Just The Way You Are

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‘Please,’ I said, pouting like a child begging for sweets. ‘It’d mean the world to me and I know everyone will love hearing about you and Leo!’

Ivy sighed and threw her hands up in defeat. ‘What if I promise to think about it? I’m not sure I like the idea of my private affairs splashed all over a magazine.’

‘Fair enough, here’s my card. If you fancy doing an interview, give me a call when you’re free, and we can set something up!’

Satisfied with the promise that Ivy would think about letting me tell her story, I decided to go off in search of Nate or Max. I prepared myself to join the throng of neatly paired-up people on the dance floor and my stomach dropped into my shoes.

‘Oh honey, I didn’t catch your name!’ Ivy called.

I screwed my eyes shut with embarrassment. I’d been so busy listening to her that I’d totally forgotten to introduce myself.

‘Ava Clements,’ I replied.

‘Nice to meet you Ava Clements.’

‘Likewise Ivy St Clair.’

Chapter 7 (#ulink_7a925a72-da96-560c-a193-58cfc8bab202)

The second letter arrived on a Wednesday.

It came in the middle of a totally hectic week while I was rushing around trying to find the black pumps Gwen had borrowed for her date with Tom the night before. She had a habit of putting things back in odd places, especially when she’d had a few drinks. It wasn’t unusual to find handbags under the sink or jewellery in the fridge.

I was throwing cushions off one of the sofas at lightning speed when I caught sight of the letter. It was lying on our flower-shaped doormat along with some flyers for new takeaways opening in the area. I picked it up and a shiver of anticipation worked its way down my spine as I recognised the neat sloping handwriting. Without hesitation, I ripped it open and pulled out the letter.

Dear Ava,

As I promised in the last letter, I’m writing to you again. I can see how happy the magic surrounding them is making you and it’s wonderful. At first, I was worried about starting the letters again. For all I knew, you could’ve met someone and built a life with them; in that case, a letter from me would’ve been nothing more than a temporary trip down memory lane. After I sent the first one though, I knew I couldn’t and wouldn’t be able to stop. When it comes to you Ava, I’m a different person. Normally, I’m afraid to jump in, of getting my heart broken, but not where you’re concerned. You could break my heart into a million pieces and it wouldn’t change how I feel about you. To me, you’d still be the same wonderful woman you’ve always been.

I’ve never forgotten you, Ava. Your smile, your laugh, the sparkle in your eyes; it’s all still so clear to me even after all this time. I also remember how you made me feel: relaxed, at peace with the whole world and like anything was possible. If I was ever stressed or needed someone to make me feel better, I went to you and whatever was bothering me instantly melted away. You made me look at the world differently and I can’t thank you enough for that.

So with that in mind, I’m going to make a promise to you. When you find out who I am and if you’ll have me, I promise that I’ll be there for you whenever you’re scared or unsure. I’ll wrap you up in my arms and tell you everything will be OK because it will. You’ve got an amazing knack for turning things around if only you’d believe in yourself a bit more.

I’m well aware that when I do finally tell you who I am, there’s a chance you might decide you don’t have feelings for me. That does worry me a bit but I’ve loved you for so long that taking the chance to create something beautiful with you far outweighs any fears I’ve got. Believe me, you’re more than worth it.

Keep smiling, beautiful

Love always

?

The world around me seemed to melt away as I lost myself in the words. Getting a glimpse of what our life together would be like when we found each other took my breath away. Knowing he would take care of me and be there for me no matter what made my heart yearn for him.

‘Why can’t you just tell me who you are?’ I whispered.

I held the paper between my index finger and thumb like it was a piece of delicate china I was afraid of breaking. A ball of frustration built up inside me and all I wanted to do was scream as loud as I could. How could someone who wrote so beautifully be so hesitant to reveal himself? He wrote about wanting us to be together and to show me how much he loved me yet he was the only one stopping that from happening. I gave a heavy sigh, stuffed the letter in my handbag then dashed out the door after realising how late I was running.

I got to Starbucks around ten minutes later than planned. Luckily, the person I was meeting hadn’t arrived yet. I went inside and ordered myself a medium mocha and a piece of lemon drizzle cake.

‘That’s £4.85,’ the scary-looking barista informed me.

I opened my mouth to protest at the ridiculously high price but thought better of it when her bushy eyebrows lowered even further. Instead, I shoved a £5 note in her hand, muttered something about keeping the change and took my tray to a table by the window. The chocolate-coloured tub chairs were so comfortable and I had a great vantage point for looking onto the High Street.

However, it was inside that really caught my interest. While I waited for my lunch companion to turn up, I sat round in my chair and gazed at the other diners. They were all so different; some were young, some were old, some were alone and others were with a partner or friend. Coffee shops really were the best places to people-watch. I scanned the room, looking at each person for no more than a few seconds. It fascinated me to think that there were so many stories in one room. For the next five minutes, I amused myself by making up little backstories for some of my fellow diners. One lady who looked like a librarian was confiding in her friend about a torrid affair she was having to escape her boring marriage, a smart, business-like woman wanted to tell her impossibly hunky best friend she had feelings for him and two mothers with buggies were thinking about each other’s husbands…

Just as I wondered whether to make an old man sitting in the corner someone who’d been stood up for a blind date or a widower who came to his wife’s favourite coffee place every day, in she walked. She looked as splendid as ever, wearing a crisp white blouse and fitted black trousers. Her silver hair was neatly styled and the trademark sparkle in her eyes burned brightly. All the diners stopped to look at her; Ivy St Clair knew how to make an entrance.

I waved so she could see me, and a smile illuminated her beautiful face when she did. She walked over to my table and took a seat opposite me.

‘Why hello there sugar! Nice to see you again, you look divine if I may say so.’ Her Deep South accent was a joy to hear and such a contrast to the Mancunian brogue I was used to hearing.

‘Thanks Ivy, so do you,’ I replied with a smile. ‘And thanks for agreeing to meet me today; the weather’s not the best is it?’

I gestured to the drab, grey morning we’d been greeted with. Dark clouds were gathering overhead and it looked like the heavens would open any minute.

‘No but that’s good ol’ England for you, huh? Still, back in New Orleans there were hurricanes like you’ve never seen before, so this is an improvement!’

‘Do you want a drink and something to eat?’ I asked.

‘No thank you honey, I just ate breakfast.’ Ivy patted her stomach and unwound the teal scarf from round her neck. ‘Got to watch the ol’ figure as well, especially at my age.’

I chuckled. Ivy couldn’t be any more than seventy and looked fantastic for her age; she definitely didn’t need to watch her weight.

‘Shall we just start the interview then?’ I rummaged in my bag for my tape recorder and accidentally pulled Mr Writer’s latest letter out. Flustered, I stuffed it back in as quickly as I could. Not quickly enough, however, judging by the smile forming on Ivy’s lips.

‘Something important?’ she asked with a knowing look.

‘G-gas bill.’ I stumbled over my words but still retained some hope I’d sounded convincing. I felt bad lying to her but the Mr Writer affair was something to be dealt with another time.

‘Honey, if it’s one thing I’ve learned from my seventy-two years on this earth, it’s that you never keep gas bills in your handbag. That letter either has something really good or really bad written on it. Judging by the way you’re smilin’ right now, I’ll go with really good.’

I blushed and tried to force my smile down but it wouldn’t leave. There was no doubt where my head was this morning: Cloud Nine.

‘Tell you what; I’ll let you read the letter after the interview’s done, OK?’

‘Child, you got yourself a deal.’

***

‘So was the jazz scene always big in New Orleans?’

‘Oh sure it was! I remember when I was a little girl, my daddy would always play Ella Fitzgerald records around the house. I fell in love with the sound right away and it was my dream to sing like her. When I was old enough, I started visiting the jazz clubs on Bourbon Street and when I was eighteen, I saw her perform live. She just… she captivated the room with her voice and I knew instantly that jazz singing was what I was meant to do. It all came together in that moment as I listened to her sing; I knew I was in the right place at exactly the right time.’

Her deep brown eyes misted over as she spoke and her voice was rich with emotion. Jazz music flowed through Ivy’s veins; it was a part of her, rooted in her very soul.

‘You said you met Leo at one of the jazz clubs you sang at. Which one was it?’

A smile that hovered between happy and sad spread across Ivy’s face, bringing the trademark lines to the corners of her eyes.

‘Why yes I did; it was at The Black Cat Jazz Club on Bourbon Street. I was singing Dream a Little Dream of Me and I saw him sitting in the corner of the room. Our eyes met and it was like the world stopped. I kinda knew then that nothing would ever be the same again and it wasn’t. He approached me after the show and asked if he could take me out sometime. In those days, if you were a gentleman, you asked permission from the girl’s father to take her out and that’s exactly what Leo did. My daddy said no, what with Leo being British and all, but I snuck out to meet him all the same.’ Her eyes misted over and I could see the memories play out across her face. I could tell that even now, fifty years on, she still had a powerful connection to Mr Leo Browning. ‘For our first date, we went to City Park with a picnic and just sat all night, talking and looking at the stars. We spent three amazing months together before he had to go back home. He’d come over with his aunt, uncle and cousins; his father was dying back in England, you see. When his vacation ended, he had to come back home to take over the family accountancy business. My family didn’t approve but that didn’t matter to us. Being parted from him broke my heart and I don’t think it’s ever really healed.’

My own heart felt like it was being pulverised in my chest. I’d never heard such a sad story before. I’d thought my own tale of lost love was sad but Ivy’s was on a whole other level. I hadn’t gotten to know Mr Writer as a person; he’d always been this character on paper, made partly from the grand gestures he wrote about and partly from my expectations of him. I didn’t know him like Ivy had known Leo.

‘Couldn’t you have come to England with him?’ I ventured. ‘You two could’ve built a new life here together and lived happily ever after.’

The thought of happy-ever-afters tugged at my heartstrings. A sad smile came to my face as I realised our lack of fairy tale endings was what bound us together. We both had unfinished stories: me with Mr Writer and Ivy with Leo.

She let out a wry laugh. ‘My family absolutely hated Leo; they wouldn’t have him over the front door, much less let me run away to England with him! They said he wasn’t like us because his family were rich and their values were different from ours. They didn’t want me being corrupted by his world or made a fool of because I didn’t belong.’

‘That’s awful,’ I replied. ‘Did they even get to know him?’

‘Goodness me, no! He was different and that was enough for them. If they’d gotten to know him, they’d have realised that for all his money and wealth, Leo was the most kind-hearted soul in the world. He had time for everyone and had a million ways to make you smile.’

I shifted round in my seat to make myself more comfortable. I’d expected a great love story, but this was out of this world.

‘So what happened after Leo went back to England?’

‘Well, my heart was broken; for a while, I even gave up performing because it reminded me of him so much. Eventually though, life moved on as it always does. I met a lovely man named Roger Jeffries around a year after Leo left, we got married a year after that and had two wonderful kids, Carolyn and Thomas. Roger died five years ago so I came over to England to live with Carolyn and her family.’

As I listened, I couldn’t help feeling that Ivy was the perfect candidate for a happy ending. If anyone deserved to be reunited with their teenage sweetheart, it was her.

The interview drew to a close around an hour later. Ivy had told me stories about her time with Leo, her life in New Orleans and her time as a jazz singer.

‘Wow, I can’t believe you sang with Louis Armstrong and Linda Ronstadt!’ I said as I started my second cup of coffee.

Ivy sipped the green tea that the barista had brought over just a few minutes before. ‘They were just the best people to work with. I’ve been lucky with the opportunities I’ve had in life but I gotta tell you, I’d give them all up to see Leo one last time.’ She took a short pause to drink her tea then looked at me with a knowing smile. ‘Anyway, now that the interview’s over, do I get to see your mystery letter?’

I nodded, fished it out of my bag and slid it across the table to Ivy. As she read it, her eyes widened and her smile grew wider.

‘Looks like somebody’s got themselves an admirer! Do you know who he is?’ She handed the letter back to me and stared at me, anticipation dancing across her face.

I shook my head, feeling a little pang of disappointment. ‘No, I-I never found out who he was. He started sending me letters when I was at university and we arranged to meet but he stood me up. The letters started again last week and he says he’s going to tell me who he is this time.’

‘Child, I’m gonna tell you somethin’ that you might not wanna hear, but don’t wait around for him.’

An imaginary block of ice came out of nowhere and dropped to the pit of my stomach.

‘Why not? He says he’s really going to do it this time and I believe him.’

Ivy’s face broke into a kind smile. ‘What I meant was, don’t wait around on him doing some big gesture to tell you who he is. Go and find him for yourself! Did you ever have any suspicions about who it might be?’

‘Well, sure I had a couple of ideas but–’

‘Then start there. What have you got to lose? You’re a bright young woman, I’m sure you’re more than capable of tracking down the man who wrote you those letters.’

‘It’s not that easy, Ivy; I’ve had my heart broken more times than I can count. My dad wasn’t exactly a great male role model: he ran off when I was nine because he couldn’t hack fatherhood and sent me a letter saying he didn’t want to see me ever again.’ Tears brewed in my eyes and my throat became tight and itchy. Reliving the most painful events of my life wasn’t something I relished doing.‘Then there was my first and last serious boyfriend, Dave. He decided that buggering off round the world with his job was more appealing than a life with me.’

‘Honey, I can feel it in my bones: the guy writing these letters is different. You can ask anybody, I ain’t ever wrong. Get looking for him and find your Prince Charming, girl!’

‘You know, I might just do that,’ I replied. My insides buzzed with excitement; this meeting with Ivy had been just the push I needed.

By the time I left Starbucks, the sun was already disappearing behind Manchester’s red brick giants that loomed over the city like guardians. I’d already made my mind up to mount a full-scale search for Mr Writer. Not only that, I was going to find a certain Leo Browning too.

Chapter 8 (#ulink_a8b9c66e-efcf-5cbb-9153-0e9cd0ccf75a)

The battered shortbread tin sat opposite me on the couch. It looked a lot worse for wear than it had on its last outing. Its lustrous bottle green and red tartan was scuffed and the lid had a huge dent in it from when I’d shoved it to the back of my wardrobe, seemingly for good, six years ago. I looked at it, slurping my slightly cold coffee for courage. I had the flat to myself; Gwen had stayed the night at Tom’s again. To distract myself, I craned my neck to look out of the window; Manchester at five a.m. was quite a sight. The houses beyond the back garden wall were shrouded in a thick fog. It gave them a mysterious Victorian London look. A shimmering frost had been sprinkled on the leaves in the back garden, making them look like they were covered in icing sugar. Manchester in the early winter was always beautiful.

The contents of the shortbread tin weren’t the only thing stopping me from sleeping: I couldn’t stop thinking about Ivy and Leo. They’d fallen in love at a time where difference wasn’t celebrated, where everybody stuck to the status quo and didn’t dare deviate. It was criminal that they’d ever been separated. From what I knew about them, they seemed like two people who were meant to be together. I was going to do my utmost to make sure their story got the ending it deserved.

I turned my thoughts back to the tin and fixed it with a steely glare. It wouldn’t get the better of me.

‘There’s no good looking at me like that,’ I said to it. ‘It won’t make me open you any sooner.’

I was well aware I was talking to an inanimate object that wouldn’t answer back, but it dispersed some of the tension building inside me.

Today marked the first day of my search for Mr Writer and it was becoming increasingly apparent how unprepared I was.

I set down my coffee as a statement of intent and shuffled across the couch to where the tin sat. My hand drew nearer to it until I touched the cool metal lid. It felt smooth beneath my fingers and my breath caught in my throat as I prepared to open it. It was my very own Pandora’s Box and contained a whole section of my past I’d tried to forget. After a final deep breath, I gently pushed the lid off.

‘Oh my God,’ I whispered.

Inside was a large pile of letters. There was so many that they’d had to be jammed in and squashed down by the lid. Sandwiched between two was a pink gerbera daisy from a bouquet he’d sent me; I’d pressed it in my Essential Reporting book to keep it good. I picked up each letter in turn and read them again. Some made me laugh and others moved me to tears. Whoever Mr Writer was, he had a brilliant way of tapping into my feelings. As I lifted yet another one out of the box, I spotted something written in my own handwriting.

‘Here it is!’ I said with a triumphant grin.

Possible Mr Writers

1. James Kelly – barman at the Student Union. Does English Lit so he can write well; total book geek.. Likelihood – 8/10

2. Adam Johnson – posh bloke from Media Law class and lives in my halls. Drop-dead gorgeous, a bit stuck-up but generally nice. Wrote me a very nice note in a lecture once – “You look hot today”. Likelihood – 7/10

3. Dean Smith – Gwen’s boyfriend’s mate. Have seen him reading Pride and Prejudice, means he must be sensitive. Showed me his short stories one night so he can write well. Likelihood – 7/10

4. Max Burrows- best friend and I accidentally snogged him at Gwen’s birthday party. Has been known to be quite romantic at times, don’t know if he can write well or not though. Likelihood- 7/10

I giggled when I saw that Max’s name had been scored out multiple times. He’d never really been a prime candidate for being Mr Writer; I’d added him to the list after a drunken snog at Gwen’s twentieth birthday bash. In the heat of the moment, I’d imagined it had been him writing to me all along; that he’d been under my nose all this time and I just hadn’t realised. I’d scored his name out the next day. Our relationship dynamic was brother-sister; apart from that kiss and another when we were sixteen, he hadn’t laid a finger on me. Plus, Max just wasn’t the romantic type. You were more likely to find him playing rugby or having a laugh with his mates down the pub than penning gorgeous love letters.

I looked at the list again and felt a rush of excitement. It was going to be the starting point for my search for Mr Writer. I’d track down each one in turn, assess their likeliness and eventually decipher the identity of my mystery admirer. It was the perfect plan. Unless, of course, it turned out to be someone I’d never considered, but hopefully they’d let me know before I got too far down the list.

I grabbed my laptop, took a deep breath and began to type the first entry to my new blog. Taking Gwen’s advice, I was going to document my search for Mr Writer. I was hoping to give readers a journey they became hooked on and maybe, just maybe, one of them would give me some valuable information that would help.

Hi there! God where to start with this thing?! Well, my name’s Ava Clements, I’m twenty-six years old and I live in Manchester with my best mate Gwen. I’m a magazine journalist and love wine, cake and Bradley Cooper. Oh and I’m in love with someone I don’t even know.

Well, that’s not entirely true. I do know them, just not who they are. Maybe I should explain. When I was at university, I started receiving letters from a secret admirer. The letters were sensitive and beautiful; it seemed as though whoever was writing them knew me better than I knew myself. The letters kept coming until we arranged to finally meet up in December that year. I was so excited; what girl wouldn’t be? I couldn’t wait to finally see who’d been mad enough about me to send such beautiful letters. However, he didn’t turn up and the letters mysteriously stopped.