The Last Letter From Your Lover

by Jojo Moyes

  Jennifer felt a twinge of guilt at Maureen's now obvious despair, but hardened herself against it. She had to know. "Laurence?" she called. "Laurence, darling? Reggie and Maureen are going to come with us. Won't that be fun?"

  Laurence hesitated on the top step, his keys in his hand, his gaze flicking between them. "Marvelous," he said, walked steadily down the steps, and opened the rear door of the big black car.

  Jennifer appeared to have undersold the potential for riotous behavior at the Christmas celebrations of Acme Mineral and Mining. Perhaps it had been the decorations, or the copious amounts of food and drink, or even the prolonged absence of the boss, but when they arrived, the office party was in full swing. Someone had brought a portable gramophone, the lights were dimmed, and the desks had been moved to the side to create a dance floor upon which a throng of people squealed and shimmied to Connie Francis.

  "Larry! You never told us your staff were such hep cats!" Reggie exclaimed.

  Jennifer left him standing in the doorway, gazing at the scene before him, as she joined the cluster of dancers. His place of work, his domain, his haven, was unrecognizable to him, his staff no longer under his control, and he hated it. She saw his secretary rise from her chair, where she might have sat all evening, and say something to him. He nodded, attempting to smile.

  "Drinks!" Jennifer called, wanting to get as far from him as possible. "Fight your way through, Reggie! Let's get sloshed."

  She was dimly aware of a few looks of surprise as she passed her husband's staff, many of whom had loosened their ties, their faces flushed with drink and dancing. Their eyes went from her to Laurence.

  "Hello, Mrs. Stirling."

  She recognized the accountant who had spoken to her in the office a couple of weeks previously and smiled at him. His face was shiny with sweat, and he had an arm around a giggling girl in a party hat. "Why, hello! You couldn't show us where the drinks are, could you?"

  "Over there. By the typing pool."

  A huge vat of punch had been made. Paper cups were being filled and handed over people's heads. Reggie handed her one and she drank the contents in one, laughing when its unexpected potency made her cough and splutter. Then she was dancing, lost in a sea of bodies, dimly aware of Reggie's smile, his hand occasionally touching her waist. She saw Laurence watching her impassively from the wall, then, apparently reluctantly, engaged in conversation with one of the older, more sober men. She didn't want to be anywhere near him. She wished he would go home and leave her there to dance. She didn't see Maureen again. It was possible the girl had left. Things blurred, time stretched, became elastic. She was having fun. She felt hot, raised her arms above her head, let herself ride the music, ignoring the other women's curiosity. Reggie spun her around and she laughed uproariously. God, but she was alive! This was where she belonged. It was the first time she hadn't felt alien in a world that everyone insisted was hers.

  Reggie's hand touched hers, shocking and electric. His glances at her had become meaningful, his smile knowing. Bear. He was mouthing something at her.

  "What?" She pushed a sweaty lock of hair off her face.

  "It's hot. I need another drink."

  His hand felt radioactive on her waist. She followed close behind him, camouflaged by the bodies around them. When she glanced behind her for Laurence, he had vanished. Probably to his office, she thought. In it, the light was on. Laurence would hate this. He hated fun of any kind, her husband. Sometimes, these last weeks, she had wondered if he even hated her.

  Reggie was thrusting another paper cup into her hand. "Air," he shouted. "I need some air."

  And then they were out in the main hallway, just the two of them, where it was cool and silent. The sounds of the party faded as the door closed behind them.

  "Here," he said, steering her past the lift to a fire escape. "Let's go out on the stairs." He wrestled with the door, and then they were in the chill night air, Jennifer gulping it as if to quench a great thirst. Below them she could see the street, the odd car's brake lights.

  "I'm soaked!" He pulled at his shirt. "And I have absolutely no idea where I left my jacket."

  She found herself staring at his body, now clearly outlined by the damp fabric, and made herself look away. "Fun, though," she murmured.

  "I'll say. Didn't see old Larry dancing."

  "He doesn't dance," she said, wondering how she could say this with such certainty. "Ever."

  They were quiet for a moment, staring out into the darkness of the city. In the distance they could hear traffic, and behind them the muffled sounds of the party. She felt charged, breathless with anticipation.

  "Here." Reggie took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one for her.

  "I don't--" She stopped herself. What did she know? She might have smoked hundreds. "Thank you," she said. She took it gingerly, between two fingers, inhaled and coughed.

  Reggie laughed.

  "I'm sorry," she said, smiling at him. "I appear to be hopeless at it."

  "Go on anyway. It'll make you lightheaded."

  "I'm already lightheaded." She felt herself color a little.

  "Proximity to me, I'll wager," he said, grinning, and taking a step closer to her. "I wondered when I'd get you alone." He touched the inside of her wrist. "It's pretty hard speaking in code, with everyone else around."

  She wondered if she'd heard him correctly. "Yes," she said, when she could speak, and her voice was filled with relief. "Oh, God, I wanted to say something earlier. It's been so difficult. I'll explain later, but there was a time . . . Oh, hold me. Hold me, Bear. Hold me."

  "Glad to."

  He took another step forward and put his arms around her, pulling her close to him. She said nothing, just trying to absorb how it felt to be in his arms. He brought his face to hers, and she closed her eyes, ready, breathing in the male scent of his sweat, feeling the unexpected narrowness of his chest, wanting to be transported. Oh, but I've waited so long for you, she told him silently, lifting her face to his.

  His lips met hers, and just for a moment she thrilled to their touch. But the kiss became clumsy, overbearing. His teeth mashed against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth so that she had to pull back.

  He seemed untroubled. His hands slid over her buttocks, pulling her so close that she could feel him pressed against her. He was gazing at her, eyes dulled with desire. "You want to find a hotel room? Or . . . here?"

  She stared at him. It must be him, she told herself. Everything said so. But how could B feel so--so altered from what he had written?

  "What's the matter?" he said, seeing some of this pass across her face. "Too cold for you? Or you don't want a hotel--too risky?"

  "I--"

  This was wrong. She backed out of his embrace. "I'm sorry. I don't think . . ." She lifted a hand to her head.

  "You don't want to do it here?"

  She frowned. Then she looked up at him. "Reggie, do you know what deliquescent means?"

  "De-li--what?"

  She closed her eyes, then opened them again. "I need to go," she mumbled. Suddenly she felt horribly sober.

  "But you like playing away. You like a bit of action."

  "I like a bit of what?"

  "Well, I'm hardly the first, am I?"

  She blinked. "I don't understand."

  "Oh, don't play the innocent, Jennifer. I saw you, remember? With your other fancy man. At Alberto's. All over him. I knew what you were saying to me earlier, making that reference to it in front of everyone."

  "My fancy man?"

  He inhaled on his cigarette, then stubbed it out sharply under his heel.

  "So that's how you want to play it, huh? What is it? Do I not measure up because I didn't understand some stupid word?"

  "What man?" She had hold of his shirtsleeve now, unable to help herself. "Who are you talking about?"

  He shook her off angrily. "Are you playing games with me?"

  "No," she protested. "I just need to know who yo
u saw me with."

  "Jesus! I knew I should have gone with Mo when I had the chance. At least she appreciates a man. She's not a--a prick-tease," he spat.

  Suddenly his features, flushed and angry, were flooded with light. Jennifer spun round to see Laurence holding open the fire escape door. He took in the illuminated spectacle of his wife and the man who was stepping away from her. Reggie, head down, swept past Laurence and into the building without a word, wiping his mouth.

  She stood, frozen. "Laurence, it's not what you--"

  "Get inside," he said.

  "I just--"

  "Get inside. Now." His voice was low, apparently calm. After the briefest hesitation, she stepped forward and into the stairwell. She made for the door, preparing to rejoin the party, still trembling with confusion and shock, but as they passed the lift he grabbed her wrist and spun her around.

  She looked down at his hand, gripping her, then up at his face.

  "Don't think you can humiliate me, Jennifer," he said quietly.

  "Let go of me!"

  "I mean it. I'm not some fool you can--"

  "Let go of me! You're hurting me!" She pulled backward.

  "Listen to me." A muscle pulsed in his jaw. "I won't have it. Do you understand me? I won't have it." He was gritting his teeth. There was so much anger in his voice.

  "Laurence!"

  "Larry! You call me Larry!" he shouted, his free fist lifting. The door opened, and that man from Accounts stepped out. He was laughing, his arm around the girl from earlier. He registered the scene, and his smile faded. "Ah . . . We were just stepping out for some air, sir," he said awkwardly.

  It was at that moment that Laurence let go of her wrist, and Jennifer, seizing her chance, pushed past the couple and ran down the stairs.

  Chapter 9

  SEPTEMBER 1960

  Anthony sat on a bar stool, one hand around an empty coffee cup, watching the staircase that led to street level for any sign of a pair of slim legs descending. Occasionally a couple would walk down the stairs into Alberto's, exclaiming about the unseasonal heat, their outrageous thirst, passing Sherrie, the bored cloakroom girl, slumped on her stool with a paperback. He would scan their faces and turn back to the bar.

  It was a quarter past seven. Six thirty, she had said in the letter. He pulled it from his pocket again, thumbing its creases, examining the large, looping handwriting that confirmed she would be there. Love, J.

  For five weeks they had traded letters, his forwarded to the sorting office on Langley Street, where she had taken out PO Box 13--the one, the postmistress had confided, that nobody ever wanted. They had seen each other only five or six times, and their meetings tended to be brief--too brief--confined to the few occasions that either his or Laurence's work schedule allowed.

  But what he could not always convey to her in person, he had said in print. He wrote almost every day, and he told her everything, without shame or embarrassment. It was as if a dam had been breached. He told her how much he missed her, of his life abroad, how until now he had felt perpetually restless, as if in constant earshot of a conversation that was going on somewhere else.

  He laid his faults before her--selfish, stubborn, often uncaring--and told her how she had caused him to start ironing them out. He told her he loved her, again and again, relishing the appearance of the words on paper.

  In contrast, her letters were short and to the point. Meet me here, they said. Or Not at that time, make it half an hour later. Or, simply, Yes. Me too. At first he had been afraid that such brevity meant she felt little for him, and found it hard to square the person she was when they were together, intimate, affectionate, teasing, concerned for his welfare, with the words she wrote.

  One night when she had arrived very late--Laurence, he discovered, had come home early, and she had been forced to invent a sick friend to get out of the house at all--she had found him drunk and churlish at the bar.

  "Nice of you to stop by," he had said sarcastically, raising a glass to her. He had drunk four double whiskeys in the two hours he had waited.

  She had pulled off her headscarf, ordered a martini, and, a second later, canceled it.

  "Not staying?"

  "I don't want to watch you like this."

  He had berated her for the lack of all the things he felt from her--the lack of time, the lack of anything on paper that he could hold to him--ignoring the restraining hand that Felipe, the barman, had laid on his arm. What he felt terrified him, and he wanted to hurt her for it. "What's the matter? Scared of putting down anything that might be used in evidence against you?"

  He had hated himself as he said the words, knew he had become ugly, the object of pity he had tried so desperately to conceal from her.

  Jennifer had turned on her heel and walked swiftly up the stairs, ignoring his yelled apology, his demand for her to return.

  He had left a one-word message--"Sorry"--in the PO box the following morning, and two long, guilt-ridden days later he had received a letter.

  Boot. I do not give my feelings easily to paper. I do not give them easily at all. You deal in the business of words, and I cherish each one you write to me. But do not judge my feelings by the fact that I don't respond in kind.

  I am afraid that if I tried to write as you do you would feel badly let down. Like I once said, my opinion is rarely sought on anything--let alone something as important as this--and I don't find it easy to volunteer it. Trust that I am here. Trust me by my actions, my affections. Those are my currency.

  Yours,

  J.

  He had cried with shame and relief when he got it. He suspected afterward that part of it, the part she did not talk about, was that she still bore the humiliation of that hotel room, no matter how hard he tried to convince her of his reason for not making love to her. For all that he said, he suspected she was still not convinced that she was more than just another of his married women.

  "Your girlfriend not coming?" Felipe slid into the seat beside him. The club had filled up now. Tables buzzed with chatter, a pianist played in the corner, and there was another half hour before Felipe would take up his trumpet. Overhead, the fan whirred lazily, hardly stirring the thick air. "Now, you ain't going to end up slaughtered again, are you?"

  "It's coffee."

  "You want to be careful, Tony."

  "I told you, it's coffee."

  "Not the drink. One of these days, you're going to fool around with the wrong woman. One day a husband's going to do for you."

  Anthony held up his hand for more coffee. "I'm flattered, Felipe, that you take my welfare so seriously but, first, I've always been careful in my choice of partner." He flashed a sideways grin. "Believe me, you have to have a certain confidence in your powers of discretion to let a dentist loose with a drill in your mouth less than an hour after you've . . . um . . . entertained his wife."

  Felipe couldn't help but laugh. "You're shameless, man."

  "Not at all. Because, second, there will be no more married women."

  "Just single ones, eh?"

  "No. No more women. This is The One."

  "The one hundred and one, you mean." Felipe barked a laugh. "You're gonna tell me you've taken up Bible studies next."

  And there was the irony: the more he wrote and the harder he tried to convince her of what he felt, the more it seemed she suspected that the words were meaningless, that they tripped from his pen too easily. She had teased him about it several times--but he could taste the gunmetal bite of truth underneath.

  She and Felipe saw the same thing: someone incapable of real love. Someone who would desire the unobtainable for just as long as it took to get it.

  "One day, Felipe, my friend, I might just surprise you."

  "Tony, you sit in this place long enough, there are no more surprises. And, look, talk of the devil. Here comes your birthday present. And so nicely wrapped, too."

  Anthony glanced up and saw a pair of emerald green silk shoes negotiating the stairs. She walked slow
ly, one hand on the rail, as she had the first time he watched her coming down her front steps, revealing herself inch by inch until her face, flushed and slightly damp, was directly before him. At the sight of her, his breath was briefly knocked from his chest.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, as she kissed his cheek. He got a warm waft of perfume, could feel the moisture on her cheeks transferring to his own. Her fingers squeezed his lightly. "It was . . . difficult getting here. Is there somewhere we can sit?"

  Felipe showed them to a booth, and she attempted to smooth her hair.

  "I thought you weren't coming," he said, after Felipe had brought her a martini.

  "Laurence's mother made one of her unannounced visits. She will go on and on. I sat there pouring tea and thought I was going to scream."

  "Where is he?" He reached out a hand under the table and enclosed hers in it. God, he loved the feel of it.

  "Trip to Paris. He's meeting someone from Citroen about brake linings or something."

  "If you were mine," Anthony said, "I wouldn't leave you alone for a minute."

  "I bet you say that to all the girls."

  "Don't," he said. "I hate that."

  "Oh, you can't pretend you haven't used all your best lines on other women first. I know you, Boot. You told me, remember?"

  He sighed. "So this is where honesty gets you. No wonder I never felt like trying it before." He felt her shuffle along the seat so that they were close to each other, her legs curling around his, and something in him relaxed. She drank her martini, then a second, and there, in the snug booth, with her beside him, he enjoyed a fleeting sense of possession. The band struck up, Felipe began to play his trumpet, and as she watched, her face illuminated by candlelight and pleasure, he watched her secretly, knowing with unfathomable certainty that she would be the only woman who could ever make him feel like this.

  "Dance?"

  There were other couples already on the floor, swaying to the music in the near darkness. He held her, breathing in the scent of her hair, feeling the pressure of her body against his, allowing himself to believe it was just the two of them, the music and the softness of her skin.

  "Jenny?"

  "Yes?"

  "Kiss me."

  Every kiss since that first in Postman's Park had been a hidden thing: in his car, in a quiet suburban street, at the back of a restaurant. He could see the protest forming on her lips: Here? In front of all these people? He waited for her to tell him it was too much of a risk. But perhaps something in his expression chimed in her, and, her face softening as it always did when it was just millimeters from his own, she lifted a hand to his cheek and kissed him, a tender, passionate kiss.