Ruth had to read that through a few times. She had to read the whole letter through a few times, hearing Clio’s most self-righteous voice, her perpetual inability to ever have a sense of humour at her own expense, bell-clear. Her eyes would have been brimming, Ruth thought, as she wrote this. She would have been extremely moved by her own plight, the way she was crafting it for others.

Gambling.

Gambling.

So, this was all part of a plan, then? Part of a long-drawn-out plan. Ruth thought of Clio’s fiftieth birthday party last year and all the work she hadn’t minded doing, to help her get set up. It seemed like such a good thing for her to do. But Clio had been driven by a weird desperation as they planned the party; the same mood as she’d been in in the pub the other night. The party to end all parties. Got to be, she’d said.

So had she already planned it then? More than a year ago? The party, the strange staginess of her last depressed period that Ruth had noticed but filed away, the trips she’d mentioned making last autumn to see long-lost friends. The intent of it all. And the intent was what? Always to have Ruth discover her body, report her as depressed, then rise like a ginger lipsticked Jesus three days later with a fucking press release to the national media?

But not even to leave a little scrap of paper. Not even to put something down in writing for the friend of more than a decade who would have to deal with her dead body. Not even a tiny, private acknowledgement. Sorry I left my corpse for you to find! Thanks for everything! Love you!

Ruth felt exposed. Her small, tightly held schoolgirl crush turned into a resource, knowingly exploited over years. The blood rushed to her big already red cheeks, to her head, and she wasn’t sure whether it was shame or anger pulsing there, tick tick tick in her temple.

When Alison came home, there were fresh flowers in a jug on the table, and Ruth called to her from the kitchen, sank her face into her neck, poured her a glass of wine. After dinner, with candles flickering, she reached for her girlfriend’s hand over the table.

‘Ali. You are the one person in my life who has consistently and openly been there for me. I want you to know how much I appreciate you. And I wanted to ask you whether you’d consider marrying me. I want to spend the rest of our lives together.’

Yeah. Take that, Clio. Take that, take that.

DONALD

Achiltibuie, 24 January 2018