Lucrezia finishes typing, and pauses a little, before taking her hands off the keyboard. She reads the last passage she has written and frowns.

'Emma, Emma. Where will all this take you, my dear? Can you walk alone?'

Her mind goes back to this morning's conversation with Mr Vroom, and she shudders. Two people, alone in her kitchen, alone with their misery and pain.

That she should upset a man who has only shown kindness and care to her and her family is bad enough. He now knows about the diary and feels foolish; perhaps a little too old, a little too used. His discovery is unfortunate, of course, and nevertheless she feels a slight sense of relief, as at least Mr Vroom now shares, partly, the weight of her secret.

As she expected, Lucrezia senses the sickening waves of guilt at the relief from guilt itself.

'My fantasy is a dangerous weapon', she muses. 'It can be as tamed as it is untamed, and it's sometimes difficult to know the difference.'

Mr Vroom's displeasure at his unwilling involvement in Lucrezia's work eats at her heart, but not as much as her fear that he might demand to be let go.

Her fingers linger on the keyboard; she sighs. 'There is only one person who may be able to persuade the real person to keep living as Mr Vroom. Without him, everything else would just collapse. Emma can do it. She knows how to speak to him.'

The letter flows easily. Lucrezia does not stop, nor does she read what she is writing. When she hits the 'send' button, she leans back on the chair.

"Dear Mr. Vroom,

For somebody like me, who finds writing extremely easy, this letter is not an easy task. I have no clear ideas about what the message should be, so you’ll just have to ride the waves of my hyperactive mind with me, for a short while.

As Emma, I can only exist if you, Mr. Vroom, exist with me. My purpose is to cushion my ‘alter ego’ from the blows of a perfectly wonderful reality which cannot be mutually enjoyed. I am sure that – in general terms – people fantasize a lot about what is beyond their reach or legal possession; I was created to cope with that, and am almost completely self-feeding, or, more appropriately, I only feed on what I find in my fictional world. Mr. Vroom, on the other hand, lends himself to being part of a romantic scenario just because of his overall charming behaviour and inner spirit; you are my inspiration.

As Emma, and being completely fictional, I have no reserves or boundaries. In that, I fear that I might have the upper hand; as long as you feel that you are tied up to the real loving husband and father, what I, Emma, feel about you will necessarily be rejected.

Would you be happier if the person who makes me speak and think and feel, killed Mr. Vroom and substituted him with another, more anonymous character? I ache to think that you may feel ‘used’, but is there not just a tiny germ of feeling-good in knowing that somebody needs you in that way? You, not somebody else, not somebody taller, or fitter, or younger or just different?

As Emma, I find our chats, emails and meetings by the vegetable patch an incredibly lucky escape from the tawdry desert of every-day life. I want to love, fantasize and dream, but can only move within the loose constraints of a diary, a live thing which moves with time and space; it does not touch your essence but exists because of it.

As Emma, finally, I take responsibility of my sexual desires, acting out what is forbidden to the one person who cannot afford to express them; could you not try and do the same, and leave the real you just behind the fence?

With love, and much else

Emma"

Lucrezia does not know whether the real Mr Vroom will find, inside himself, the strength to agree to this deal of perpetual weaving in and out of reality, within a world whose edges are blunted by what is not done rather than what is said.

'Emma, Emma. I hope you know what you are doing.'