October 30th, 1990
At home, England
Frankie and I finally called it a night at five this morning!
Our big night out included a quick stop at mum and dad’s, where Frankie had us in peals of laughter about, well, pretty much everything. I love the way my parents treat my friends and how welcoming they are. I could tell they really liked Frankie, which is not surprising.
From there we went to The Point, which was dead but I wouldn’t expect otherwise on a Tuesday night. We ended up seeing “Bad Influence,” with Rob Lowe and James Spader (yum!) and I felt a little pang when Manhattan Beach was mentioned.
Due to the fact we were up ‘til dawn, I slept until midday and when I came downstairs, the post was on the mat. I picked up what mostly looked like junk post and was surprised to see Ben’s scribble on the envelope, postmarked from Santa Monica.
I tore open the letter, read it on the spot then promptly burst into tears, at which point Frankie appeared.
“What’s the matter, darling?” She asked, her tone soothing.
“This,” I said, waving the letter. “It’s from Ben.”
“Is he ok?”
“Yeah, he is,” I sniffled. “But I’m not.”
“Come here,” she said, opening her arms.
Frankie insisted I sit while she made tea, which on reflection was comical because she didn’t know where anything was so from the couch I pointed.
“Biscuits?” She asked.
“Yeah, why not,” I sighed. “There should be some in the cupboard to your right, second shelf.”
I smiled at the sight of her on her tip toes. “Lovely jubbly,” she uttered, making me laugh.
With the tea made and chocolate digestives arranged on a plate, Frankie sat on the couch beside me.
“Drink up,” she urged. “And if you need something stronger, there’s still wine and vodka.”
I laughed. “This should be fine for now.”
“So,” she said, making a sad face. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I just had a reaction to his letter.”
“What does it say?”
I read it out to her.
“It’s sweet,” she smiled. “Really sweet.”
“Isn’t it? It’s generic, I mean it’s not an earth-shattering letter by any stretch of the imagination but, ugh, I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.”
“I think I know.”
“What?” I asked, sitting up.
“I think you’re still in love with him.”