Right Number, Wrong Girl

CAMILLA: The side of common sense. Just talk to him. It’s not going to kill you.

ME: It might do.

CAMILLA: You’re being a child about this. I know you’re hurting right now but it’s a hurt of your own creation.

ME: Would you go back if you were me??? Would you pursue a relationship with someone whose mother hated you? Would you put yourself in a situation that would make you uncomfortable?

CAMILLA: I don’t know. I’m not in it. But I do know one thing.

ME: What?

CAMILLA: You can’t keep running away from the things that scare you, Sophie.

***

“There’s another note.” Dad put the envelope down in front of me. “That’s the third one in three days.”

I stared at the little white rectangle. “Throw it out. I’m not interested.”

“Sophie.”

“No, Dad.” I snatched it up and held it up to him. “This woman treated me horribly. I have no interest in anything she has to say to me. I can’t imagine it’s terribly important.”

“She’s come all the way from Devon. That’s not a quick hourlong drive. That’s a heck of a trip for nothing important.”

“Why is everyone on their side?” I slapped the envelope down. “Camilla is. You are. Mum is. Why am I the one in the wrong here? Why can nobody respect my want to just move on from this?”

“Because I know you, pudding, and I don’t think that’s what you really want at all.” He rested his hand on top of mine. “You haven’t smiled since you got here. Not properly. I can see how much you’re hurting.”

“It doesn’t change the situation. It doesn’t change everything that happened.”

“No, it doesn’t. Mistakes were made all around. Nobody here is entirely innocent.”

I stared at him.

“If everyone around you is telling you that perhaps you should be open to hearing what someone has to say, don’t you think you should listen?” He raised his eyebrows.

“No.”

He chuckled and raised his hands. “All right. You’re a grown woman. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do, but I think you should at least read that letter. I know you’re just going to fish it out of the bin to read it later anyway.”

“It’s not my fault I’m curious,” I muttered, eyeing the envelope.

“What harm will reading it do?” He pushed it towards me. “If you don’t like what she has to say in it, nothing changes. If it’s an olive branch…”

I scoffed. “Anna doesn’t extend olive branches. Anna waits for someone else to extend it to her. The previous three notes were all asking us to contact her. If it’s an olive branch, why isn’t she knocking on the door? Why isn’t she calling? Camilla wouldn’t tell Hugo where you live, so why would she tell Anna? It’s a lot of work to track you down just to slip a piece of paper under the door.”

“She has called.” Mum stepped inside and put the egg basket on the kitchen table. “Several times. And she’s knocked on the door twice.”

I looked between them. “And you didn’t tell me?”

She shrugged, looking over the eggs. “I didn’t think you needed to know. I knew you didn’t want to speak to her, and you most certainly don’t want to see her, so I asked her to please stop calling and coming over here.” Her gaze fell to the envelope. “Clearly, she didn’t listen.”

“That family is so bloody persistent,” I grumbled. “When was she last here?”

“Last night when you were in the bath.”

“You told me that was Betty Carlisle.”