The Last Letter From Your Lover (20 page)

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 minute 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 visitors.” 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.

She climbed into the bath as she heard the slam of the front door, which announced that Mrs. Cordoza was back from the park, and slid down into the comforting water.

Laurence had rung to say he would be late again. She sat in the back of the car while Eric, the driver, negotiated the hot, dry streets, finally coming to a halt outside her husband’s offices. “Will you be waiting in the car, Mrs. Stirling?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She watched as the young man walked briskly up the steps and disappeared into the foyer. She no longer cared to go into her husband’s offices. She made the odd appearance at functions, and to wish the staff a happy Christmas, when he insisted, but the place made her uncomfortable. His secretary regarded her with a kind of curious disdain, as if Jennifer had wronged her. Perhaps she had. It was often hard to tell what she had done wrong, these days.

The door opened and Laurence walked out, followed by the driver, in his dark gray tweed. No matter that the temperature was in the low seventies, Laurence Stirling would wear what he considered appropriate. He found the new trends in men’s clothing incomprehensible.

“Ah. You’re here.” He slid into the backseat beside her, bringing with him a burst of warm air.

“Yes.”

“Everything all right at home?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Did the boy call to wash the steps?”

“Just after you left.”

“I wanted to be away by six—bloody transatlantic calls. They always come in later than they say they will.”

She nodded. She knew she wasn’t required to answer.

They pulled out into the evening traffic. Across Marylebone Road, she could picture the green mirage of Regent’s Park, and watched girls walking toward it in lazy, laughing groups on the shimmering pavements, pausing to exclaim to each other. Just lately she had started to feel old, matronly, faced with these girdle-free dolly birds in their short, blunt skirts and bold makeup. They seemed not to care what anyone thought of them. There were probably only ten years between them and herself, Jennifer thought, but she might as well be from her own mother’s generation.

“Oh. You wore that dress.” His voice was loaded with disapproval.

“I hadn’t realized you disliked it.”

“I don’t have any feelings about it one way or another. I just thought you might want to wear something that made you look less . . . bony.”

It never ended. Even though she’d thought she’d covered her heart with a permanent porcelain shell, he still found a way to chip at it.

She swallowed. “Bony. Thank you. I don’t suppose there’s a lot I can do about it now.”

“Don’t make a fuss. But you could think a little more carefully about how you present yourself.” He turned to her briefly. “And you might want to use some more of whatever you put on your face here.” He pointed under his eyes. “You look rather tired.” He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigar. “Right, Eric. Crack on—I want to be there by seven.”

With an obedient purr, the car surged forward. Jennifer stared out at the busy streets, and said nothing.

Gracious. Even-tempered. Calm. These were the words her friends, Laurence’s friends, and his business associates used to describe her. Mrs. Stirling, a paragon of female virtue, always perfectly put together, never prone to the excitement and shrill hysterics of other, lesser wives. Occasionally, if this was said in his earshot, Laurence would say, “Perfect wife? If only they knew, eh, darling?” The men in his presence would laugh obligingly, and she would smile, too. It was often those evenings that ended badly. Occasionally, when she caught the fleeting glances that traveled between Yvonne and Francis at one of Laurence’s sharper comments, or Bill’s blush, she suspected that their relationship might indeed have been the subject of private speculation. But no one pressed her. A man’s domestic life was private, after all. They were good friends, far too good to intrude.

“And here is the lovely Mrs. Stirling. Don’t you look gorgeous?” The South African attaché took her hands in his and kissed her cheeks.

“Not too bony?” she asked innocently.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled. “You look terribly well, Sebastian. Getting married has evidently been good for you.”

Laurence clapped the younger man on the back. “Despite all my warnings, eh?”

The two men laughed, and Sebastian Thorne, who still carried the glow of the genuinely well matched, beamed proudly. “Pauline’s over there, if you’d like to say hello, Jennifer. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, filled with gratitude for such an early exit. “Do excuse me.”

Four years had gone by since the accident. Four years in which Jennifer had struggled with grief, guilt, the loss of a love affair she could only half recall, and had made flailing attempts to salvage the one she belonged in.