The Letter by Virginia Hainsworth

He sat down at the carved antique desk and looked out of the window at the long drive ahead.  On the desk before him lay smooth vellum writing paper, coloured inks and an array of beautiful writing implements.  A familiar sight and one which normally centred him and made him feel calm.  But not this time.  He looked out at the carefully manicured lawns and the rows of poplar trees standing to attention in the warm sun.  What would it be like to lose all of this?

His hands shook as he lifted his favourite fountain pen and began to fill it with purple ink.  He gripped the chunky barrel of the pen and held it, poised over the paper, as he considered how to start what might be the most important letter of his life.

Suddenly, the door opened so violently that it made him jump and a tiny blob of purple ink escaped from the pen and fell onto the paper.

'Damn,' he uttered as the ink slowly spread outwards, as if it were acid, eroding the paper.

'How can you even think of writing at a time like this, when we need to talk?' spluttered the woman at the door. 'I've been looking for you all over the house but should have known that I'd find you here.'

He remained silent as the ink blot grew in size.

'Well?' she continued.  'What excuse do you have this time?'

No answer.

She persevered.  'How did you get hold of the whiskey?  I told Clarkson to remove it all to the cellar.  He said the cellar key has not left his sight since last night.'

Silence.

'I guess you must have smuggled it in.' She continued the conversation with herself.  'Although God knows how.  You promised.....'

Her words seeped into his ears.  The ink seeped further into the paper.

'Aren't you at least going to apologise?'

He looked up at her and could see beyond, where Clarkson was hovering with a tray of coffee, about to turn away, so as not to intrude.

'It's OK, Clarkson,' he called across.  'Coffee would be great, thanks.'

She stepped aside to let Clarkson through and then disappeared from his view altogether.  He could just about hear the sound of her heels on the wooden floor as she tip-tapped away down the corridor.

He breathed a sigh of relief and returned to his letter - thankfully, the ink blot had not soaked through to the leather inlay beneath the paper.