More Than Love Letters by Rosy Thornton

Author:Rosy Thornton [Thornton, Rosy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Review
Published: 2010-01-04T00:00:00+00:00

Michael, hello again. I trust you had a better night’s sleep than I did. Every time I stirred – which was pretty often, believe me, with Margaret lying semi-clad on the other side of a piece of plasterboard – my left leg slipped down the gap between the back of the settee and the seat cushions, leading in every case to gradual loss of sensation, followed by pins and needles, and finally severe cramp. By six I had given up the uneven struggle and was up and dressed, my shirt ironed front and back, and was ploughing through the London Directory of Voluntary Organisations looking for places where a young Albanian girl with shaky English and no friends in the capital might possibly go to seek assistance.

At seven thirty Margaret appeared in the bedroom doorway, looking beautifully drowsy and dishevelled, and I stood up and dropped the directory to gaze at her. It was some minutes before I remembered to breathe, by which time the room was circling around me in a kind of stately gavotte. She was wearing nothing underneath my T-shirt, and it was a chilly morning for June, as her outline bore tangible testimony, and suddenly British Sugar’s emblazoned claim that ‘Nothing Tastes Sweeter’ seemed to promise a new and tantalising truth.

I was by now quite decidedly gawking, and I told myself that I must say something – anything – at once, to dispel the impression of moon-faced idiocy. An offer of coffee would have fitted the bill perfectly: safe, and without emotional undertones. But I suddenly remembered that I still hadn’t mentioned about my meeting with Liz, and the new policy initiative. It’s just to cheer her up a bit, that’s all, whispered a less than ingenuous voice in my head, and all at once I was telling her about how the asylum rules were to be modified to accord refugee status to women escaping domestic violence and sexual oppression. And her eyes, which had been inky as a storm-torn October night, melted into the pastel brume of a midsummer dawn, and the next thing I knew she had crossed over to where I stood and was hugging me. It seemed churlish not to put my arms round her and return the hug, so I did, and because her arms were lifted up to reach around my neck, there was distinct . . . well, perkiness, and jutting . . . followed by delicious pressing and flattening, and – oh God, Mike, it took me every ounce of will to disengage myself, turn her round and point her in the direction of the shower.

She says she must be back in Ipswich tonight to go to the WITCH meeting, so they can talk about what to do, and I said I’d go back with her on the train, but we’ve got most of the day to carry on the search. I’ve just rung the Albanian embassy and managed to get us an appointment for 10.30, because Mira in the Commons photcopying room is a friend of Lejla on the switchboard there.

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