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My dear Emily,

the weather here is, as always, glorious and I'm quite as brown as a berry, though what sort of berries whoever came up with that simile was thinking of I have no idea. Generally berries here abouts are either bright green and kill you stone dead, or dark purple and do much the same but in a slower and more painful fashion. Pretty damn deadly berries are hereabouts - much like my life, though until recently dull would have to be appended somewhere in that sentence.

It's been so long since I've written I almost feel embarrassed to be writing now. But, as your father once told me - in one of his glarey eyed 'pull yourself together and buck up, laddie' lectures - needs must as the devil drives. I believe we need closure. I know I certainly do.

So I plucked up the gumption to put pen to paper, and thus this missive. A real letter and not a paltry email or sms. If you'd return it with one of your own and a Fortnum's hamper I'd be overjoyed, but I won't hold my breath. And no, Emily, it's not that I'm jaded, I just know your patent flightiness too well. Which reminds me! I never congratulated you.

It was crafty of you to get your father to send me out here to run the south American plantation. And craftier still of you to stay in London with your seductively giggling 'oh darling, but it's the beginning of the season. I know! I'll fly over after you've settled in.' Three and a bit years ago, wasn't it?

I don't think I'm sounding too bitter, considering. After all facts are facts - part of another long homily I got from your father - and the facts are, or were: you, the bright carefree daughter of money; and me, the peniless rapscallion.

Consequently, I don't think your father saw us as a match made in heaven, though I, for a short time, certainly did. I remember feeling my breath quicken, my heart pound, and a definite rigidity in the nether regions as I followed you around, tongue lolling, like the blithering idiot I was.

Marriage was never really on the cards, was it? I suppose, if I'm honest, and christ knows I might as well be, you were, to me, a beautiful butterfly; the definitive bel of the ball, and a mixed up ex-army gay man's attempt at a ticket to normality. The fact that you were equally homosexual shouldn't have shocked me, but oddly, when I found you abed with the maid, it did. Strange.

Does your father know? Not that it matters. As far as I'm concerned this letter is closure. We're over. You have Celia, and all is well in our worlds. It is in mine, at any rate. I'm happy.

You'll be glad to know the crop this season is up some seventy percent, so those you surround yourself with will have a lot of rawking crystal snowy rails to imbibe. Personally, I've given the stuff up. There are other highs that are far more enjoyable - true love for one.

Yes, I'm in love. I finally came to terms with who I am and now couldn't care less about societal disaproval - I hope you are as fortunate.

I shan't tell you his name. I could, he'd not mind, after all you do know him. It's just I don't want anyone to have another lever or button to press. Please be warned, I won't be so forgiving the next time around.

It's close to the end of the agreement. One more season and, as per, my time here will be up. Not a moment too soon. Frankly I'm sick and tired of the lack of humanity and the slaughter involved when you run a coca plantation. Why is it everyone and their extended family think they can make it rich stealing our crop?

If might help set your mind at rest to know we won't be coming back to the U.K.. Ever. There are other countries still full of possibilities. Countries where you don't have to travel with armed security.

Give your father my regards and I hope he does well in the by-election. Wishing you and Celia the very best.

Fond regards,

George.

PS your brother sends his love.

 

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