Please Forgive Me Read Free Page B

each and every one was unopened and addressed to the same person.
    Weird.
    The box in her arms, Leonie went back out to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While waiting for it to boil, she sat by the bay window and further examined the envelopes one by one, her curiosity piqued. The handwriting on each envelope was identical, she realised, noting the same rather elegant cursive script appeared on every one. Such beautiful handwriting too, almost like calligraphy.
    Why hadn’t the letters been opened? Assuming this Helena Abbott, whoever she was, had previously lived here and had intentionally stored the letters away in the box (and a very nice ornate one at that), then why hadn’t she bothered to open them? Or taken them with her when she moved out? Had she just forgotten about them hidden away in the back of the wardrobe or…?
    The kettle boiled, and Leonie shook her head, telling herself that it was none of her business either way. Putting the letters aside, she went into the kitchen, took out a mug and went about making a fresh cup of tea.
    But typically, her curiosity, (or downright nosiness as Grace would call it) managed to get the better of her, and mug in hand, she returned to the windowsill and set the box on her lap and the tea alongside her.
    Lifting the lid, she again took the envelopes out of the cellophane and turned them over one by one. There seemed to be no return address on any of them so it was impossible to tell where they might have originated. Then she peered closely at the postmark, trying to see if this might yield anything, but it looked to be nothing more than an official-looking but pretty generic ink mark.
    Oh well, she thought, putting them back in the box, she’d give the rental agency a call, see if they had a forwarding address.
    Although, something told Leonie that Helena Abbot might not miss them either way.
     
     
    ‘No, I’m afraid there isn’t a forwarding address on file,’ the man from the rental agency told her, when Leonie called a few days later. She had since cleaned the apartment from top to bottom and found nothing else belonging to previous tenants other than the box.
    ‘Oh. It’s just, I’ve got a pile of post –’
    ‘Post?’
    ‘Sorry, I mean…mail,’ she corrected quickly, realising that he wouldn’t have a bull’s notion of what she was on about. ‘She left it behind when she moved out, and it could be important.’
    ‘I’m sorry but we’ve got nothing at all on file. In fact, we don’t have a record of the name you mentioned as a customer of this office.’
    Leonie frowned. ‘What? But she only moved out a couple of weeks ago.’
    ‘Perhaps so, but she wasn’t a client of ours. The landlord obviously used another agency for previous lettings,’ he explained.
    ‘Well, maybe the landlord might have her address then. Could I have his number?’
    ‘I’m afraid we can’t give out that kind of information,’ the man sighed.
    ‘What?’ Leonie cried frustrated. ‘So, what I am supposed to do about the letters? Surely there must be some way of contacting the landlord? I mean, what if something goes wrong with the apartment, if it burns down or something?’
    ‘Ma’am the agency here are responsible for all aspects of the rental, but if you’d like to leave your name and number I can contact our client and pass on a message for him to call you?’ He was sounding a little irritated now.
    ‘OK then,’ Leonie sighed. She supposed that would have to do. Chances were the landlord wouldn’t give a fiddler’s about some previous tenant’s belongings but if nothing else at least she’d tried.
    That much done, she started to prepare lunch, and thought about the next thing she needed to do; see about getting a job. She’d spent the last few days settling into the apartment and getting to know the neighbourhood a little better. The day after she moved in, she’d taken a cable car down to Union Square (which was seriously scary) where she’d