TOYING IT OVER

She was only toying with the idea, she had no real desire nor determination to reply. But she had to admit that it felt good, the consideration, the pondering and dare she say it, the sense of power.

Although no power seeker, Isla had, at her peak, several potential partners to choose from. Back in the day when hearts felt light, rejection was part of the deal, the ultimate blow, being passed over could be forgotten quickly, especially when realisation hits that there was someone else all along. That someone else for Isla became her entire life, her vocation and reason for getting up in the morning.

Devlin, gone now for almost two years, had made her promise to continue to love when fate passed. She did continue to love but there was only him - memory books, tickets, photos and his manuscript. She had purchased a safe to keep the manuscript in and every now and again curiosity urged her to take a step closer to the safe and to reading it.

The years she had watched Devlin at his computer writing without pausing for hours, the endless amount of coffees she brought to him and every now and again the kiss, which led to a blissful afternoon before he reapproached his work.

So now, subscribing to a few dating sites, Isla had some responses, some worrying and others intriguing. But one in particular caught her attention. A writer, a Scot, laidback and curious about the world and people. A bereaved man. Hesitating because of the sadness that two bereaved people may carry, project or even hold on to, like a lingering of finger tips slowly edging away into nothingness.

She rereads his request.

Dearest Isla,

Your very soul speaks to me, grieving sets no rules and we have to navigate this ship of emotional turmoil ourselves. But what if we were two, with the ghosts of our former lovers getting that bit more distant as we perhaps embrace some new twists and turns on this journey of life. Grief need not divide, but bring us together.

Yours, with the kindest of regards

Greg

She lights a cigarette then pours herself a glass of white wine, sips almost cautiously while putting in the figures to open the safe. She sits with it now open and the manuscript on the bed….

‘Arms open wide’ by Devlin Macrae

She continues to read.

Page one

It was all uphill from here he concluded, placing one foot in front of the other and breathing deeply from his belly. He takes his place at the altar, quickly glancing around to see everyone in their place and then, a sigh of relief and it all begins, the music, the first magical glimpse of the future bride and he catches his breath. The ivory trail, his sister’s children as the flower girl and page boy. He freezes the moment in his mind as pure and utter perfection.

She swallows a lump in her throat and opens the manuscript about half way through.

Page 143

He did not consider her to be proper ‘affair’ material but her residence worked well as an office and she could be frisky, so he used her, quite blatantly. His wife had no suspicions or at least she didn’t mention anything. His lover catered to his needs and he had etched out a few written projects including a film script, all in quite a short space of time. This was his bread and butter, his ambitious trials and experimentation. With a shot of whiskey every evening before he returned to his wife.

It finally dawns on Isla, that she was merely his bit on the side, his piece of stuff and a muse. He had never mentioned an ‘autobiographical’ perspective. She feels rather sick, repulsed and shamed. With cheeks burning she places the manuscript back inside the safe and swigs the wine left in her glass and to hell with a lump in the throat for his wife. Mustering the courage she writes….

To Greg

Hi there, it is Isla here. I very much appreciate your lovely message, Greg, and yes perhaps there is space in both our lives to navigate a new beginning, to find a direction which drives us forward. Life can be so deceptive as I have very recently learned and maybe we should hold on to this opportunity with both hands. I feel willing to meet up.

Yours, truly

Isla

No longer toying with the idea she pressed the ‘send’ key. As for the manuscript, she would burn it in the garden chimenea the next day.