Beth received the parcel on Saturday. It contained a photograph from one of the early events she had helped organise, two small gifts Celia had once bought for her and a handwritten note about friendship.
She brought the note to my kitchen, leaving the rest at home.
“I don’t want to make this into a ceremony of returning every nice thing,” she said. “I also don’t want to sign it.”
At the bottom, Celia had suggested wording for a letter describing her character. The proposed sentences said she had always put other people’s needs before her own and had never used her position for personal advantage.
Beth put a finger beneath that line.
“We know that isn’t true.”
“Yes.”
“She says it’s about the person, not the accounts.”
I read the line again. It required Beth to separate a person from her actions so completely that nothing inconvenient could cross between them.
“You can describe genuine help without saying this,” I said.
“I don’t want to write any letter she’s drafted for me.”
“Then don’t.”
She sat back, relieved and upset at once.
There were real memories attached to the gifts: a scarf given when she’d arrived cold, a small notebook before her first renewed work meeting. Celia had paid attention at moments when Beth felt invisible. Beth did not want those memories stolen by a later demand.
“I feel as though refusing means admitting I used her.”
“Would you have signed it if she’d never bought you anything?”
“No.”
“There’s your answer.”
Beth nodded, then asked if I would sit nearby while she wrote her reply. She wanted to send it herself.
The first draft apologised four times. She read it aloud, frowned and deleted three of them. In the final version she thanked Celia for the drives to appointments, then wrote: I won’t sign this. You know why. If I’m asked what happened, I’ll give my own account.
She also repeated her request not to be contacted about accounts other people had given.
“Enough?”
“Does it leave anything you need to say unsaid?”
She considered that rather than waiting for my approval.
“No.”
She sent it.
We put the note aside and talked about the homewares launch. The client had approved the layout. Beth needed to finish a detailed equipment list and arrange collection of the display items still kept with Martin’s remaining property.
“I’m not buying everything again because asking feels difficult,” she said.
Her solicitor was helping arrange access and confirm which items she could collect.
I offered to help carry equipment when a proper collection was arranged. She accepted the offer without adding an apology for its size.
Celia replied while we were discussing the van.
I never expected you to turn your back on me.
Beth read it, then placed the phone face down.
“I expected that.”
“Does that make it easier?”
“A little. Not much.”
She asked whether she should send another explanation. I asked what a second message could explain that the first hadn’t.
After a moment, she shook her head.
“Nothing.”
Tom came in with a bag of shopping and asked whether we wanted lunch. He addressed the question to both of us and waited. Beth said she had another appointment but would take a sandwich if there was time.
We made sandwiches. The normality of choosing a filling seemed to loosen something in her face.
Before leaving, she asked what she should do with the note. I suggested keeping it unchanged, particularly since it related to requests about what she might say. She decided to inform the police contact and ask how they wanted any relevant material supplied.
At the door she smiled suddenly.
“I’m keeping the scarf. It’s warm.”
“A useful quality in a scarf.”
“And I’m still not signing.”
After she left, I found the first discarded draft in the bin, torn through the unnecessary apologies.
I left it there.
She had already sent the words she meant.