that we once took stupid risks and laughed at our own audacity later. For most of us, the very great, lucky majority, those risks don’t cost us, or at least don’t cost us much. You were not lucky, neither was my son.
Most important, though, as I have written in my letter, is that the last thing, the very last thing on earth that my son would have wanted, would have been to see you punished any more than you have already been. The idea of you going to prison would have been horrifying to him, as it is to me.
That, Andrew, is more or less what I have written to be presented as evidence to the judge. This is what I have to say to you. This thing you have done, it could destroy you. It could ruin your life. It has taken your best friend, it has taken your career. I imagine it has taken a lot more besides.
You could let it destroy you. I hope you will not. You could let it define you, too, and I’m not entirely sure that would be a bad thing. It sounds rather trite to say to you: make sure that something good comes out of this, but that is what I want you to do. Don’t run away from it, don’t hide from it. Let it sit with you. Let it become a part of you.
Live a good life, whatever that means to you. Find someone to love, someone who loves you. I don’t know if that’ll be that tall blonde drink of water you’re knocking around with right now, or whether it’ll be someone else. Make it someone who values you.
Don’t fight it. Let it define you, just don’t let it consume you. It’s a fine line, I’m sure. I hope that you can find it.
Now, I know you have enough guilt to be getting on with, so listen to me: don’t you worry about me. I have Ronan, and I have a wonderful daughter-in-law in Clara, and soon there’s to be a baby, too – I’m to be a grandmother and I can’t tell you how excited I am about that. I’ll survive this. So will you. Conor wouldn’t have it any other way.
Good luck.
All my love,
Maggie
Chapter Eleven
NATALIE LEFT ANDREW sitting on the edge of the bed, texting. She closed the bathroom door and ran herself a bath. She’d already had a shower that morning, but sometimes a hot bath was all that would do it. Andrew was chatting to the girls, something he managed quite happily by text. Nat couldn’t bear the text speak, the ‘how r u’, the punctuated smiley faces. She liked to speak in full sentences, to spell and punctuate correctly, even when communicating electronically. These things were important.
Andrew was better at going with the flow, which was probably why Grace and Charlotte’s preference appeared to have switched from mother to father over the past couple of years. Natalie tried not to be hurt by this. It was inevitable, really; Andrew had always been the cooler one. Not that that was difficult. Natalie was steadfastly, resolutely uncool. Always had been. It was the coolest thing about her, Andrew always said. He, however, had found a way to be
ironically
down with the kids without generating the kind of gold medal-winning eye rolling which Nat was greeted with when she tried to communicate with them on their level.
She lowered herself gently into the bath. One of her greatest pleasures, this. She liked to get into the bath when there was barely any water in it, lie as flat as she could, feel the heat build around her. She let her head slip down, so that her ears were underwater and the sound of her breathing was amplified. Beyond that there were other sounds, unidentifiable sounds, people moving around the house, walking up and down the stairs, something else, deeper, further away, a voice, low and steady. She splashed water over her chest and torso, wriggled her hips a little, feeling the tension in her body seep out into the water. Her head was buzzing slightly from the pills – they gave her the merest hint of a high, made her throat dry, made her feel like she wanted a cigarette.
She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in sixteen years; she gave up in hospital.
Most important, though, as I have written in my letter, is that the last thing, the very last thing on earth that my son would have wanted, would have been to see you punished any more than you have already been. The idea of you going to prison would have been horrifying to him, as it is to me.
That, Andrew, is more or less what I have written to be presented as evidence to the judge. This is what I have to say to you. This thing you have done, it could destroy you. It could ruin your life. It has taken your best friend, it has taken your career. I imagine it has taken a lot more besides.
You could let it destroy you. I hope you will not. You could let it define you, too, and I’m not entirely sure that would be a bad thing. It sounds rather trite to say to you: make sure that something good comes out of this, but that is what I want you to do. Don’t run away from it, don’t hide from it. Let it sit with you. Let it become a part of you.
Live a good life, whatever that means to you. Find someone to love, someone who loves you. I don’t know if that’ll be that tall blonde drink of water you’re knocking around with right now, or whether it’ll be someone else. Make it someone who values you.
Don’t fight it. Let it define you, just don’t let it consume you. It’s a fine line, I’m sure. I hope that you can find it.
Now, I know you have enough guilt to be getting on with, so listen to me: don’t you worry about me. I have Ronan, and I have a wonderful daughter-in-law in Clara, and soon there’s to be a baby, too – I’m to be a grandmother and I can’t tell you how excited I am about that. I’ll survive this. So will you. Conor wouldn’t have it any other way.
Good luck.
All my love,
Maggie
Chapter Eleven
NATALIE LEFT ANDREW sitting on the edge of the bed, texting. She closed the bathroom door and ran herself a bath. She’d already had a shower that morning, but sometimes a hot bath was all that would do it. Andrew was chatting to the girls, something he managed quite happily by text. Nat couldn’t bear the text speak, the ‘how r u’, the punctuated smiley faces. She liked to speak in full sentences, to spell and punctuate correctly, even when communicating electronically. These things were important.
Andrew was better at going with the flow, which was probably why Grace and Charlotte’s preference appeared to have switched from mother to father over the past couple of years. Natalie tried not to be hurt by this. It was inevitable, really; Andrew had always been the cooler one. Not that that was difficult. Natalie was steadfastly, resolutely uncool. Always had been. It was the coolest thing about her, Andrew always said. He, however, had found a way to be
ironically
down with the kids without generating the kind of gold medal-winning eye rolling which Nat was greeted with when she tried to communicate with them on their level.
She lowered herself gently into the bath. One of her greatest pleasures, this. She liked to get into the bath when there was barely any water in it, lie as flat as she could, feel the heat build around her. She let her head slip down, so that her ears were underwater and the sound of her breathing was amplified. Beyond that there were other sounds, unidentifiable sounds, people moving around the house, walking up and down the stairs, something else, deeper, further away, a voice, low and steady. She splashed water over her chest and torso, wriggled her hips a little, feeling the tension in her body seep out into the water. Her head was buzzing slightly from the pills – they gave her the merest hint of a high, made her throat dry, made her feel like she wanted a cigarette.
She hadn’t smoked a cigarette in sixteen years; she gave up in hospital.
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