The Last Letter From Your Lover (17 page)

And then, as if at the end of a distant tunnel, they heard Sherrie’s conspicuous cough. Jennifer straightened her clothes, allowed him to smooth her skirt, and he felt the pressure of her hand as she led him the few feet back into the light, the real world, his legs still weak, his breathing not yet regular, already regretting leaving that dark heaven behind.

“Fifteen minutes,” Sherrie said into her paperback, as Jennifer stepped out into the corridor. Her dress was neat, but the flattening of the back of her hair hinted at what had transpired.

“If you say so.” He slipped the girl another note.

Jennifer turned to him, her face still flushed. “My shoe!” she exclaimed, holding up one stockinged foot. She burst out laughing, covered her mouth. He wanted to rejoice at her mischievous expression—he had feared she might be suddenly pensive or regretful.

“I’ll get it,” he said, ducking back in.

“Who says chivalry’s dead?” Sherrie muttered.

He fumbled in the dark for the emerald silk shoe, his free hand lifting to his hair, lest it should be as evidential as hers. He fancied he could smell the musty scent of sex now mingling with the traces of perfume. Oh, but he had never felt anything like that. He closed his eyes for a moment, conjuring up the feel of her, the feel of . . .

“Well, hello, Mrs. Stirling!”

He located the shoe under an upturned chair, and heard Jennifer’s voice, a brief murmur of conversation.

As he emerged, a young man had stopped by the cloakroom. A cigarette was wedged in the corner of his mouth, and he had his arm around a dark-haired girl who was clapping enthusiastically in the direction of the music.

“How are you, Reggie?” Jennifer was holding out a hand, which he took briefly.

Anthony saw the young man’s eyes slide toward him. “I’m fine. Mr. Stirling with you?”

She barely missed a beat. “Laurence is away on business. This is Anthony, a friend of ours. He’s very kindly taking me out this evening.”

A hand snaked across. “How do you do?”

Anthony’s smile felt like a grimace.

Reggie stood there, his eyes lifting to Jennifer’s hair, the faint flush on her cheeks, something unpleasantly knowing in his gaze. He nodded toward her feet. “You seem to be . . . missing a shoe.”

“My dancing shoes. I checked them in and got a mixed pair back. Silly of me.” Her voice was cool, seamless.

Anthony held it out. “Found it,” he said. “I’ve put your outdoor shoes back under the coat.” Sherrie sat motionless beside him, her face buried in her book.

Reggie smirked, clearly enjoying the hiatus he had caused. Anthony wondered briefly whether he was waiting to be offered a drink or asked to join them, but he was damned if he’d do either.

Thankfully, Reggie’s female companion tugged at his arm. “Come on, Reggie. Look, Mel’s over there.”

“Duty calls.” Reggie waved, and was gone, weaving through the tables. “Enjoy your . . . dancing.”

“Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

He steered her back into the main room. “Let’s get a drink.”

They slid into their booth, the rapture of fifteen minutes ago already a distant memory. Anthony had disliked the young man on sight—but for that loss he could have thumped him.

She downed a martini in a single gulp. In other circumstances he would have found it amusing. Now, however, it signified her anxiety.

“Stop fretting,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“But what if he tells—”

“So leave Laurence. Simple.”

“Anthony . . .”

“You can’t go back to him, Jenny. Not after that. You know it.”

She pulled out a compact and rubbed at the mascara under her eyes. Apparently dissatisfied, she snapped it shut.

“Jenny?”

“Think about what you’re asking me. I’d lose everything. My family . . . everything my life is. I’d be disgraced.”

“But you’d have me. I’d make you happy. You said so.”

“It’s different for women. I’d be—”

“We’ll get married.”

“You really think Laurence would ever divorce me? You think he’d let me go?” Her face had clouded.

“I know he’s not right for you. I am.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Are you happy with him? Is this the life you want for yourself? To be a prisoner in a gilded cage?”

“I’m not a prisoner. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You just can’t see it.”

“No. That’s how you want to see it. Larry isn’t a bad man.”

“You can’t see it yet, Jenny, but you’re going to become more and more unhappy with him.”

“Now you’re a fortune-teller as well as a hack?”

He still felt raw, and it made him reckless. “He’ll squash you, extinguish the things that make you you. Jennifer, the man’s a fool, a dangerous fool, and you’re too blind to see it.”

Her face whipped around. “How dare you? How
dare
you?”

He saw the tears in her eyes, and the heat within him dissipated. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, made to wipe her eyes with it, but she blocked his hand. “Don’t,” she murmured. “Reggie might be watching.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you cry. Please don’t cry.”

They sat in an unhappy silence, staring at the dance floor.

“It’s just so hard,” she murmured. “I thought I was happy. I thought my life was fine. And then you came along, and nothing . . . nothing makes sense anymore. All the things I’d had planned—houses, children, holidays—I don’t want them now. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I think about you all the time. I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about that.” She gestured toward the cloakroom. “But the thought of actually leaving”—she sniffed—“it’s like looking into an abyss.”

“An abyss?”

She blew her nose. “Loving you would come at such a cost. My parents would disown me. I’d have nothing to bring with me. And I can’t do anything, Anthony. I’m no good for anything but living as I do. What if I couldn’t even run your house for you?”

“You think I care about that?”

“You would. Eventually. A spoiled little tai-tai. That was what you first thought of me, and you were right. I can make men love me, but I can’t do anything else.”

Her bottom lip was trembling. He wished, furious with himself, that he had never used that word against her. They sat in silence, watching Felipe play, both locked in thought.

“I’ve been offered a job,” he said eventually. “In New York, reporting on the United Nations.”

She turned to him. “You’re leaving?”

“Listen to me. For years I’ve been a mess. When I was in Africa, I fell apart. When I was at home, I couldn’t wait to get back there. I could never settle, could never escape the feeling that I should be somewhere else, doing something else.” He took her hand. “And then I met you. Suddenly I can see a future. I can see the point of staying still, of building a life in one place. Working at the UN would be fine. I just want to be with you.”

“
I can’t
. You don’t understand.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what he’d do?” Rage built within him. “You think I’m frightened of him? You think I couldn’t protect you?”

“No. Not of him. Please lower your voice.”

“Of those ridiculous people you hang around with? You really care about their opinions? They’re empty, stupid people with—”

“Stop it! It’s not them!”

“What, then? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of you.”

He battled to understand. “But I wouldn’t—”

“I’m afraid of what I feel for you. I’m afraid to love somebody this much.” Her voice broke. She folded her cocktail napkin, twisting it between her slim fingers. “I love him, but not like this. I’ve been fond of him and I’ve despised him, and much of the time we exist reasonably well together and I’ve made my accommodations and I know I can live like this. Do you understand? I know I can live like this for the rest of my life, and it won’t be so bad. Plenty of women have worse.”

“And with me?”

She didn’t answer for so long that he almost repeated the question. “If I let myself love you, it would consume me. There would be nothing but you. I would be constantly afraid that you might change your mind. And then, if you did, I would die.”

He took her hands, raised them to his lips, ignoring her whispered protests. He kissed her fingertips. He wanted to take her whole self into him. He wanted to wrap himself around her and never let her go. “I love you, Jennifer,” he said. “I will never stop loving you. I have never loved anyone before you, and there will never be anyone after you.”

“You say that now,” she said.

“Because it’s true.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Nothing. You’ve said everything. I have them all on paper, your beautiful words.” She pulled her hand from his and reached for her martini. When she spoke again it was as if she was talking to herself. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”

She had withdrawn her leg from his. He felt its absence like a pain. “What are you saying?” He fought to keep his voice under control. “You love me, but there’s no hope for us?”

Her face crumpled a little. “Anthony, I think we both know . . .” She didn’t finish.

She didn’t need to.

Chapter 10

DECEMBER 1960

She had watched Mrs. Stirling disappear from the office party and Mr. Stirling grow increasingly agitated until he had slammed down his tumbler and strode out into the hallway after her. Almost vibrating with excitement, she had wanted to follow, to see what was happening, but Moira Parker had enough self-control to stay where she was. No one else seemed to notice he had gone.

Finally he walked back into the party. She watched him over the rise and fall of people’s heads, utterly marooned. His face betrayed little emotion, yet she saw strain in his features that even she had never witnessed before.

What happened out there? What had Jennifer Stirling been doing with that young man?

An almost indecent spark of gratification burst into life within her, feeding her imagination until it was glowing. Perhaps he had been forced to see his wife for the selfish creature she was. Moira knew that when the office reopened, just a few words would cause the woman’s behavior to become the talk of it. But, she thought with sudden melancholy, that would mean Mr. Stirling would be too, and the prospect of that brave, dignified, stoic man as the butt of flippant secretarial gossip made her heart constrict. How could she humiliate him in the one place he should be considered above everyone?

Moira stood, helpless, on the other side of the room, afraid to attempt to comfort her boss but so far removed from the revelry of her coworkers that she might have been in a different room. She watched as he went toward the makeshift bar and, with a grimace, accepted a cup of what looked like whiskey. He downed it in one gulp and demanded another. After a third, he nodded to those around him and went to his office.

Moira made her way through the throng. It was a quarter to eleven. The music had stopped, and people had begun to go home. Those who were not leaving were evidently taking themselves somewhere else, away from their colleagues’ eyes. Behind the coat stand, Stevens was kissing that redhead from the typing pool as if nobody could see them. The girl’s skirt had ridden halfway up her thighs, and his pudgy fingers plucked at the flesh-colored garters now exposed to view. She realized that the post boy had not returned after taking Elsie Machzynski to fetch a taxi, and she wondered what she might say to Elsie later to let her know that she was aware of this, even if nobody else had noticed. Was everyone except her obsessed with matters of the flesh? Were the formal greetings, the polite conversation of every day, simply a cover for a bacchanalian nature that she lacked?

“We’re going on to the Cat’s Eye Club. Fancy joining us, Moira? Let your hair down a little?”

“Oh, she won’t come,” Felicity Harewood said, so dismissively that, for just a moment, Moira thought she might surprise them all and say, “Why, yes, actually, I’d love to join you.” But the light was on in Mr. Stirling’s office. Moira did what any other responsible personal assistant to a chief executive would do. She stayed behind to clear up.

It was almost one in the morning by the time she finished. She didn’t do it
all
herself: the new girl in Accounts held a bag for her when she collected the empty bottles, and the head of sales, a tall South African man, helped collect the paper cups, singing loudly from his spot in the ladies’ cloakroom. Eventually it was just Moira, scrubbing at the stains on the linoleum that might yet be removed, and using a dustpan and brush to pick up the crisps and peanuts that had somehow become trodden into the tiles. The men could move the desks back when they returned to the office. Apart from a few fluttering foil streamers, the place looked almost workmanlike again.

She looked at the battered Christmas tree, its decorations broken or missing, and the little postbox, which had become rather squashed since someone had sat on it, the crepe paper peeling away forlornly from the sides. She was glad that her mother wasn’t alive to see her precious baubles tossed aside so carelessly.

She was packing away the last of it when she caught sight of Mr. Stirling. He was sitting in his leather chair, his head in his hands. The table near the door supported the remnants of the drink, and almost on impulse, she poured two fingers of whiskey. She walked across the office and knocked. He was still wearing his tie. Formal, even at this hour.

“I’ve just been clearing up,” she said, when he stared at her. She felt suddenly embarrassed.

He glanced out of the window, and she realized he had not been aware that she was still there.

“Very kind of you, Moira,” he said quietly. “Thank you.” He took the whiskey from her and drank it, slowly this time.

Moira took in her boss’s collapsed face, the tremor of his hands. She stood close to the corner of his desk, certain for once that she was justified in simply being there. On his desk, in neat piles, sat the letters she had left out for signing earlier that day. It felt like an age ago.

“Would you like another?” she said, when he had finished it. “There’s a little more in the bottle.”

“I suspect I’ve had quite enough.” There was a lengthy silence. “What am I supposed to do, Moira?” He shook his head, as if engaged in some ongoing internal argument that she couldn’t hear. “I give her everything.
Everything
. She has never wanted for a thing.”

His voice was halting, broken.

“They say everything’s changing. Women want something new . . . God knows what. Why does everything have to change?”

“Not all women,” she said quietly. “An awful lot of women think a husband who would provide for them, and who they could look after, make a home for, would be a wonderful thing to have.”

“You think so?” His eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“Oh, I know it. A man to make a drink for when he came home, to cook for and fuss over a little. I—it would be perfectly lovely.” She colored.

“Then why . . .” He sighed.

“Mr. Stirling,” she said suddenly, “you’re a wonderful boss. A wonderful man. Really.” She plowed on. “She’s awfully lucky to have you. She must know that. And you don’t deserve . . . you didn’t deserve . . .” She trailed off, knowing even as she spoke that she was breaching some unspoken protocol. “I’m so sorry,” she said, when the silence stretched uncomfortably beyond her words. “Mr. Stirling, I didn’t mean to presume . . .”

“Is it wrong,” he said, so quietly that at first she wasn’t sure what he was saying, “for a man to want to be held? Does that make him less of a man?”

She felt tears prick her eyes . . . and something underneath them, something shrewder and sharper. She moved over a little and placed an arm lightly around his shoulders. Oh, the feel of him! Tall and broad, his jacket sitting so beautifully on his frame. She knew she would revisit this moment again and again for the rest of her life. The feel of him, the liberty to touch . . . She was almost faint with pleasure.

When he did nothing to stop her, she perched on the arm of his chair, leaned over a little, and, holding her breath, placed her head on his shoulder. A gesture of comfort, of solidarity. This is how it would feel, she thought blissfully. She wished, just briefly, that someone would take a picture of them pressed together so intimately. Then he lifted his head, and she felt a sudden pang of alarm—and shame.

“I’m so sorry—I’ll get . . .” She straightened, choking on the words. But his hand was on hers. Warm. Close. “Moira,” he said, and his eyes were half closed, his voice a croak of despair and desire. His hands were on her face, tilting it, pulling it down to meet his, and his mouth, searching, desperate, determined. A sound escaped her, a gasp of shock and delight, and then she was returning his kiss. He was only the second man she had kissed, and this instance was beyond the realm of what had preceded it, colored as it was by years of unrequited longing. Little explosions took place inside her as her blood raced around at super speed and her heart fought to escape her chest.

She felt him easing her back across the desk, his murmuring voice hoarse and urgent, his hands at her collar, her breasts, his breath warm on her collarbone. Inexperienced, she knew little of where to put her hands, her limbs, but found herself clutching him, wanting to please, lost in new sensations.
I adore you
, she told him silently.
Take what you want from me.

But even as she gave herself up to pleasure, Moira knew she must keep some part of her aware enough to remember. Even as he enveloped her, entered her, her skirt hitched above her hips, his ink bottle digging uncomfortably into her shoulder, she knew she was no threat to Jennifer Stirling. The Jennifers of this world would always be the ultimate prize in a way that a woman like her never could. But Moira Parker had one advantage: she was appreciative in a way that Jennifer Stirling, that those who had always had things handed to them, never were. And she knew that even one brief night could be the most precious of all precious things, and that if this was to be the defining event of her romantic life, some part of her should be conscious enough to file it safely somewhere. Then, when it was over, she could relive it on those endless evenings when she was alone again.

She was sitting in the large drawing room at the front of the house when he returned home. She was wearing a raspberry tweed swing coat and hat, her black patent handbag and matching gloves resting neatly on her lap. She heard his car pull up, saw the lights outside dim, and stood. She pulled back the curtain a few inches and watched him sitting in the driving seat, letting his thoughts tick over with the dying engine.

She glanced behind her at her suitcases, then moved away from the window.

He came in and dropped his overcoat on the hall chair. She heard his keys fall into the bowl they kept for that purpose on the table, and the clatter of something falling over. The wedding photograph? He hesitated for a moment outside the drawing-room door, then opened it and found her.

“I think I should leave.” She saw his eyes go to the packed suitcase at her feet, the one she had used when she’d left the hospital all those weeks earlier.

“You think you should leave.”

She took a deep breath. Spoke the words she had rehearsed for the last two hours. “This isn’t making either of us very happy. We both know that.”

He walked past her to the drinks cabinet and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. The way he held the decanter made her wonder how much he had drunk since she had returned home. He took the cut-glass tumbler to a chair and sat down heavily. He lifted his eyes to hers, held them for a few minutes. She fought the urge to fidget.

“So . . .” he said. “Do you have something else in mind? Something that might make you happier?” His tone was sarcastic, unpleasant; drink had unleashed something in him. But she was not afraid. She had the freedom of knowing he was not her future.

They stared at each other, combatants locked in an uneasy battle.

“You know, don’t you?” she said.

He drank some of his whiskey, his eyes not leaving her face. “What do I know, Jennifer?”

She took a breath. “That I love someone else. And that it’s not Reggie Carpenter. It never was.” She fiddled with her handbag as she spoke. “I worked it out this evening. Reggie was a mistake, a diversion from the truth. But you’re so angry with me all the time. You have been ever since I got out of hospital. Because you know, just as I do, that someone else loves me, and isn’t afraid to tell me so. That’s why you didn’t want me to ask too many questions. That’s why my mother—and everyone else—has been so keen for me to simply get on with things. You didn’t want me to remember. You never have.”

She had half expected him to explode with anger. But instead he nodded. Then, as she held her breath, he raised his glass to her. “So . . . this lover of yours, what time will he be here?” He peered at his watch, then at her cases. “I assume he’s picking you up.”

“He . . .” She swallowed. “I . . . It’s not like that.”

“So you’re going to meet him somewhere.”

He was so calm. As if he was almost enjoying this. “Eventually. Yes.”

“Eventually,” he repeated. “What’s the delay?”

“I . . . I don’t know where he is.”