The Last Letter From Your Lover

  "You do make me happy, you know," she said quietly, confirming to him that she hadn't been before. Her fingers entwined in his; possessive, certain. "I can't pretend this does, but you do."

  "So leave him." The words were out of his mouth before he knew what he was saying.

  "What?"

  "Leave him. Come and live with me. I've been offered a posting. We could just disappear."

  "Don't."

  "Don't what?"

  "Talk like that. You know it's impossible."

  "Why?" he said. He could hear the demanding note in his voice. "Why is it impossible?"

  "We--we don't really know each other at all."

  "Yes, we do. You know we do."

  He lowered his head and kissed her again. He felt her resist a little this time, and pulled her to him, his hand on the small of her back, feeling her meld against him. The music receded, he lifted her hair from the nape of her neck with one hand, feeling the dampness underneath, and paused. Her eyes were closed, her head tilted slightly to one side, her lips very slightly parted.

  Her blue eyes opened, bored into his, and then she smiled, a heady half smile that spoke of her own desire. How often did a man see a smile like that? Not an expression of tolerance, of affection, of obligation. Yes, all right, dear, if you really want to. Jennifer Stirling wanted him. She wanted him like he wanted her. "I'm awfully hot," she said, her eyes not leaving his.

  "Then we should get some air." He took her hand, and led her through the dancing couples. He could feel her laughing, reaching for the shirt at his back. They reached the comparative privacy of the corridor, where he stifled her laughter with kisses, his hands entwined in her hair, her warm mouth under his lips. She kissed him back with increasing fervor, not hesitating even when they heard footsteps pass. He felt her hands reach under his shirt, and the touch of her fingers was so intensely pleasurable that he briefly lost the power of thought. What to do? What to do? Their kisses grew deeper, more urgent. He knew that if he didn't take her, he would explode. He broke off, his hands on her face, saw her eyes, heavy with longing. Her flushed skin was his answer.

  He looked to his right. Sherrie was still deep in her book, the cloakroom redundant in the sticky September heat. She was blind to them after years of amorous fumblings around her. "Sherrie," he said, pulling a ten-shilling note from his pocket, "how'd you fancy a tea break?"

  She raised an eyebrow, then took the money and slid off her stool. "Ten minutes," she said baldly. And then Jennifer, giggling, was following him into the cloakroom, breathless as he pulled the dark curtain as far across the little alcove as it would go.

  Here the dark was soft and total, the scent of a thousand discarded coats lingering in the air. Wrapped around each other, they stumbled to the end of the coat rail, the wire hangers clashing around their heads like whispering cymbals. He couldn't see her, but then she was facing him, her back against the wall, her lips on his, with a greater urgency now, murmuring his name.

  Some part of him knew, even then, that she would be his undoing. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, his hand on her breast, his breath thick in his throat, knowing this would be the only possible brake. "Tell me to stop." The shake of her head was a mute refusal. "Oh, God," he murmured. And then they were frantic, her breath coming in short gasps, her leg lifted around his. He slid his hands underneath her dress, palms sliding against the silk and lace of her underwear. He felt her fingers threaded in his hair, one hand reaching for his trousers, and he found he was mildly shocked, as if he had imagined her natural sense of decorum would preclude such an appetite.

  Time slowed, the air became a vacuum around them, their breath mingling. Fabrics were pushed aside. Legs became damp, his braced to support her weight. And then--oh, God--he was finally inside her, and just for a moment everything stilled: her breath, movement, his heart. The world, possibly. He felt her open mouth against his, heard her intake of breath. And then they were moving, and he was one thing, could feel only one thing, deaf to the clashing hangers, the muffled music on the other side of the wall, the muted exclamation of someone greeting a friend in the corridor. It was he and Jennifer, moving slowly, then faster, her hold on him tighter, the laughter gone now, his lips on her skin, her breath in his ear. He felt the increasing violence of her movements, felt her disappear into some distant part of herself. He knew, with what remained of his sensibility, that she mustn't make a sound. And as he heard the cry build at the back of her throat, as her head tipped back, he stopped it with his mouth, absorbing the sound, her pleasure, so surely that it became his own.

  Vicariously.

  And then they were stumbling, his legs cramping as he lowered her, and they were pressed together, holding each other, he feeling the tears on her cheeks as she shivered, limp in his arms. Afterward he couldn't recall what he told her at that point. I love you. I love you. Never let me go. You are so beautiful. He remembered wiping the tears from her eyes tenderly, her whispered reassurances, half smiles, her kisses, her kisses, her kisses.

  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 e
vidently 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.