Shell, 22
The 18th letter
London
Dear Ricky,
This letter will be brief compared to my usual ramblings - the estate agents are waiting. That’s right; you will have to start writing to a new address soon because I am officially moving in with Maggie. The negotiations have been made; the boxes are ready to be packed, stacked and labelled; and the deposit is ready to leave my protective and resentful bank account.
Life is moving so rapidly yet I feel like I’ve achieved very little, but perhaps this is the first step to a new adventure. The last time I was living my life vicariously was back in Tenerife. I hate to admit it, but I still think of our time there a lot and smile like a freak! It was the last blast of freedom before the begrudging stresses of adult life. Now, instead of considering how many shots I can drink it will be how many bills I can pay off. Though I suppose that’s a benefit I’ll have living with Maggie, she’s growing up to be a very successful business woman. Yes, life on this side of London will be a much tamer life than the reckless days of Joanie and me.
It still pains me to think of her. Joanie. It’s almost a year to the day that she ran away from home, ran away from this life, which included me. I recently remembered her spending 200 euros on that rug in Tenerife because it ‘matched the curtains at home’ (though I suspected it was more so because she was attracted to the tall, dark, handsome salesman with the foreign charm) Do you remember? Not the attractive salesman that is… How times have changed since she left England so long ago; though time will never let me forget that awful rug!
I adore the memories from that week, and I thank you for helping me keep those memories alive through these letters. I truly thought it was a naïve wish that two people in this day and age could remain pen pals after a brief connection on Holiday. Especially since you’re on the other side of the world! If we ever lose touch, know that I will never look at the stars in the same way, ever again…
“You ready?” Maggie leaned against the door frame swinging her car keys between her fingers.
“Yep just give me two ticks”
“We can’t be late for this meeting with the Estate agents; they already hate us, the snobs.” Ironically said by the ultimate snob.
“Literally give me two seconds-”
Got to go,
Love Shell
I folded the letter and found a yellow envelop from the drawer, concealing my embarrassing addiction from prying eyes. Maggie strolled forward, wearing her new Gucci outfit. It was practically all ivory with a shimmering burnt orange lining. I looked down and noticed a pair of new, suede, cream coloured stilettoes. How she would manage to keep those clean I had no idea, although knowing Maggie, she would be able to do so with annoying ease. ‘Such a fashionable woman’ is all anybody would think to say about Maggie; which I would think fair if she was a bit of a bimbo. But alas, she achieved straight A’s in school, college and a First at University, apart from failing Religious Studies of all things. She was never one for listening to opinions she didn’t care for, hence why business was the preferred route for her to take. Now going from strength to strength she’s working towards running her own jewellery shop, at my age too, which embarrassingly I am merely working in. Not that it ever affected our friendship - her being my boss and soon to be housemate.
Regrettably, I’ve always felt rather a dim light next to her gleaming references, clothes and complexion. Maggie began glancing in the mirror and fixing her silky fringe before leaning over my desk.
“Are you still writing to that American guy?”
“Yes” I couldn’t hide the smile spreading across my jaw, and she had no reason to hide hers; although I could never tell whether she was smirking at me or with me.
“How long have you been writing now? Over a year?”
“Almost two.” How quickly the time had passed. Two years since us girls ran off to Tenerife, ‘us girls’ meaning Alison the wannabe Lawyer; Sarah the hippy; Joanie the party animal and me, well, I’m not sure what my reputation nor tag name would have been. I suppose it would be something along the lines of the bookworm or the literary. Therefore, it had been two whole years since I had met Ricky in Tenerife, by falling off a table I was attempting to dance the night away on and landing right on top of his head.
It all seemed too good to be true, too cliché. It reminded me of a Hollywood film - entertaining lovely ideas but ultimately unrealistic. I hated what movies did to precious books, missing out the finest details and romanticising everything. But now it seemed to be happening to me; a far off foreign romance, prolonged by letters that were ever growing in affection and intrigue. This completely perfect, American guy, two years older, five inches taller, with deep green eyes and shaggy brown hair. He was a film-maker, a fun lover and-
“Why letters?”
“Huh?” I said, resisting to come out of my reminiscent fantasies.
“Why wait around for the postman when you’ve got a phone, email, Skype?” Maggie twittered as we got into her shoddy Polo car, it was the only thing shoddy about her. But, when one builds oneself up from being a student to owning a business within a year I suppose one must make a few sacrifices. I also suppose that if I were ever to be that financially comfortable, I would have possibly chosen the Gucci outfit too. Then again, I had always fancied a Porsche... Ricky had a Porsche. The smile still hadn’t left my face. I felt like a top-class idiot.
“I don’t know, letters are just - it’s just different. Anyone can call, text or even email. I hate technology anyway.” Probably because I was rubbish with it. I felt like an associate of Charles Dickens who had unfortunately been thrown into this world of monstrous gadgets, when all I could really wish for was a precious pen and paper.
If I let myself think about it, the truth ran far deeper. My complicated relationship with the written word lay in the ashes of a Bonfire.
“Letters just… save you from wasting time I think.” I finally said, distracting myself. “Especially with men, they actually have to make an effort to keep in contact. You know if they’re going to be a decent friend if they bother to write to you”
“Friend?” Maggie smirked.
“Besides, you express far more in a letter. There isn’t any agonisingly tedious small talk; nor awkward stalls in conversation. In letters you don’t tend to throw words awa-”
“It’s just like one of your precious story books” She said indifferently. “What’s that character your Dad made up when you were little that you were always so obsessed with?” The smirk still hadn’t left her face. “Some fantastic fairy or angelic angel or something”
“The Good Witch” I said plainly. I didn’t rise to the comment.
“That’s right!” Maggie said laughing. “And what would your Good Witch think of this Yankie?” I didn’t answer. She had no reason to make me feel childish, I was fully aware of the fact that I relished in my fairy tales and storybooks. It’s what keeps me happy, as well as these letters. Though, come to think of it, Maggie tended to belittle anything that was a result of that Holiday. I suppose it was because she didn’t come to Tenerife with us, she was far more concerned with making a name for herself, ‘no time for wasting time’ she always said. Her priorities were forever different to ours.
“Hasn’t he invited you over to America yet? You can’t write to a guy for two years for nothing” Maggie said after beeping her car horn at a lane-hogging cyclist.
I admit, it was a strange story to tell, writing for years only to never see each other again. But these letters made me feel as if he were right beside me. Not in the damsel in distress, hand on forehead, fan to the chin kind of way. It was simply a warm feeling of someone, a true friend, being there. A comfortable feeling, like music in the background. You don’t need to know what song it is, the lyrics, or even acknowledge the fact that music is playing… it’s just there.
In fact, the thought of meeting him again either here or in America was rather unsettling. He always seemed so cool, so sexy, so happy and passionate in his letters; whereas I had always babbled on about aimless troubles and mortifying memories. I’ve just wanted to selfishly keep this routine, this mysterious series of 20 questions and story-telling.
“Since when did you become Miss Love Mug?” Maggie grinned after I had fallen into another blushing silence.
I thought about it. It was the night when he took me up to the roof. The night that made me feel like a princess in a fairy tale or a damsel to be wooed in a periodic piece of literature.
It was undeniably, the Night of the Stars.
This is simply breathtaking, what is the story itself about? It comes across very well written.
It seems to be revolving around friends, or long-lost family? If I am reading this correctly, and you said you went to Spain to re-draft this. I can just picture you there.