The Last Letter From Your Lover, Page 34

  "Do you ever feel bad about what happened? Having an affair, I mean."

  "Are you asking if I regret hurting my husband?"

  "I suppose so."

  "And is this . . . curiosity? Or absolution?"

  "I don't know. Probably both." Ellie chews a fingernail. "I think my . . . John . . . may be about to leave his wife."

  There is a short silence. They are at the gates of Primrose Hill and Jennifer stops there. "Children?"

  Ellie does not look up. "Yes."

  "That's a great responsibility."

  "I know."

  "And you're a little frightened."

  Ellie finds the words she hasn't been able to say to anyone else. "I'd like to be sure I'm doing the right thing. That it's going to be worth all the pain I'm about to cause."

  What is it about this woman that makes it impossible to keep back any truth? She feels Jennifer's eyes on her, and wants, indeed, to be absolved. She remembers Boot's words: You make me want to be a better man. She wants to be a better person. She doesn't want to be walking here with half her mind wondering which bits of this conversation she's likely to plunder and publish in a newspaper.

  Years of listening to other people's problems seem to have given Jennifer an air of wise neutrality. When she speaks, finally, Ellie senses she has chosen her words carefully. "I'm sure you'll work it out between you. You just need to talk honestly. Painfully honestly. And you may not always get the answers you want. That was the thing I was reminded of when I reread Anthony's letters after you left last week. There were no games. I never met anyone--before or afterward--that I could be quite so honest with."

  She sighs, beckons Ellie through the gates. They begin to walk up the path that will lead them to the top of the hill. "But there is no absolution for people like us, Ellie. You may well find that guilt plays a much larger part in your future life than you would like. They say passion burns for a reason, and when it comes to affairs, it's not only the protagonists who are hurt. For my part, I do still feel guilty for the pain I caused Laurence. . . . I justified it to myself at the time, but I can see that what happened . . . hurt all of us. But . . . the person I have always felt most bad about is Anthony."

  "You were going to tell me the rest of the story."

  Jennifer's smile is fading. "Well, Ellie, it's not a happy ending." She tells of an abortive trip to Africa, a lengthy search, conspicuous silence from the man who had previously never stopped telling her how he felt, and the eventual forging of a new life in London, alone.

  "And that's it?"

  "In a nutshell."

  "And in all that time you never . . . there was never anyone else?"

  Jennifer Stirling smiles again. "Not quite. I am human. But I will say that I never became emotionally involved with anyone. After Boot, I--I didn't really want to be close to anyone else. There had been only him, for me. I could see that very clearly. And, besides, I had Esme." Her smile broadens. "A child really is a wonderful consolation."

  They have reached the top. The whole of north London stretches beneath them. They breathe deeply, scanning the distant skyline, hearing the traffic; the cries of dog walkers and errant children recede beneath them.

  "Can I ask why you kept the PO box open for so long?"

  Jennifer leans against the cast-iron bench, thinks before replying. "I suppose it must seem rather silly to you, but we had missed each other twice, you see, both times by a matter of hours. I felt it was my obligation to give it every chance. I suppose shutting down that box would have been admitting it was finally over."

  She shrugs ruefully. "Every year I've told myself it's time to stop. The years crept by without my noticing how long it had been. But somehow I never have. I suppose I told myself it was a rather harmless indulgence."

  "So that was actually it? His last letter?" Ellie gestures somewhere in the direction of St. John's Wood. "Did you really never hear from him again? How could you bear not knowing what happened to him?"

  "The way I saw it, there were two possibilities. Either he had died in Congo, which was, at the time, too unbearable to contemplate. Or, as I suspect, he was very hurt by me. He believed I was never going to leave my husband, perhaps even that I was careless with his feelings, and I think it cost him dearly to get close to me a second time. Unfortunately I didn't realize how dearly until it was too late."

  "You never tried to have him traced? A private investigator? Newspaper advertisements?"

  "Oh, I wouldn't do that. He would have known where I was. I had made my feelings plain. And I had to respect his." She regards Ellie gravely. "You know, you can't make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply . . . off."

  The wind is brisk up there: it forces itself into the gap between collar and neck, exploits any hint of exposure. Ellie thrusts her hands into her pockets. "What do you think would have happened to you if he had found you again?"

  For the first time, Jennifer Stirling's eyes fill with tears. She stares at the skyline, gives a tiny shake of her head. "The young don't have a monopoly on broken hearts, you know." She begins to walk slowly back down the path so that her face is no longer visible. The silence before she speaks again causes a small tear in Ellie's heart. "I learned a long time ago, Ellie, that 'if only' is a very dangerous game indeed."

  Meet me--Jx

  We're using mobiles? X

  I have a lot to tell you. I just need to see you. Les Percivals on Derry Street. Tomorrow 1 pm x

  Percivals?!? Not your usual thing

  Ah. I'm all surprises these days Jx

  She sits at the linen-clad table, flicking through the notes she has scribbled on the Tube, and knows in her heart that she can't run this story, and that if she doesn't, her career at the Nation is over. Twice she has thought of running back to the apartment in St. John's Wood and throwing herself on the older woman's mercy, explaining herself, begging her to let her reproduce her doomed love affair in print. But whenever she does, she sees Jennifer Stirling's face, hears her voice: The young don't have a monopoly on broken hearts, you know.

  She stares at the glossy olives in the white ceramic dish on the table. She has no appetite. If she doesn't write this story, Melissa will move her. If she does write it, she's not sure she'll ever feel quite the same about what she does or who she is. She wishes, again, that she could talk to Rory. He would know what she should do. She has an uncomfortable feeling that it might not be what she wants to do, but she knows he would be right. Her thoughts chase each other in circles, argument and counterargument. Jennifer Stirling probably doesn't even read the Nation. She might never know what you did. Melissa is looking for an excuse to elbow you out. You really don't have a choice.

  And then Rory's voice, sardonic: Are you kidding me?

  Her stomach tightens. She can't remember the last time it wasn't tied in knots. A thought occurs: surely if she can find out what happened to Anthony O'Hare, Jennifer will have to forgive her? She might be upset for a while, but surely, ultimately, she will see that Ellie has given her a gift? The answer has dropped into her lap. She'll find him. If it takes her ten years, she'll find out what happened to him. It's the flimsiest of straws, but it makes her feel a little better.

  Five minutes away. Are you there? Jx

  Yes. Table on ground floor. Chilled glass waiting. Ex

  She lifts a hand unconsciously to her hair. She still hasn't been able to work out why John doesn't want to go straight to her flat. The old John always preferred to go directly there. It was as if he couldn't speak to her properly, see her even, until he had got all that pent-up tension out of the way first. In the early months of their relationship, she had found it flattering, and later a little irritating. Now some small part of her wonders whether this restaurant meeting is to do with them finally going public. Everything seems to have changed so dramatically that it isn't beyond the new John to want to make some kind of public declaration. She notices the expensively dressed pe
ople at the neighboring tables, and her toes curl at the thought.

  "What are you so fidgety about?" Nicky had said that morning. "This means you've got what you wanted, doesn't it?"

  "It's just . . ."

  "You're not sure you want him anymore."

  "No!" She had scowled at the phone. "Of course I want him! It's just that everything's changed so swiftly I haven't had a chance to get my head around it."

  "You'd better get your head around it. It's entirely possible that he's going to turn up to lunch with two suitcases and a couple of screaming kids in tow." For some reason this idea had amused Nicky hugely, and she had giggled until it had become a little annoying.

  Ellie had the feeling that Nicky still hadn't forgiven her for "messing things up," as she put it, with Rory. Rory had sounded nice, she said repeatedly. "Someone I'd be happy to go to the pub with." The subtext: Nicky would never want to go to the pub with John. She would never forgive him for being the kind of man who could cheat on his wife.

  She glances at her watch, then signals to the waiter for a second glass of wine. He's now twenty minutes late. On any other occasion she would have been mutely furious, but she's so nervous now that a small part of her wonders whether she might throw up at the mere sight of him. Yes, that's always a good welcome. And then she glances up to find a woman standing at the other side of her table.

  Ellie's first thought is that she's a waitress, and then she wonders why she isn't holding the glass of wine. Then she realizes that not only is the woman wearing a navy coat, rather than a waitress's uniform, but she is staring at her, a little too intently, like someone about to start singing to themselves on the bus.

  "Hello, Ellie."

  Ellie blinks. "I'm sorry," she says, after her mind has flicked through a mental Rolodex of recent contacts and turned up nothing. "Do we know each other?"

  "Oh, I think so. I'm Jessica."

  Jessica. Her mind is blank. Nicely cut hair. Good legs. Perhaps a little tired. Suntan. And then it explodes onto her consciousness. Jessica. Jess.

  The woman registers her shock. "Yes, I thought you might recognize my name. You probably didn't want to put a face to it, did you? Didn't want to think too much about me. I suppose John's having a wife was a bit of an inconvenience to you."

  Ellie can't speak. She's dimly aware of the other diners as they glance her way, having picked up on some strange vibration emanating from table 15.

  Jessica Armor is going through text messages on a familiar mobile phone. Her voice lifts a little as she reads them out: "'Feeling very wicked today. Get away. Don't care how you do it, but get away. Will make it worth your while.' Hmm, and here's a good one. 'Should be writing up interview with MP's wife, but mind keeps drifting back to last Tues. Bad boy!' Oh, and my personal favorite. 'Have been to Agent Provocateur. Photo attached . . .'" When she looks at Ellie again, her voice is shaking with barely suppressed rage. "It's pretty hard to compete with that when you're nursing two sick children and coping with the builders. But, yes, Tuesday the twelfth. I do remember that day. He brought me a bunch of flowers to apologize for being so late."

  Ellie's mouth has opened but no words come out. Her skin is prickling.

  "I went through his phone on holiday. I'd wondered who he was ringing from the bar, and then I found your message. 'Please call. Just once. Need to hear from you. X.'" She laughs mirthlessly. "How very touching. He thinks it's been stolen."

  Ellie wants to crawl under the table. She wants to shrink to nothing, to evaporate.

  "I'd like to hope you end up a miserable, lonely woman. But actually, I hope you have children one day, Ellie Haworth. Then you'll know how it feels to be vulnerable. And to have to fight, to be constantly vigilant, just to make sure your children get to grow up with a father. Think about that the next time you're purchasing see-through lingerie to entertain my husband, won't you?"

  Jessica Armor walks away through the tables and out into the sunshine. There may have been a hush in the restaurant; it's impossible for Ellie to tell over the ringing in her ears. Eventually, cheeks flaming, hands trembling, she motions to a waiter for the bill.

  As he approaches, she mutters something about having to leave unexpectedly. She isn't sure what she's saying: her voice no longer seems to belong to her. "The bill?" she says.

  He gestures toward the door. His smile is sympathetic. "No need, madam. The lady paid for you."

  Ellie walks back to the office, impervious to traffic, to jostling commuters on pavements, to the rebuking eyes of the Big Issue sellers. She wants to be in her little flat with the door shut, but her precarious position at work means that's impossible. She walks through the newspaper office, conscious of the eyes of other people, convinced deep down that everyone must see her shame, see what Jessica Armor saw, as if it were drawn upon her, like a scarlet letter.

  "You okay, Ellie? You're awfully pale." Rupert leans around from behind his monitor. Someone has fixed an "incinerate" sticker to the back of his screen.

  "Headache." Her voice sticks in the back of her throat.

  "Terri's got pills--she has pills for everything, that girl," he muses, and disappears behind his monitor again.

  She sits at her desk and turns on her computer, scanning the e-mails. There it is.

  Have lost phone. Picking up new one lunchtime. Will e-mail you new number. Jx

  She checks the time. It had arrived in her in-box while she was interviewing Jennifer Stirling. She closes her eyes, seeing again the image that has swum in front of them for the past hour: Jessica Armor's set jaw, the terrifying eyes, the way her hair moved around her face while she spoke, as if it was electrified by her anger, her hurt. Some tiny part of her had recognized that in different circumstances she would have liked the look of this woman, might have wanted to go for a drink with her. When she opens her eyes again, she doesn't want to see John's words, doesn't want to see this version of herself reflected in them. It's as if she's woken from a particularly vivid dream, one that has lasted a year. She knows the extent of her mistake. She deletes his message.

  "Here." Rupert places a cup of tea on her desk. "Might make you feel better."

  Rupert never makes anyone tea. The other feature writers have run books in the past on how long it will take him to head to the canteen, and he's always been a racing certainty. She doesn't know whether to be touched by this rare act of sympathy or afraid of why he feels she's in need of it.

  "Thanks," she says, and takes it.

  It's as he sits down that she spies a familiar name on a different e-mail: Phillip O'Hare. Her heart stops, the humiliations of the last hour temporarily forgotten. She clicks on it, and sees that it is from the Phillip O'Hare who works for the Times.

  Hi--A little confused by your message. Can you call me?

  She wipes her eyes. Work, she tells herself, is the answer to everything. Work is now the only thing. She'll find out what happened to Jennifer's lover, and Jennifer will forgive her for what she's about to do. She'll have to.

  She dials the direct line at the bottom of the e-mail. A man answers on the second ring. She can hear the familiar hum of a newsroom in the background. "Hi," she says, her voice tentative. "It's Ellie Haworth. You sent me an e-mail?"

  "Ah. Yes. Ellie Haworth. Hold on." He has the voice of someone in his fifties. He sounds a little like John. She blocks this thought as she hears a hand placed across the receiver, his voice, muffled, and then he's back. "Sorry. Yes. Deadlines. Look, thanks for calling me back.... I just wanted to check something. Where was it you said you worked? The Nation?"

  "Yes." Her mouth has gone dry. She begins to babble. "But I do want to assure you that his name is not necessarily going to get used in what I'm writing about. I just really want to find out what happened to him for a friend of his who--

  "The Nation?"

  "Yes."

  There's a short silence.

  "And you say you want to find out about my father?"

  "Yes." Her voice is draining away.
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  "And you're a journalist?"

  "I'm sorry," she says. "I don't understand what you're getting at. Yes, a journalist. Like you. Are you saying you're uncomfortable giving any information to a rival newspaper? I've told you that--"

  "My father is Anthony O'Hare."

  "Yes. That's who I'm--"

  The man at the other end of the line is laughing. "You're not in the investigative unit, by any chance?"

  "No."

  It takes him a moment to gather himself. "Miss Haworth, my father works for the Nation. Your newspaper. He has done for more than forty years."

  Ellie sits very still. She asks him to repeat what he has just said.

  "I don't understand," she says, standing up at her desk. "I did a byline search. I did lots of searches. Nothing came up. Only your name at the Times."

  "That's because he doesn't write."

  "Then what does--"

  "My father works in the library. He has done since . . . oh . . . 1964."

  Chapter 25

  OCTOBER 1964

  "And give him this. He'll know what it means." Jennifer Stirling scribbled a note, ripped it from her diary, and thrust it into the top of the folder. She placed it on the subeditor's desk.

  "Sure," Don said.

  She reached over to him, took hold of his arm. "You will make sure he gets it? It's really important. Desperately important."

  "I understand. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get on. This is our busiest time of day. We're all on deadlines here." Don wanted her out of the office. He wanted the child out of the office.

  Her face crumpled. "I'm sorry. Please just make sure he gets it. Please."

  God, he wished she'd just leave. He couldn't look at her.

  "I'm--I'm sorry to have bothered you." She appeared suddenly self-conscious, as if she was aware of the spectacle she had created. She reached for her daughter's hand and, almost reluctantly, walked away. The few people gathered around the sub's desk watched her go in silence.

  "Congo," said Cheryl, after a beat.

  "We need to get page four off stone." Don stared fixedly at the desk. "Let's go with the dancing priest."