The Party by Elizabeth Day

Author:Elizabeth Day
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-05-13T04:00:00+00:00

I should have waited to read the letter. But when I got back to the dorm, I was still unsettled by the evening. And drunk. Yes, it should be noted I was very, very drunk. On the journey back, I concentrated on not vomiting and on not thinking of the image of Ben and that girl, coupled on the dance floor, the ridge of his cheekbones picked out by the green-white disco light, his hand in the small of her dipping back.

Back in Sullies, I traced my fingers across the paintwork to reassure myself that, despite appearances to the contrary, the building remained static. At one point, my chest heaved and I had to bend over, one hand cradling my stomach as I waited for the sickness to pass.

I got to the dorm. There my name was, a copperplate reminder of who I was: Gilmour. I read it to myself, mouth moving silently.

Dom and the others hadn’t yet got back. I turned on the light, crashing into the wardrobe as I did so. There was a jangle of wire hangers. I hit the side of my head with the flat of my palm, thinking the noise was coming from some internal source. When I realised my mistake, I giggled stupidly.

I had an idea that it might be simpler to move if my centre of gravity were lower, so I got down on all fours and crawled towards the chest of drawers. I opened the bottom drawer, forgetting that my pyjamas were actually under my pillow, folded away carefully the way my mother had taught me. But once the drawer was open, the edge of paper caught my eye.

In my addled state, I didn’t immediately remember where the letter had come from, that I had hurriedly stashed it in the waistband of my pyjamas during my reconnaissance mission to Ben’s dorm. I levered open the flap, still gummy from where some unknown tongue had licked the back. The letter had been folded into three long rectangles.

I didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was in blue fountain pen whereas my mother, on the infrequent occasions she did write, used a black ballpoint. These vivid blue lines were free-flowing and seemed to have been written in a rush, the ends of each sentence sliding down the side as if falling off a cliff, the dots over some of the ‘i’s forgotten in haste, the loop of the capital G becoming wayward and untidy. There was a smudge at the bottom left-hand margin.

I began to read.

The address was Denby Hall, Yorkshire. The date was 31 August 1989.

Dear Ben

From the floor, I levered myself up onto my elbows. It was difficult to keep my eyes focused. Unidentifiable spores floated across my vision. I blinked and continued.

I’ve been wondering whether to write this letter, my darling. I don’t want to cause you any more upset especially now that you’re probably all settled in at Burtonbury and having a whale of a time. I’m sure you’ve made lots

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