This morning I got up early, and after a proper breakfast with toast and eggs and beans and bacon, I took photos of Aldeburgh. I wanted to make something special to give to Red and Abbie and the others. I also wanted to take photos. I wanted to find a good angle for the scallop, and the perfect square of pebbles. In the end, I used up three films. While they were being developed, I chose some good photo frames — there are lots of arty shops along the main street, so there were plenty to choose from. I picked a few with wooden edges, some with metal, some with glass. I didn’t even look at the prices.

I still had time to kill, and it didn’t seem worth walking all the way back to the hotel. After eating some chips, I walked past a hairdresser’s, turned round and went inside. I looked at myself in the mirror when the woman asked me what I wanted. Long, black, straight, boring hair. I wanted rid of it. I asked her to cut it all off. I was tempted to ask her to shave it off, but I was too embarrassed, so instead she shaved it into the nape of my neck and cropped it short on top, with some wax in it to shape it into short soft spikes. I felt naked when I walked out into the cold, seaside air. Lighter. I’m dropping ballast. I kept catching sight of myself in shop windows and wondering who that person was. She looked confident, independent. All afternoon I ran my fingers up the back of my neck against the grain of the hair. Like stroking a mole, if a mole would ever let you stroke it. Velvety. Wonderful. I closed my eyes and imagined my hand was Red’s, imagined his voice. ‘Crazy Ruth.’

When the photos were ready, I took them back to my room and spread them out on the bed. I’m getting better, I really am. There are a more photos now that seem to ‘work’. I don’t know if it’s because I’m better at using the camera or just that I’ve learnt to see differently. Most of them were easy to choose — one of the whole beach from a black and white reel for Sara, a close-up of pink, rosy-grey and pale blue pebbles for Abbie. A wooden fishing boat with a spidery fishing net for Dad. A neat length of pastel coloured houses for Zoë, any one of which I could imagine her living in. None of them seemed quite good enough for Red. In the end I chose one of the scallop. An elderly couple were stood behind it with their backs to me, looking up to read the blue words. ‘I hear those voices that will not be drowned’. You couldn’t see their faces, and they weren’t holding hands, but from the way they were standing, I imagined they were in love. I put the photos in the frames that suited them, wood for the pebbles, metal for the boat… and wrapped them up in paper covered in silver starfish. Labelled them carefully. Left them all in the cupboard by my bed.

My phone rang twice this evening. The first time it was Abbie — she left a message to say she’d tried me at home last night and tonight and hadn’t had an answer; she was worried about me, could I just give her a ring to let her know I was OK. The second time it was Red. He didn’t leave a message. It made me cry to hear Abbie’s voice. It made me cry to not hear Red. I wanted to text them over and over, ‘I love you.’ ‘I love you.’ What I should really text, if I’m going to be honest, is, ‘I’ll hurt you.’ ‘Stay away from me.’ I put my phone under my pillow and waited for it to ring again, for Red to leave me a message. Maybe if I don’t answer, they’ll get worried, will come looking. How would they know where to start? Would they be able to trace me by looking at my bank account? Would they break down the door of my flat? Would they find the letters too early? Do I want them to look for me?

I thought about Dan today. I know now that whatever I had with him (or didn’t have) is in the past — there isn’t a place for him in my life any more. I’ve been mourning him. And I’ve been worrying about the person who’ll find me. Ambulance men (do they still send for an ambulance if you’re already dead?) are used to seeing things like that; it’s part of their job. But what if it’s a baby-faced seventeen-year-old cleaner with the whole of her life before her? I don’t want to put anyone through that. I think I’ll put a notice on my door just before midnight on the 31st. The envelope could say, ‘Please read this before you come in.’ I’ll address it to the manager; I can warn him about what he’ll find inside. Maybe I should apologise to him as well, tell him I’ve enjoyed my stay and that it was nothing to do with the horrible pork chop I was served at dinner last night. Does it disturb you that I’m finding things to laugh about in all of this? Are you angry at me?

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