It’s a revelation, having a man as a friend. There is none of the angst of a romantic relationship. You are buoyed by another email, perhaps headed A Complete Unknown (a thread about the Bob Dylan biopic; him: ‘I’m glad you liked it. I don’t think I could have handled it if you emailed back saying it was rubbish’) or Black Doves, which I urge him to watch, adding the house Keira Knightley inhabits in the Netflix series is now up for sale for ‘not much’. He goes to my link, replying, ‘I suppose five million isn’t that much.’ But there is no problem if he doesn’t write, no wondering what he’s up to.
I am a little upset though when he says he wrote his first letter to me, which took a week to compose, ‘in order to improve my writing’ when I thought he might fancy me a bit. He also says he has ‘grown fond’ of me, a sentiment that comes when I vent my spleen after a stressful day. ‘How can you be stressed when you have watched Swirly and Beauty galloping and playing?’ he writes, to which I reply, ‘I can and I will.’
He asks if I have ever eaten at Fortnum & Mason, which I think might be a precursor to an invitation to lunch, but it isn’t.
I tell him I now think of him as a friend. He says he got confused at one point, ‘I thought I may have said something wrong; I’m a fan really. You remind me of the poetess Fiona Pitt-Kethley. The candour, the brazenness. I find it refreshing. I never seem to meet people in everyday life who I find interesting. It’s all writers and artists. Recently I have thought of myself as a friend to you rather than a fan. Which is more down to earth and less starry eyed. x’
I tell him how many people hate me – I send him a list, and some of the things they have posted on Twitter. But he tells me, ‘Would you really want people like that liking you? I don’t think it’s possible to have sex with a cat. And as for the famous feminist, I suspected her of hypocrisy.’
He asks if I liked Deborah Orr, the columnist who sadly died of cancer. ‘I found her prickly, but she once wrote that I’m “the jewel in the crown” of the Daily Mail, so after that I loved her. Jenny Diski once wrote several thousand words of praise for me in the London Review of Books, but she has since died. It seems anyone who likes me dies.’
He tells me Deborah knew she was dying, but planted tulips anyway, knowing she’d never see them flower. He asks for photos of my vicarage, so I send a few. The daffs are out, but no tulips yet.
I planted hundreds of bulbs in the autumn, so I must have had some hope I’d still be here, not just in this house but on this earth.
‘So many things I love,’ he writes. ‘The chandelier, the freestanding bath, the skylight, the dark walls. Is it your forever home? If it was mine, it would be.’
I’m worried today, Sunday, as my first column about our correspondence is published, and I’m not sure how he will react. He sends only emails as he doesn’t own a smartphone, so I’m trying not to look at my inbox all day.
But desperation to find out if I’ve won the Lottery prevails, so his email pops up. ‘Liz! I’m lost for words! What higher accolade is there? I know who you are and what you do, and I love you for it. My sister is a reader, she’s incredulous. Am a bit narked you used my paper letter to light the fire. How dare you! You were supposed to cherish that. Here’s my address. I’m on cloud nine!’
I haven’t arranged to take him to meet my world-famous friend as she isn’t well, is busy, and I need to meet this man first. He could be an axe murderer. Then he sends me the nicest email I have ever received.
‘I will help you try to think more positively. Your life is damaged, but not ruined. Your effect on me has been so beneficial I feel reanimated. You being down doesn’t seem right. I want the thought of you being happy as I feel happy because of you. I’m pleased we’ve had this conversation and things are out in the open. I do know what it’s like to have long-term plans [the German b*****d wanted us to live together] only for them to be crushed. It’s psychologically devastating. PS, and you are still hot, so naturally I do think about you in that way, too; as a man I can hardly help it. Love x.’
He sends me a school photo; he’s the captain of the hockey team. He looks lovely, has curly hair, but he’s a child. Nic told me to ask for a recent photo but I can’t burst this bubble, not yet.
He suggests we meet for lunch at Tate Modern, then see an exhibition after. He will book and pay for both. He checks in with me this morning: ‘I’m off to London to visit Tate Mod’s restaurant and ensure there’s something you can eat. I will be back early evening.’
It feels so different, a revelation, completely new, not to be ghosted.
