Bea brought the shoebox on the Monday after the missed weekend.
She texted before coming. Can I drop this off after work? Lena had answered yes and spent the next hour trying to decide whether she wanted Bea to stay. In the end it wasn't a decision she had to make. Bea stood on the doorstep with her coat still fastened, the box held under one arm.
'Here,' she said.
The lid was blue. The elastic band had been replaced with string, tied in a knot Lena would need scissors to open.
'Thank you.'
Bea nodded. She wore work clothes, the cardigan she used to leave over the back of a chair. There was a small tear beside one button. Lena nearly told her, then remembered Bea knew how to look after her own clothes.
'I've got some of your things still,' Bea said. 'From the hotel. The big boards and the lights. I couldn't fit it all in the car with the boxes.'
'Where are they?'
'At the flat. I took the last lot home after the weekend. The hotel gave the flowers away on the Monday. I told them to.'
'Good.'
'The boards are too big for my car if I'm on my own. I need someone to hold them.'
Lena had borrowed them from her own display supplies: two painted panels for the welcome table, light wooden frames, a coil of little lights. She had wanted them back and had kept not asking.
'I can come now,' she said.
'You don't have to.'
'I'd like to get it done.'
Bea looked at her, then nodded. Lena put the shoebox inside, got her coat and locked the door.
They drove through the town without talking. The radio was on quietly. Bea reached to turn it up, then changed her mind and switched it off. Lena watched houses slide past, places she knew from journeys when they had filled every minute with talk.
At the flat Bea opened the door and moved a pair of shoes out of the way. Lena had been there often enough to know where the clutter usually gathered. Now the space by the hall was empty, the little chest Owen made for keys gone.
Bea saw her look.
'He's moved most of his things.'
'You're still separated?'
'Yes.'
Lena nodded. She didn't ask if Bea hoped that would change.
The display panels leaned against the sitting-room wall, wrapped in an old sheet. Three boxes sat beside them. Bea lifted the top one.
'I've put the frames in here. The lights are underneath.'
They opened it together. The frames lay over the lights. One light cord was tangled round a broken clip; she freed it while Bea held the box steady.
'We didn't get much back,' Bea said. 'Money, I mean. Some of the drinks weren't used, so they took those off. Everything else was done.'
'I'm sorry.'
'I'm paying my share. He's paying his.'
Lena closed the box.
Bea stood with both hands on the lid. 'I still think you could have waited.'
Lena looked up. She had been prepared for an apology and prepared for anger, but not for this plain continuation of the argument in a room where she used to come and eat toast.
'I couldn't,' she said.
'You could. You didn't want to.'
'I couldn't help you get married before he knew.'
Bea pulled her hands away. 'I know what you think.'
Lena didn't repeat it. The panels needed carrying. She picked up one end; Bea picked up the other. They took it down the stairs sideways, slowly, minding the wall at the turn.
At the car they folded the rear seats. Lena held the boards steady while Bea slid them in. The boxes went beside them, lights on top. It was an awkward load, but once it was in, there was nothing left to fetch.
Bea shut the boot and stood beside it.
'That's everything,' she said.
'Good.'
'I won't need to keep asking you.'
'No.'
Bea's eyes filled unexpectedly. She looked away, towards the road, and Lena stayed still. It wasn't a cue to take everything back. It was also painful to watch.
'I'll drive you home,' Bea said after a moment.
They unloaded the boxes at Lena's flat. She put them in the small space where she kept spare boards and things the cinema might one day need. The panels had a scratch down one painted edge. She could repair it when she used them again.
Bea waited in the hall.
'I'll go,' she said.
'All right.'
Lena watched her take the stairs. She didn't promise to call. There was no wedding job left between them now, nothing that would make the next message necessary.
Upstairs, she cut the string on the shoebox.
The letters lay in loose bundles. The returned ones had envelopes, stamps, Kit's old address crossed through on one. The drafts were folded differently. Lena found the torn notebook page with the film and the low note. It was still there, corner bent, a small greasy mark near the fold.
She found the letter about the child and read it once.
She had wanted those things. She could remember wanting them without deciding whether she wanted them now. The person who wrote the letter had been trying to build a whole future inside a few sheets of paper. Lena smoothed them, put them back and closed the lid.
This time the box went onto her own shelf. No string. No elastic band. She could open it when she wanted, and shut it again when she was done.