by Jojo Moyes
"No. I can do it myself."
Mrs. Cordoza peered past her. "But that's your gold dress. You love it."
"Mrs. Cordoza, please will you let me sort out my own wardrobe?" she snapped.
The housekeeper flinched. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Stirling," she said, and withdrew in hurt silence.
Jennifer began to cry, sobs forcing their way out in ugly bursts. She crawled on top of the bedspread, her hands over her head, and howled, not knowing what she should do, only that, with every second of indecision, the direction of her life hung in the balance. She heard her mother's voice, saw her appalled face at the news of her family's disgrace, the whispers of delighted shock in church. She saw the life she had planned, the children that would surely soften Laurence's coldness, force him to unbend a little. She saw a poky series of rented rooms, Anthony out all day working, herself afraid in a strange country without him. She saw him wearying of her in her drab clothes, his gaze already on some other married woman.
I will never stop loving you. I have never loved anyone before you, and there will never be anyone after you.
When she pushed herself up, Mrs. Cordoza was at the foot of the bed.
She wiped her eyes and her nose and was prepared to apologize for snapping when she saw that the older woman was packing her bag.
"I've put in your flat shoes and your brown slacks. They don't need so much laundering."
Jennifer stared at her, still hiccuping.
"There are undergarments and a nightdress."
"I--I don't--"
Mrs. Cordoza continued to pack. She removed things from the suitcase, refolding them with tissue paper and putting them back with the same reverent care one might lavish on a newborn. Jennifer was hypnotized by the sight of those hands smoothing, replacing.
"Mrs. Stirling," Mrs. Cordoza said, without looking up, "I never told you this. Where I lived in South Africa, it was customary to cover your windows with ash when a man died. When my husband died, I kept my windows clear. In fact, I cleaned them so that they shone."
Sure she had Jennifer's attention, she continued folding. Shoes now, placed sole to sole in a thin cotton bag, tucked neatly in the base, a pair of white tennis shoes, a hairbrush.
"I did love my husband when we were young, but he was not a kind man. As we grew older, he cared less and less how he behaved toward me. When he died suddenly, God forgive me, I felt as if someone had set me free." She hesitated, gazing into the half-packed suitcase. "If someone had given me the chance, many years ago, I would have gone. I think I would have had the chance of a different life."
She placed the last folded clothes on top and closed the lid, securing the buckles on each side of the handle.
"It's half past six. Mr. Stirling said he would be home by a quarter to seven, in case you'd forgotten." Without another word, she straightened and left the room.
Jennifer checked her watch, then shrugged on the rest of her clothes. She ran across the room, sliding her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. She went to her dressing table, fumbled in the back of a drawer for the emergency supply of shopping money she always kept balled up in a pair of stockings, and thrust the notes into her pocket, with a handful of rings and necklaces from her jewelry box. Then she grabbed her suitcase and wrenched it down the stairs.
Mrs. Cordoza was holding out her mackintosh. "Your best chance of a taxi will be New Cavendish Street. I would suggest Portland Place, but I believe Mr. Stirling's driver uses it."
"New Cavendish Street."
Neither woman moved, stunned, perhaps, by what they had done. Then Jennifer stepped forward and gave Mrs. Cordoza an impulsive hug. "Thank you. I--"
"I'll inform Mr. Stirling that, to my knowledge, you're on a shopping trip."
"Yes. Yes, thank you."
She was outside in the night air that suddenly felt loaded with possibility. She tripped carefully down the steps, scanning the square for the familiar yellow light of a taxi. When she reached the pavement, she set off at a run into the city dusk.
She felt an overwhelming sense of relief--she no longer had to be Mrs. Stirling, to dress, behave, love, in a certain way. She realized, giddily, that she had no idea who or where she might be in a year's time and almost laughed at the thought.
The streets were packed with marching pedestrians, the streetlamps coming to life in the encroaching dusk. Jennifer ran, her suitcase banging against her legs, her heart pounding. It was almost a quarter to seven. She pictured Laurence arriving home and calling irritably for her, Mrs. Cordoza tying her scarf over her head and observing that madam seemed to be a long time shopping. It would be another half an hour before he became properly concerned, and by that time she would be on the platform.
I'm coming, Anthony, she told him silently, and the bubble that rose in her chest might have been excitement or fear or a heady combination of both.
The endless movement of people along the platform made watching impossible. They swam in front of him, weaving in and out of each other so that he no longer knew what he was watching for. Anthony stood by a cast-iron bench, his cases at his feet, and checked his watch for the thousandth time. It was almost seven. If she was going to come, surely she would have been here by now?
He glanced up at the announcements board and then at the train that would carry him to Heathrow. Get a grip, man, he told himself. She'll come.
"You for the seven-fifteen, sir?"
The guard was at his shoulder. "Train's leaving in a few moments, sir. If this is yours, I'd advise you to get on."
"I'm waiting for someone."
He peered along the platform to the ticket barrier. An old woman stood there, scrabbling for a long-lost ticket. She shook her head in a way that suggested this was not the first time her handbag had seemingly swallowed some important document. Two porters stood chatting. No one else came through.
"Train won't wait, sir. Next one's at nine forty-five, if that's any help."
He began to pace between the two cast-iron benches, trying not to look at his watch again. He thought of her face that night at Alberto's when she had said she loved him. There had been no guile in it, just honesty. It was beyond her to lie. He dared not think of how it might feel to wake up next to her every morning, the sheer elation of being loved by her, having the freedom to love her in return.
It had been something of a gamble, the letter he had sent her, the ultimatum it contained, but that night he had recognized that she was right: they couldn't go on as they were. The sheer force of their feelings would convert to something toxic. They would come to resent each other for their inability to do what they wanted so badly. If the worst happened, he told himself, again and again, at least he would have behaved honorably. But somehow he didn't believe the worst would happen. She would come. Everything about her told him she would.
He glanced at his watch again, and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes darting over the few commuters emerging through the ticket barrier.
"This will be a good move for you," Don had told him. "Keep you out of trouble." He had wondered whether his editor was secretly relieved to have him in some other part of the world.
It might be, he answered him, moving out of the way as a crowd of bustling businessmen pushed past and climbed aboard the train. I have fifteen minutes to find out if that's true.
It was barely believable. It had begun to rain shortly after she reached New Cavendish Street, the sky turning first a muddy orange, then black. As if at some silent instruction, every taxi was occupied. Every black outline she saw had its yellow light dimmed; some shadowy passenger already en route to wherever they needed to be. She took to waving her arm anyway. Don't you realize how urgent this is? she wanted to shout at them. My life depends on this journey.
The rain was torrential now, coming down in sheets, like a tropical storm. Umbrellas shot up around her, their spikes jabbing into her as she shifted her weight from foot to foot on the curb. She grew damp, then properly wet.
As the minu
te hand of her watch crept closer to seven o'clock, the vague thrill of excitement had hardened into a lump of something like fear. She wasn't going to get there in time. Any minute now Laurence would be searching for her. She couldn't make it on foot, even if she ditched her suitcase.
Anxiety rose like a tide within her, and the traffic sloshed past, sending great sprays across the legs of the unwary.
It was when she saw the man in the red shirt that she thought of it. She began to run, pushing past the people who blocked her way, for once uncaring of the impression she made. She ran along the familiar streets until she found the one she was looking for. She parked her suitcase at the top of the stairs and ran down, hair flying, into the darkened club.
Felipe was standing at the bar, polishing glasses. Nobody else was there other than Sherrie, the cloakroom girl. The bar felt petrified in an overwhelming air of stillness, despite the low music in the background.
"He's not here, lady." Felipe didn't even look up.
"I know." She was so breathless she could barely speak. "But this is terribly important. Do you have a car?"
The look he gave her was not friendly. "I might."
"Could you possibly give me a lift to the station?"
"You want me to give you a lift?" He took in her wet clothes, the hair plastered to her head.
"Yes. Yes! I only have fifteen minutes. Please."
He studied her. She noticed a large, half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him.
"Please! I wouldn't ask if it wasn't terribly important." She leaned forward. "It's to meet Tony. Look, I have money--" She rummaged in her pocket for the notes. They came out damp.
He reached behind him through a door and pulled out a set of keys. "I don't want your money."
"Thank you, oh, thank you," she said breathlessly. "Hurry. We have less than fifteen minutes."
His car was a short walk away, and by the time they reached it he, too, was soaked. He didn't open the door for her, and she wrenched at it, hurling her dripping case with a grunt onto the backseat. "Please! Go!" she said, wiping wet fronds of hair from her face, but he was motionless in the driver's seat, apparently thinking. Oh, God, please don't be drunk, she told him silently. Please don't tell me now that you can't drive, that your car's out of petrol, that you've changed your mind. "Please. There's so little time." She tried to keep the anguish from her voice.
"Mrs. Stirling? Before I drive you?"
"Yes?"
"I need to know . . . Tony, he is a good man, but . . ."
"I know he was married. I know about his son. I know about it all," she said impatiently.
"He is more fragile than he lets on."
"What?"
"Don't break his heart. I have never seen him like this with a woman. If you are not sure, if you think there is even a chance you might go back to your husband, please don't do this."
The rain beat down on the roof of the little car. She reached out a hand, placed it on his arm. "I'm not . . . I'm not who you think I am. Really."
He looked sideways at her.
"I--just want to be with him. I'm giving it all up for him. It's just him. It's Anthony," she said, and the words made her want to laugh with fear and anxiety. "Now go! Please!"
"Okay," he said, wrenching the car around so that the tires squealed. "Where to?" He pointed the car toward Euston Road, bashing the button in an attempt to make the windscreen wipers work. She thought distantly of Mrs. Cordoza's windows, washed until they shone, then pulled the letter from the envelope.
My dearest and only love. I meant what I said. I have come to the conclusion that the only way forward is for one of us to make a bold decision....
I am going to take the job. I'll be at Platform 4 Paddington at 7:15 on Monday evening . . .
"Platform four," she yelled. "We have eleven minutes. Do you think we'll--"
Part 2
Chapter 12
SUMMER 1964
The nurse moved slowly down the ward, pushing a trolley on which sat neat rows of paper cups containing brightly colored pills. The woman in Bed 16c muttered, "Oh, God, not more . . ."
"Not going to make a fuss, are we?" The nurse placed a beaker of water on the bedside table.
"If I have any more of those things, I'll start to rattle."
"Yes, but we've got to get that blood pressure down now, haven't we?"
"Do we? I hadn't realized it was catching . . ."
Jennifer, perched on the chair beside the bed, lifted the beaker and handed it to Yvonne Moncrieff, whose swollen middle rose, domelike, beneath the blankets, curiously divorced from the rest of her body.
Yvonne sighed. She tipped the pills into her mouth, swallowed obediently, then smiled sarcastically at the young nurse, who pushed her way along the maternity ward to the next patient. "Jenny, darling, stage a breakout. I don't think I can bear another night in here. The moaning and groaning--you wouldn't believe it."
"I thought Francis was going to put you in a private ward."
"Not now that they think I'm going to be here for weeks. You know how careful he is with money. 'What's the point of it, darling, given that we can get perfectly good care for free? Besides, you'll have the other ladies to chat to.'" She sniffed, tilting her head toward the large, freckled woman in the next bed. "Yes, because I have so much in common with Lilo Lil there. Thirteen children! Thirteen! I'd thought we were awful with three in four years, but goodness, I'm an amateur."
"I brought you some more magazines." Jennifer took them out of her bag.
"Oh, Vogue. You are a sweetie, but I'm going to ask you to take that one away. It'll be months before I can get into anything in their pages, and it'll only make me want to cry. I'm booking a fitting for a new girdle the day after this little one finally gets here.... Tell me something exciting."
"Exciting?"
"What are you up to for the rest of this week? You don't know what it's like being stuck here for days on end, the size of a whale, being force-fed milk pudding and wondering what on earth's actually happening in the world."
"Oh . . . it's rather dull. Drinks at some embassy tonight. I'd really rather stay at home, but Larry's insistent I go with him. There's been some conference in New York about people getting ill from asbestos, and he wants to go and tell them he thinks this man Selikoff, who's something to do with it all, is a troublemaker."
"But cocktails, pretty dresses . . ."
"Actually, I was rather looking forward to curling up with The Avengers. It's too hot to get dressed up."
"Ugh. You're telling me. I feel like I'm trapped with my own little stove here." She patted her stomach. "Oh! I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. Mary Odin popped in yesterday. She told me that Katherine and Tommy Broughton have agreed to divorce. And you'll never guess what they're doing?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"A hotel divorce. Apparently he's agreed to be 'caught' in a hotel with some woman so they can be released without the usual delays. But that's not the half of it."
"No?"
"Mary says the woman who's agreed to be pictured with him is actually his mistress. The one who sent those letters. Poor old Katherine thinks he's paying someone to do it. She's already using one of the love letters as evidence. Apparently he told Katherine he got a friend to write it and make it authentic. Isn't that the most awful thing you ever heard?"
"Awful."
"I'm praying Katherine doesn't come to see me. I know I'll end up giving the game away. Poor woman. And everyone but her knowing."
Jennifer picked up a magazine and leafed through it, observing companionably on that recipe or this dress pattern. She became aware that her friend wasn't listening. "Are you all right?" She put a hand on the bedcover. "Anything I can get you?"
"Keep an eye open for me, won't you?" Yvonne's voice was calm, but her swollen fingers beat a restless tattoo on the sheet.
"What do you mean?"
"Francis. Keep an eye open for any unexpected visitors. Female visit
ors." Her face was turned resolutely toward the window.
"Oh, I'm sure Francis--"
"Jenny? Just do it for me, will you?"
A brief pause. Jennifer examined a stray thread on the lap of her skirt. "Of course."
"Anyway," Yvonne changed the subject, "let me know what you wear tonight. As I said, I simply can't wait to be back in civilian clothes. Did you know my feet have gone up two sizes? I'll be walking out of here in Wellington boots if they get any worse."
Jennifer stood up and reached for her bag, which she had left on the back of the chair. "I almost forgot. Violet said she'd be here after tea."
"Oh, Lord. More updates on little Frederick's terrible poop problem."
"I'll come tomorrow if I can."
"Have fun, darling. I'd give my eyeteeth to be at a cocktail party rather than stuck here listening to Violet drone on." Yvonne sighed. "And pass me that copy of Queen before you go, would you? What do you think of Jean Shrimpton's hair? It's a little like how you wore yours to that disastrous supper at Maisie Barton-Hulme's."
Jennifer stepped into her bathroom and locked the door behind her, letting the dressing gown fall at her feet. She had laid out the clothes she would wear this evening: a raw silk shift dress with a scoop collar, the color of good claret, with a silk wrap. She would pin up her hair, and put on the ruby earrings Laurence had bought her for her thirtieth birthday. He complained that she rarely wore them. In his opinion, if he spent money on her, she should at least demonstrate the evidence of it.
That being settled, she would soak in her bath until she had to polish her fingernails. Then she would get dressed, and by the time Laurence returned home, she would be putting the finishing touches to her makeup. She turned off the taps and looked at her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet, wiping the glass when it became obscured by steam. She stared at herself until it had clouded again. Then she opened the cabinet and sorted through the brown bottles on the top shelf until she found what she wanted. She swallowed two Valium, washing them down with water from the tooth mug. She eyed the pentobarbital, but decided that would be too much if she wanted to drink. And she definitely did.
