But on the fifth day I came home from work to find a letter had been shoved under my door. No stamp. Hand-delivered.

Luke had replied.

I held the envelope in my sweaty paw and stared at it. I was terrified of looking inside. At least he’d gone to the trouble of writing, I comforted myself.

Unless it was a page filled with just two words – ‘fuck’ and ‘off’.

Suddenly, frantically, I found I was tearing it open, the way a tiger tears dead antelopes. I savaged it. And with a pounding heart scanned the letter inside.

It was short and to-the-point. Brusque even. Yes, he said, he’d like to meet me. What about that evening at eight at Cafe Nero? Any problems, leave a message on his machine.

I didn’t like the tone. It struck me as unfriendly, not exactly in the spirit of forgiveness and extending the olive branch. I suspected the camera wouldn’t fadeout on this one, with us holding hands at head-level, swaying and singing ‘War is Over’ or ‘Ebony and Ivory’ or any other lickarsey songs about the end of conflict.

The letdown was terrible. I even felt he had a bit of a cheek until I remembered I’d behaved appallingly to him. If he still carried a grudge, he was quite entitled to it.

But he had said he’d meet me. Maybe that was just because he’d remembered a few more horrible things that he hadn’t got round to saying at the Cloisters, I thought, slumping again.

73

It wasn’t a date. It was more unlike a date than any other encounter I’d ever had. And to treat it like a date would be to trivialize his feelings and my maturity.

All the same, I spent hours getting ready. Hours!

Should I try to look attractive or mature and rehabilitated? I wondered. Try to win him over by making him fancy me again, or behave in an adult, I’m-very-different-now way? I decided on the serious, sober approach, tied my hair back, tucked a book on addiction under my oxter and wondered if Mikey-Lou would loan me her glasses.

She wouldn’t, so I realized I’d have to play the you-used-to-fancy-me-once-upon-a-time card. I tried, very quickly, to glamour myself up.

But I had almost no clothes. A year and a half of subsistence wages had taken care of that. So there was no great frantic trying on and tearing off of things. No wild flinging of things onto the floor even while pulling the next volunteer from the wardrobe.

Condemned to wear my long denim skirt and a short T-shirt, I was annoyed and ashamed. I wanted something fabulous to wear. Until I realized that that was the way I was now. Simple, straightforward, hiding behind nothing. (Badly-dressed, also.) I didn’t have to put on a show for Luke.

But I piled on tons of make-up. I put my hair up, I took it down, I put it up again. I took it down again. I finally decided to put it up and leave it.

Just before I left, I took it down again.

‘You look great!’ Brad bellowed, as I left.

‘Thanks,’ I said nervously, not at all sure I was pleased.

I tried not to be late. It was an effort not to play games, but I forced myself not to. It wasn’t appropriate. When I arrived at Cafe Nero there was no sign of him. Naturally, I suspected the worst, that he’d changed his mind about seeing me. I decided to leave.

Then I stopped, forced myself to sit down and ordered a drink. Ten minutes, I swore. That’s all I’m staying.

It was utter torment. I was ejector-seat jumpy with nerves, and kept glancing towards the door, willing him to appear.

After the arrival of the twentieth person who wasn’t Luke, I miserably decided to leave. I fumbled round in my bag for my purse to pay for my mineral water…

And then, there he was. Coming through the door. Talking to the greeter. Being told where I was. Glancing over at me.

It was a tremendous shock to see him. He was taller, bigger than I remembered. More grown-up. He still had the long hair and leather jeans, but his face was different. An adult’s face.

As he strode across the café, I tried to read what he felt towards me, but his expression was closed. When he reached me there was no effusive greeting, no hugs and kisses. He just said curtly, ‘Rachel, how’s it going?’ Then swung into the seat opposite, giving me a delicious second or two, eye-level with his leather-clad crotch before it disappeared below the table-top.

I didn’t know how I could ever have thought his appearance was something to ridicule. He was a beautiful-looking man.