Mr Parish didn’t notice my alarm. ‘I will do my best to look at the manuscript if you get a copy to me. Certainly. There was some originality in that first lot of poems. Didn’t say anything then. Thought it best you find your own paces. No good to drench a young poet in praise—but you’re onto something. You’re not an imposter. It wasn’t all derivative.’

Well, that’s pretty ample praise from Mr James Parish, but unfortunately I didn’t really register it at the time. I’ll admit, Tilde, I had a few under the belt (might a woman say that? I was in fact wearing a belt if that helps) and all I could think was: Jo didn’t even give him the manuscript!

Jo reached across the table. ‘Veda,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry darling, I just kept forgetting … I don’t know why. I was so busy, Veda …’ I could see he was trying to keep my lid on so I didn’t explode.

But I did explode, Tilde. All the wine, and the resentments of the evening—they overcame me. I felt myself rise up like some sea-creature from the depths of the ocean. Jo got out of his seat, fearing the worst, saying: ‘Veda, Veda. Bloody hell! Just stop for a second …’

But I couldn’t stop. I picked up my full glass of red wine and I threw it at him. Across June’s beautiful table linen, across the front of Jo’s shirt and Mr Parish’s grey jacket, and across the book of original limited edition prints Mr Parish had open in front of him.

Yes, Tilde, red wine.

And then I was properly ashamed. Straight away. Immediately. I shrank immediately to nothing. Mr Parish called me a ‘fucking idiot!’ Mrs Parish ran for salt, vinegar, water. The table setting, the shirt, the jacket … these were all forgivable. But not the book of prints, Tilde. Not the book of prints.

I will not report on the rest of that evening. Suffice to say, Jo and I left. Mrs Parish presumably dropped Owen at school this morning; I will pick him up at half-past three. Beyond that there has been no word. Jo phoned half an hour ago to say he will stay at Ornella’s until I ‘feel better’.

I am being rightly punished. I have wept and wept, but now I am cold, like stone. I am a stone-cold statue and, of course, that’s what I should’ve been in the first place, and none of this would ever have happened.

Write to me.

Veda x

† † †

24 APRIL 1967

Dear Tilde,