The Accidental Love Letter Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Olivia Beirne

  The right of Olivia Beirne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licenses issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an ebook by

  Headline Publishing Group in 2019

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover images © pangpleiades, Suiraton, appledd, Alex Mosilchuk and Tina Bits, all @ Shutterstock.

  Clouds © calvindexter/Getty Images. Author photograph © Nicholas Dawkes Photography

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 5958 5

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Olivia Beirne

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Olivia Beirne is the bestselling author of The List That Changed My Life and lives in Buckinghamshire. She has worked as a waitress, a pottery painter and a casting assistant, but being a writer is definitely her favourite job yet.

  You can keep in touch with Olivia through her website oliviabeirne.co.uk, or via Olivia_Beirne on Twitter, olivia.beirne on Instagram and /Olivia-Beirne on Facebook.

  Also by Olivia Beirne and available from Headline:

  The List That Changed My Life

  About the Book

  What would you do if you received a love letter that wasn’t meant for you?

  Bea used to feel confident, outgoing and fun, but she’s not sure where that person went.

  Over the last few months, she’s found herself becoming reclusive and withdrawn. And despite living with her two best friends, she’s never felt lonelier. To make things worse, she’s become so dependent on her daily routine, she’s started to slip out of everyone else’s.

  But when a mysterious battered envelope covered in stars lands on her doormat, Bea wonders if she could find the courage to open it.

  It isn’t addressed to her, but it could be . . . if you squinted . . .

  To my mum,

  for her continued love and support

  I hold my phone close to my ear as I hear the click of the answering machine.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I smile into the phone. ‘It’s me. It’s not important. I was just calling because my pitch is about to start, and I feel really nervous about it so I wanted to talk to you.’ I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’ll call you when it’s done. Love you, bye.’

  CHAPTER ONE

  My eyes scan the room. Faye is leaning back in her seat, her right finger scrolling endlessly on her iPhone. Duncan is pacing in the corner like a dog working out where to sit, and Angela has her head in her hands. I blink, desperate to quell the fizzing anxiety that is brewing in the pit of my stomach.

  Why isn’t anybody saying anything? This must be the longest they have ever been silent. I take a deep breath and try to look as if I’m completely unfazed by the silence, and not like I’m ready to rip out my fingernails.

  I don’t usually mind sitting in silence. In fact, I love it. But about one minute ago, I pitched an idea to Duncan (Chief Editorial Something or Other), Faye (colleague) and Angela (my boss. Who is great. Or, at least, I thought she was until she took a vow of silence as soon as I gathered up enough courage to voice my sad pitch. Now I think she’s the Devil.)

  This is not how today was supposed to go.

  It was supposed to go like this.

  06.55: Woken up by Emma leaving for work.

  07.00: First alarm goes off. Snooze.

  07.10: Priya gets in from night shift.

  07.15: Priya gets in shower.

  07.20: Second alarm goes off. Snooze.

  07.25: Priya gets out of shower, leaves bathroom, goes to bed.

  07.30: Third alarm goes off. Get out of bed.

  07.35: In shower.

  07.45: Out of shower.

  07.50: Dressed, hair in towel turban. Make breakfast (Weetabix with one spoonful of brown sugar).

  08.00: Back in bedroom. Dry hair and apply make-up.

  08.15: Check bag and packed lunch.

  08.20: Leave for work, wave at neighbour Joy, walk to bus stop.

  08.30: Bus arrives. Get on bus. Find seat on middle row, right aisle, corner seat. Go to work.

  I glance down at my twitching, slightly damp hands.

  That bit all worked out. As always, every minute of this morning went exactly to schedule. Exactly as it has done for the past two years.

  08.50: Arrive at work. Walk upstairs, find seat.

  08.52: Turn on computer. Check emails.

  09.15: Secretly read BuzzFeed articles on nice stories about how cats save their owners, to try to calm burning anxiety.

  09.30: Avoid eye contact with Faye as she arrives for work (half an hour late, as always).

  09.45: Offer to make Angela coffee in attempt to put her in a good mood.

  09.46: Try not to look upset when Angela refuses, and then makes her own.

  09.50: Listen to Beyoncé megamix to feel inspired.

  09.55: Leave desk and walk to pitching room.

  This part of the schedule all went to plan. If I chop up each hour into small segments then nothing seems that scary.

  It was the next part that didn’t follow order.

  10.00: Sit down in pitching room and wait for everyone to arrive.

  10.05: Chat to Duncan, Angela and Faye about weekend in attempt to distract them about pitch.

  10.15: Start pitch.

  10.20: Dazzle co-workers.

  10.30: Terrible ordeal over, but discovered new lease of life and am forever seen as serious, top journalist.

  10.31: Leave pitching room. Reward myself with morning biscuit and check Facebook.

  I glance down at my watch and my stomach lurches
.

  It’s 10.35.

  I finished my pitch at 10.29 (one minute sooner than I had planned, another bad sign) and now, six minutes later, we are all still sitting in silence.

  And not a single person has offered me a biscuit or told me I can go home.

  I shift in my seat.

  What are they all thinking about? Surely they have forgotten what I even said twelve hundred years ago, when I originally made this pitch.

  I weave my fingers into a ball.

  I should have scrapped this whole schedule and just gone with Plan B:

  06.55: Call in sick and avoid entire pitch.

  ‘Right . . .’ Angela prises her head from her hands and focuses her eyes back on me. ‘So, say it to us again, Bea?’

  A rush of heat spins through me.

  Say it again?

  What? Why? I’ve already said it once, and everybody clearly hates it.

  I open my mouth and take a deep breath.

  10.37.

  ‘Erm,’ I start, ‘so, I just think I’d like to focus on—’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Faye squeals from her seat, her eyes still glued to her phone. ‘Sorry,’ she says quickly, ‘just, look at this.’

  She angles her phone towards Duncan, who cranes over.

  ‘It’s a video of a cat, sat on a washing machine!’ Faye cries.

  I shut my mouth again, feeling my face burn.

  10.38.

  ‘Oh!’ Duncan chuckles. ‘That is funny. Angela, have you seen this? It’s a cat, and it’s sat on a washing machine!’

  Okay, well this is going well.

  Would they even notice if I went home?

  I smile back at Duncan as he gestures to Faye’s phone.

  Duncan is a squat man, with a smattering of bristles that poke out of his scalp like stubborn blades of grass. He has a round stomach that hangs over his belt like a beach ball and large teeth that make me think of individual squares of white chocolate.

  He’s not a bad guy, he’s nice enough. But he’s also a total idiot who cries ‘slam dunk!’ every time he finishes a news story and is the cousin of the CEO.

  He once asked me how to spell ‘successful’ and is now convinced I am Carol Vorderman. (Or, as he likes to call me, ‘Albus Einstein’, which is wrong on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin.)

  ‘I just love videos like this,’ Duncan chortles. ‘They are just so heart-warming. We should add more content like this to the website. Don’t you think? I’ve always wanted a cat.’

  His words die in the unbearable silence, and I look back at him.

  Yes, welcome to hell, my friend. Where you say things that you think are interesting, and every single person ignores you.

  I sink back into my seat.

  I work at the local paper, the Middlesex Herald, as a junior reporter. I get sent press releases every day, and it’s my job to try to make them sound interesting before posting them online. I’ve been here for two years, and everything was going brilliantly. Until I had my appraisal. Angela said I wasn’t ‘pushing myself’ enough and that I needed to ‘broaden my horizons’. I tried to argue that my horizons were fine as they were, but I’m not very good at arguing. She then had the bright idea of me thinking about what I wanted to write about, and pitching a story directly to Duncan.

  ‘Right!’ Duncan slaps his hands together. ‘I think this calls for a tea break. Who wants to do a Starbucks run? I’ve heard that the famous pumpkin spiced latte is out today! Exciting times, eh?’

  Faye nods at Duncan, who goes to leave, when Angela raises a hand. Angela has cropped, mousey hair and a long neck. She wears her small glasses on a chain round her neck and has a permanent shadow of light pink lipstick on her thin lips.

  ‘Duncan,’ she says sternly, ‘Bea needs to give us her pitch.’

  Duncan swivels his round face towards me, perplexed.

  ‘Really?’ he says. ‘I thought you’d given it, Bea?’

  I stare back at him.

  ‘Go on, Bea,’ Angela says kindly. ‘Try again.’

  10.49.

  ‘Right,’ I hear myself say, my voice shaking slightly, ‘so, I was thinking that I would really like to try to write some pieces about the community—’

  ‘We’re a local newspaper,’ Faye laughs, ‘everything we publish is about the community.’

  I dart a glance over to Faye and then back to Angela, as if she might stop me.

  ‘Yes,’ I start again, ‘but I mean to really get involved in something that brings the whole community together. Like, I know my friend—’

  ‘What friend?’ Duncan chips in, screwing up his face. ‘Have I met her? Did she come to the Christmas party?’

  What? No! Why would I bring my friends to my work Christmas party? I don’t even want to go myself.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘well, anyway, at her work they did a Macmillan bake sale and raised loads of money for charity. I think a lot of places do that. So, maybe something like that. I just mean that I’d like to run a story focusing on something good that the community is doing. I—’

  ‘Why?’ Duncan interrupts again.

  ‘Well . . .’ I flounder. ‘I just think that people will like to read about it, and it will make people happy.’

  ‘Our job isn’t to make people happy, Bea,’ Faye says, pointing her pen at me. ‘Our job is to bring people the news.’ She adds the last bit and looks straight at Duncan who inflates with joy.

  I feel a spark of anger shoot through me.

  Duncan high-fives Faye at the casual mention of his meaningless catchphrase.

  ‘Exactly!’ Duncan trumpets, thrusting a porky finger in Faye’s direction. ‘Yes! That’s the spirit, Faye!’

  Faye beams at him, and I glare at the back of her blonde head.

  ‘Right!’ Duncan says again, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Are we done here then, Angela?’

  Angela looks limply at Duncan. ‘If that’s all you have to say, Duncan, then yes.’

  I watch Duncan flash her a thumbs up and march out of the room, followed by Faye.

  10.54.

  They didn’t even let me finish.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Bea,’ Angela says. ‘You have to be quite forward with Duncan to be heard. I just think you need to work on your confidence.’

  I try and smile as Angela walks out of the door, leaving me alone.

  Yeah, as if I haven’t heard that before.

  *

  I lean my head back against the bus seat and fight the urge to rest my heavy eyes.

  Okay, so today didn’t go as planned.

  Not that I’m really sure what I thought would happen. I hate public speaking. I hate confrontation, and the idea of ‘pitching’ in front of three people who are all significantly smarter, louder and better than me makes me want to dig a hole in the ground and stick my head in it.

  I knew it would go terribly. I did.

  The bus pulls to a halt amongst a smog of traffic and I look out of the window. Steam is crawling up the glass and I rub a spot clean with the back of my sleeve.

  Not that I really care. I don’t. I don’t want to be promoted anyway, or run my own story like Faye. Leave her to show off and flounce around behind the keyboard. I’m happy typing press releases.

  I mean, hello? Who spent three hours today trying to think of a pun regarding Mrs Hammond of 42 Hedgeway Drive’s record-breaking bush?

  (And by think of a pun, I mean think of a pun that wouldn’t get me fired. Which was much harder than you’d expect. I mean, I’m not being funny, but ‘Mrs Hammond urgently needs her bush trimmed’ would almost be worth getting a disciplinary.)

  The bus slugs back down the road and my body lurches forward. I glance down at my phone, which stares back up at me, lifeless. I open my WhatsApp group with Emma and Priya, my housemates, and tap a message.

  Hey, either of you in tonight? Could do with some . . .

  I pause.

  Could do with some what?

  Girl time? Does anyb
ody say ‘girl time’ any more? Did anybody ever say girl time?

  I stare down at my phone.

  I can’t say ‘could do with some love’ or they’ll misunderstand and try to sign me up for Tinder again.

  Could do with some . . . fun?

  No, definitely not. That will start a whole new conversation that I never want to have with either of them, ever.

  Could do with some company?

  I type the words into my phone. They stare back up at me.

  God, that makes me sound like the saddest person ever. I can’t send that.

  I quickly delete the last bit and hit send. I look back out of the steamed-up window as the bus waits at the bus stop opposite the park, and I notice an old man slumped on a bench. He has a prominent, square jaw and his hunched body is almost bent in two. His head is hidden under a flat cap, and I spot a pair of glasses that are damp under the rain.

  I lean forward to try to see him better. He must be freezing. Why is he sat out in the rain, on his own? Is he okay?

  Maybe he’s walking his dog and he just needs a break. Or maybe he’s run away from something.

  I try to look back at the old man as the bus pulls away, but he vanishes behind a sea of cars.

  Maybe he just wants to be alone.

  My phone vibrates in my hand and I feel a zap shoot through me as I see a message from Emma.

  Sorry won’t be back until late, out with Margot x

  Within seconds, Priya’s message pops on to my screen.

  Me neither. At work, then seeing Josh.

  I stare down at my screen as a weight settles in my stomach.

  No worries, I type back, have fun. See you later.

  I drop the phone back into my bag and make one last attempt to spot the old man, but he’s been swallowed up by the swirls of rain.

  Does anybody want to be alone?

  *

  I fumble with my keys as the rain splats on to my head like cold, wet eggs.

  Stupid keys. Why do I have one hundred keys when I only ever need one?

  As the ‘responsible housemate’ (a label I never intended) I have been in charge of holding on to the garage key, the PO box key (sorry – Priya’s PO box key. Why does she need a PO box?), Emma’s spare car key (not that I can drive or have had a single lesson), the kitchen window key (?) and, the most useless until last, Emma’s girlfriend’s flat key. I mean, what the hell am I ever supposed to do with that?