Samantha, I have to say, the forty-five million quid I won on the lottery sits in my bank account like a fucking tumour. I only ever bought one ticket, see, on the day of your funeral. Like a middle finger to the cuntiverse. Pretending like I had still some fucking hope left in my soul.
Instead of going on a spending spree, or a cruise, I've spent the last three years working on our house. I paid off the mortgage at least, with our other debts. Yes, the house is too big for one person -- even someone my size -- but I won't sell it because it's all I have left of the dream of us. Also, you know me, I have to work. I'm a carpenter, third generation. Sawdust for blood. Why pay some other fucker to do a worse job than I would?
That's what they don't tell you about winning the jackpot. The press get hold of your story ("Woody Widower Makes Millions") (Fucksake) and true, you don't have to work again, but then you can't anyway. Your workmates know you don't need to be there like they do. It's like you're taking the piss.
Honest, Sweetheart, I miss a fair day's work for a fair day's pay almost as much as I miss you. I've always been defined by my job, just like my dad, and my grandad. If I'm not a carpenter what am I? What's the point of me? I don't exist if I don't work.
It's like the money's rubbed me out, too.
Not that I worked much today, it's too bloody hot. I started at dawn, routing out some new Georgian sashes, but then did more standing than sanding. Then I got into a spiral about how working for myself like this -- without a pay-check or even a pat on the back at the end of it -- well it's just wanking isn't it?
Then this van pulled up next door. It unloaded a crate of champagne before knocking on her door and getting no answer.
She's new next door. Just moved in last week. She seems young to have one of these big houses to herself, if you ask me. Late twenties? Or a few years younger than me at any rate. Your age. I mean if you were still aging. Apart from that, she's the opposite of you. Sort of small and bouncy, not tall and leggy. Black hair, bobbed, not wavy and gold. A massive gob and podgy lips, next to your neat little kissers. Yep, I reckon you'd think she was pretty. In a braniac way. That's what scares me about her because, honest -- and it might come as a shock to you -- I'm not that clever.
I only met her briefly, earlier, but I've certainly heard her tonight. Our bedrooms must be right next to each other, and maybe we both had our windows open on account of the heat. She woke me up just now, with this sudden long, loud squeak then, "Fuck! F-fuck! FUCK!"
I don't know what she was up to, and don't want to know.
That's why I'm sat here in the middle of the night, writing to you after all this time. My imagination, well, it went off on a bit of a porno about what this girl was doing. I'm sorry. I know I said I'd never cheat on you, but imagining is OK isn't it? I didn't cum or nothing.
OK I did, but that was imagining us, not her. Remember that time you begged me to come home from work? I still got the text. "Quick! I want it! Everything!" And when I got home you were perched on the edge of the kitchen table, feet up, skirt up, no knickers, fingers busy. What a picture. All I had to do was pull up a chair and tuck in.
I never guessed that afternoon's licking and fucking would see me through so many nights on my own. I reckon you knew, though. I reckon that was the day you found out about your tumour, because that's the only time I ever made you cum until you blubbed.
I suppose I should make some effort with my neighbour. Our mates keep telling me that, after three years, I should move on.
Anyway, I offered to take in the crate the bloke couldn't deliver. Then I hefted it round to hers later, when her door whamming shut rattled my windows. She's the noisiest woman, all slamming doors and feet pounding round the house. No tippy-toed sprite like you. I suppose it's no surprise she even sleeps loudly.
I knocked, and waited and knocked again. And I knew she was in, but she took an age to get to the door. Finally, there was a quick thump of feet and the door opened a chink. One big, spooky disk glinted at me. Fucking scary eyes. Pale glassy blue, ringed in sharp black. Too startling to look at, because if you do, you stare. She had your sixties, "Bewitched", eyeliner thing going on though. Nice to see that out in the real world and not just in my head.
"Hey!" she said. She's American and has this squeaky childish voice. I don't know if she recognised me or not.
I presented the crate. "I'm from next door, love. A delivery came for you earlier, but you were out."
She blinked at my shoulders.
I shrugged.
"Umm..." her voice trailed off into a long croak.
The door stayed put. I offered the crate to the small opening she'd made as if to prove it wouldn't fit unless she opened up.
She cleared her throat, then swung the door a little wider, shuffling behind it. Her shoulders and legs were bare, and she'd wrapped a little towel around the rest. And not too well. I clocked this but didn't look, obviously. Her hands were gripped to her towel, so I stepped into the hallway and left the crate inside.
Then we shuffled this awkward dance. It didn't help, me trying to respect her state of (un)dress and her not looking me in the eye. Her cheeks were purple. I was in my vest and work trousers and the way her eyes boggled I felt like the half-naked one.
She drew her towel tighter. "Man, It's so hot. I was just about to like..." another long croak.
I nodded and slid carefully past her as if she might explode.
Before she shut the door behind me, though, she shouted, "Oh hey, I'm having a housewarming tomorrow night? Just, like, a couple of friends? You're welcome to..." another long, fucking irritating, croak.
So, that was my day. Then she goes and wakes me up with this outburst and I suppose you guessed my porno: that she was lying on her front, legs spread and moonlight on her bare bum, hips shoving at her fingers. Pretending she was on top of me...
Anyway. That's what I wanted to say sorry for.
Sorry.
'Night.
x
PS
"Jim, you have to go." That was your mate Helen calling this afternoon. Fred calls at breakfast. Bob calls at lunch. Helen, tea. Every day for three years. She wanted me to go to my neighbour's party.
"Fucksake."
"For her sake. And for yours. She's just moved in and she doesn't know anyone. You don't want her thinking Londoners are miserable bastards, eh?"
"We are, though."
"Only you, mate."
#
OK. Next night now.
You were the bright one, so you'll understand that today wasn't totally my fault.
It's because of Helen that I was back on my neighbour's doorstep this evening. And dressed in our wedding suit, no less. Because It's still my only posh outfit and because it's still -- thanks cuntiverse -- pretty much brand fucking new.
This time the door flew open straight away. The girl beamed out at me. "I'm dressed, today!"
