Dear Emanuel A Brief Encounter

Dear Emanuel

I know not to start a letter with the phrase, “I am writing” because Mrs Digby let me know that it was superfluous and Mrs D’Rosario told me it was hack. But it is hard to know how to start a letter to a man I only met once.

I was going through an old box of things. The way you do when you’ve lost a parent. Or at least the way I did after my Dad died and there was the letter from you. I’ve kept it for over thirty years. I think I saw it as some kind of trophy.

Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I barely remember you and I have no idea how you had my address. I think you must have charmed it out of me by telling me you were going to go travelling, may be to Prague. Prague was one of the few places where I’d ventured, one of my few adventures. Your letter starts by apologizing for not being in Prague, but instead you were in the much more prosaic, Reading.

If my memory serves me right, I was standing in the queue for an ATM when you approached me. You were polite. You made me aware that you found me attractive. And that is the end of my recollection of you. But I’m going to embellish because it fascinates me that from one meeting you wrote to me and then I kept the letter for thirty years.

I’m not a hoarder. I do throw things away.

But I obviously did hoard the memory of a stranger finding me attractive. Finding your letter in the box, was a reminder that there was a time when men would stop me in the street.

Other strains of that memory. You were not very tall, taller than me, but then most men are. You were black with an African accent and I would have been too shy to ask where you were from. Possibly, also too respectful to ask. That question, even then, I knew was laden with problems. You were working in finance. I would have found that boring and believe me I still do. It’s good for me to know there is some continuity of character. I sometimes think I only exist in relation to the people around me. That if you scratch just an inch down there is no real Me, there is just the way I’ve responded to company.

I remember getting the letter. It would have been a couple of weeks after we had met, or more accurately since you had engineered to have a conversation with me on Oxford Road. I remember reading that you were not in Prague, because you had had a more lucrative offer to work in Reading and then I don’t think I really read much further. I knew I was not going to write back. There was no substance to form a relationship and it would have just been another example of me behaving dutifully. Duty has always been a problem for me, whether I perform it or not.

I wonder if you would stop me now, let me know you found me attractive. Friends say I haven’t changed, but of course I have. Until recently I was working with students. No matter how well my skin is preserved and my figure hasn’t thickened too much, there is no pretending I look 19. I certainly don’t look like I did at 19. I’m too well groomed for a start. There was a nonchalance about how I put myself together for public presentation at that age. I was clean and freshly dressed, but styling involved one hair brush a day and a lick of eyeliner. My skin routine these days takes longer than the time it used to take me to wake and leave the house. My younger self didn’t worry about the close fit of the clothes, because none of them were closely-fitted. All clothes were too big.

I don’t remember you asking me about what I was doing or my ambitions, so just so you know I had just completed my drama degree. My ambitions were already being swallowed up inside of me, as I realized I would struggle to audition, to put myself forward, to believe in any talent I might have. I had the desire to write, but no idea that would mean not just sitting down and writing, but also thinking about how to get an audience. There was no easy route to finding out how to be who I wanted to be.

I still don’t know who I want to be. But I’ve decided to enjoy the puzzle.

Part of me wants to be that young woman you stopped – sexy and approachable. But in so many more ways, I am glad of the armour I’ve accumulated. And I’m really glad I don’t give out my address to strangers any more. I’m relieved that young naïve girl never had to navigate social media or dating apps. She can still be too open to the belief that people will be decent.

Wherever you are Emanuel, I hope you found something meaningful in life. I hope you learned to stop approaching young women on the street and coaxing an address or phone number from them. I hope learning that lesson wasn’t brutal for you, or the woman you stopped.

If you are interested at all, I’m doing o.k. I was sad when I started writing this letter. I will be sad again. I had a therapist who tried to get me to sit with sadness. I’m still not really able to do that. I love the thought of being able to experience all of life, the good and the bad. But the sadness makes my head whirr and fuzz, and blinds the possibility of contentment. So, I distract myself. Distraction has become productive. I write, I read, I listen, I watch.

I’m going to keep your letter. When I next stumble on it, it will be re-read in another way. A cautionary tale, or a passing moment. Thank you for writing to me. But also, I’m glad that young Rachel didn’t write back. It was the right message for the times.

Kind regards

Nora Williams