Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

‘Would it be all right if I take a shower?’ he finally asks, stifling his yawn.

‘Of course,’ I say with a smile. ‘I left a towel on the chair beside you. You go shower, and I’ll have a coffee out here waiting for you.’

He thanks me, collects the towel, and continues through to the small bathroom. With the door closed and locked, I slide out the postcard I’d hidden as soon as I’d heard him surface. The image of two parasols on golden sand and a tropical ocean on the horizon has me cringing with jealousy. It’s been too long since I’ve been abroad, or on any kind of holiday really.

The postcard was on the doormat when we returned last night, and I’m touched that Rachel thought to write to me; she’s always been anti-postcards, which makes this arrival all the more surprising. I remember one of our many drunken conversations when we were at university when she started on her ‘postcards are a waste of time and money’ rant.

‘Most people only go on holiday for a week – two at most – so what’s the need to write back and tell your friends how wonderful a time you’re having?’ she questioned. ‘Holidaymakers spend ages trying to find the perfect card to send to that friend or relative – that’s assuming they’ve remembered to bring everyone’s addresses with them – and then have to think of something to say that is more original than wish you were here. Then there’s the mission to find somewhere speaking English where international stamps can be purchased at extortionate prices.’

‘I think it’s a nice thing to do,’ I argued. ‘Receiving a postcard from someone you’ve maybe not heard from in a while is a reminder that you’re still in their thoughts.’

‘Send them a text message or a WhatsApp instead.’

‘It’s also a nice way to see parts of the world you may never have visited.’

‘But most of the time the person arrives home before the damned postcard does anyway!’

Turning the card over in my hand, I laugh when I see Rachel has stuck with the usual postcard tropes. She and Daniella are having a wonderful time; the weather is warmer than the UK; she’s been pigging out on paella, and she’s missing me. It’s the final line in the postcard that had me hiding it beneath a pile of papers on the kitchen table when Jack stumbled through.

Have you shagged Jack yet?

I know she’s only teasing, but I can’t believe she had the audacity to write that on the back of a postcard – a postcard that will have been handled by at least four or five people as it moved from Spain to England, and then arrived on my doormat. I’m not saying that every person working in the postal service reads other people’s postcards, but they could have. I dread the next time I come face-to-face with my postman, knowing he may be looking at me and wondering the same thing.

Turning the card back over to stare at the beach scene, it really could have been snapped anywhere with a warmer climate than the UK. There’s nothing distinctively Spanish about it, aside from the stencilled letters advising me it is from España. What I’d give for a few days by a pool, putting everything out of my mind.

A vigorous knocking at my door snaps me back to my kitchen. Standing and straightening my dressing gown, I have a panic that the postman will be on the other side, snickering, even though I know he’s already been.

Rick’s face pops out from behind the bunch of flowers as I open the door. ‘Morning,’ he says. ‘I wanted to apologise for taking off yesterday. As soon as I was back on the motorway, I hated myself for not sticking around. I was actually worried this morning that you wouldn’t be here and I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t get to see you again. Here, these are for you,’ he adds, thrusting the flowers towards me.

They are white lilies – my favourites. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ I say, hiding my red cheeks behind the cellophane. ‘I told you to go, and I shouldn’t have kept you for as long as I did. These really weren’t necessary, but they are beautiful, so thank you.’

‘I also felt bad about how we left things. It wasn’t right for me to put that kind of pressure on you. You barely know me, but through your writing I feel like I do know you, and I’m in no position to be making demands. Of course I should expect there to be competition for you; you’re the great Emma Hunter. I’m only surprised there isn’t a queue of suitors ahead of me here today.’

If any more blood rushes to my face, it may explode. I’m trying to find the words to respond when Rick touches my arm and saves me the effort.

‘There was another reason I stopped by: I thought you might like to hear the latest about the Neville family.’

Despite my involvement with the Nevilles still being so recent, it feels like days since I’ve thought about them. ‘There’s news?’

He nods, with a look of sadness that I don’t expect from someone who always seems to be smiling. ‘They interviewed Jo-Jo yesterday and asked her about how she ended up at her auntie’s house, and she told the specialists that her mummy drove her there and told her she’d be staying with her aunt for a few days, and that when the holiday was over, she’d have to pretend she hadn’t been there so that her aunt didn’t get in trouble. When confronted with Jo-Jo’s admission, Tina admitted the whole thing, and was charged late last night. She’s been bailed pending a court appearance, and Jo-Jo will remain in the care of social services until a decision can be made about her long-term wellbeing.’

I now understand the melancholy in Rick’s