Dear Sarah

The church bell tolls.

“She’s in one of her moods again,” I say. I stare at the dark wood panels that cover the ceiling and blow out a puff of smoke. It rises to the ceiling, billowing out against the smooth surface, aching to rise up further. You let out a little cough, trying to stop the smoke from invading your throat. It takes you a moment to recover.

“Who is?” you finally ask.

“Sarah.”

“How come?”

“How on Earth should I know? We were just talking about life and all of a sudden she went off on a tirade about some actor she had seen in a play in Paris as if I was supposed to care.”

“Well, do you?”

I laugh. You’re quiet for a moment or two and step further away as I lift the cigarette back to my lips.

You open your mouth to speak but hesitate a little. You avert your eyes. I turn to the window. Then you speak up again. “You really ought to be nicer to her. You know just as well as I that she means no harm. Hell, she probably doesn’t even realise that she’s in a ‘mood’ as you call it.”

I turn to look at you again. “What’s it to you?”

“Just… thinking.”

“Right.”

There’s a silence. My gaze shifts to the portrait of Sarah and her husband that hangs above the fireplace. I see you glance at it before you turn away.

“Do you want to know what I really think of her?” I ask. “What I really, truly think of our precious Sarah?”

I can taste the venom on my tongue.

You’re now facing the window I was looking through moments ago, grunting softly as you pry it open. It creaks and the breeze hits your face. You then turn your head slightly, but your back is still towards me.

“You seem like you want to tell me, so I won’t stop you”, you say.

You think you’re so clever.

But not entirely wrong, so I will tell you. “Well, when we first met, Sarah and I got on like a house on fire. We could spend hours in each other’s company without sparing a thought to the rest of the world. But why wouldn’t we? We were two bachelorettes basking in our youth.”

“Yes, I do recall,” you say.

I continue.

“We had found a like-minded soul in one another. And she was magnificent, you know? A learned and reasonably well-travelled woman, wise beyond her years and stupendously versed in Shakespeare. What more could I have asked for?”

I glance at you. You shrug. You stand in front of the window as firmly as a tree. I can almost see the shadow of a root-like tendril sprawl from the soles of your shoes, looking for an opportune place where it digs hungrily into the boards underneath your feet.

Ridiculous.

I continue, as I stare at Sarah’s likeness in the dim light.

“As time went on, we eased into a wonderfully comfortable friendship. We called on each other frequently, if not daily. Here and there we would treat ourselves to the ecstasies of the Earth through good food and even better music. Our beloved delights, though we let ourselves indulge only in moderation. We read Shakespeare together, and we wrote, spoke and sang almost as one.”

“I am well aware.”

“And sure, friends bicker. It wasn’t all rosy and sweet, but when has life ever been? We learned how to communicate with one another and our little hiccups were quickly forgotten.”

“Is that so?”

There’s a silence.

I glance at you again. You seem even more rigid than before, your arms pinned to your sides as if you were tied with rope. You stare straight ahead.

I turn to face you now. “Would you like a moment to dig yourself further into those floorboards or shall I continue?”

“Continue,” you echo.

“Well, soon enough it was time for me to go up north again. After the divorce, you see. I needed to see my family; it had been far too long, so I left. And foolishly I believed that my dear Sarah would remain as she was before my departure.”

“Are you saying she didn’t?”

I laugh again. “You know as well as I do that she changed. I was away for a measly month. A month! And in that time she had gone and found herself a husband. A lousy, sorry excuse of a husband, who spends much more of his time in the opera with the ladies of this or that household than he does at home or even at his office. I could forgive the office, but the opera? Never.”

You glance at me. “He is a patron of the arts, it’s only natural that he—”

“Ha! A patron, indeed! How long do you think he’s been a patron of anything? His family is one of notorious gamblers at best and moronic military men at worst, what money do you think he’s oh, so graciously spending on that sweet little opera house of his?”

You say nothing.

“That’s what I thought.” I put out my cigarette.

“I am not as deeply intimate with their finances as you are. And you may be right, but—”

“But what?”

You relax. I hear you sigh. “Him being a lousy husband does not explain your hatred for Sarah.”

“Oh, you utter baboon I don’t hate her.”

“You don’t?”

“No! Well, maybe. Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know. I’m just frustrated. I was with my family for only a month and in that time that foolish man shows up, woos Sarah off her feet and I return to find her all of a sudden traipsing around the continent seeing whatever moronic, modernist play and whichever subpar actor she damn well pleases without a care in the world, as if she had found a bloody leprechaun and a pot of gold! That’s not the Sarah I knew.”

“It could be the same Sarah. Maybe she’s just a little different, maybe a bit more carefree. But still the same Sarah underneath, if you give her a chance.”

“No. The Sarah I knew was rational. Educated. Poised. She took pleasure in the arts, but in a moderate fashion. She would not spend her money so foolishly, let alone do a man that much damage to her reputation. People are talking, Fred.”

“Are they?”

“Yes. And so are the banks. Sarah’s secretary is working day in and day out even on God’s holy days just so she can scrape together enough money to pay off necessities, let alone the rest of this farce without disturbing her ladyship as she now calls her. And no amount of concern I have expressed to her ladyship this past year has helped one bit.”

“Oh.”

“Precisely.”

You close the window. “Has it affected your relationship so much? The money, I mean.”

“It’s a factor, I would say, but not the catalyst.” I cross my arms. “I am exhausted. The divorce was by no means easy, and I fear I have yet to recover my strength or willpower. On top of that grandmama is sick, my brother eloped and now my dearest friend is on her way to ruin. And I have no power to stop any of this.”

You look as if you are about to say something, but back away.

I continue. “And because I’m exhausted, everything that’s happening here is just far too much. Sarah’s… too much.”

“I see.”

“I don’t want to let go without a fight, but there’s not much fight left in me. I can only listen to so many raving reviews of some obnoxious actor in some foolish play at some gauche theatre before it’s too much. And I can only sit through so many dinners with her and her husband being equally patronising about this opera or that play or this dancer or that playwright.”

You say nothing.

“Lord bless her and her union, but I will not be here to see the end of it.”

There is a silence. Then, you speak. “Sherry?”

I turn to take the glass from your extended hand and I raise it in a silent toast. You mimic my action and take a sip.

The church bell tolls.