The Last Letter From Your Lover (29 page)

She’s there for three hours. She forgets the 1960 newspaper file, and instead sits in the corner of the dusty basement, barely noticing as men pass her carrying boxes marked “Election 67,” “Train Disasters,” or “June – July 1982.” She works through the garbage bags, peeling apart reams of dusty paper, sidetracked by advertisements for cold cures, tonics, and long-forgotten cigarette brands, her hands blackened with dust and old printing ink. She sits on an upturned crate, stacking the papers around her in chaotic piles, searching for something smaller than A3, something handwritten. She’s so lost in it that she forgets to check her mobile phone for messages. She even forgets, briefly, the hour she had spent at home with John that normally would have stamped itself on her imagination for several days afterward.

Above, what remains of the newsroom is rumbling on, digesting and spewing out the day’s news, its newslists changing again and again within the hour, whole stories written and discarded, according to the latest digital alterations of the newswires. In the dark corridors of the basement, it might as well have been happening on a different continent.

At almost five thirty Rory appears with two polystyrene cups of tea. He hands one to her, blowing on his own as he leans against an empty filing cabinet. “How’d you get on?”

“Nothing. Plenty of innovative health tonics, or cricket-match results from obscure Oxford colleges, but no devastating love letters.”

“It was always going to be a long shot.”

“I know. It was just one of those . . .” She lifts her tea to her lips. “I don’t know. I read it and it stayed with me. I wanted to know what happened. How’s the packing going?”

He sits on a crate a few feet from her. His hands are ingrained with dust, and there’s a smudge on his forehead.

“Nearly there. I can’t believe my boss wouldn’t let the professionals handle this.”

The chief librarian had been at the newspaper for as long as anyone could remember, and was legendary for being able to pinpoint the date and copy of any newspaper from the most vague description.

“Why not?”

Rory sighed. “He was worried they’d put something in the wrong place or lose a box. I keep telling him it’s all going to end up digitally recorded anyway, but you know how he is about hard copies . . .”

“How many years’ worth of newspapers?”

“I think it’s eighty of filed newspapers, and something like sixty of clippings and associated documents. And the scary thing is, he knows where every last one belongs.”

She begins to move some of the papers back into a garbage bag. “Perhaps I should tell him about this letter. He could probably tell me who wrote it.”

Rory whistles. “Only if you don’t mind giving it back. He can’t bear to let go of a single thing. The others have been sneaking the real junk out after he’s gone home, or we’d have to fill several more rooms with it. If he knew I’d given you that file of old papers, he’d probably sack me.”

She grimaces. “Then I’ll never know,” she says theatrically.

“Know what?”

“What happened to my star-crossed lovers.”

Rory considers this. “She said no.”

“Oh, you old romantic.”

“She had too much to lose.”

She cocks her head at him. “How do you know it was addressed to a she?”

“Women didn’t have jobs then, did they?”

“It’s dated 1960. It’s hardly the bloody suffragettes.”

“Here. Give it to me.” He holds out his hand for the letter. “Okay, so maybe she had a job. But I’m sure it said something about going on a train. I should think a woman would be much less likely to say she was headed off to a new job.” He reads it again, pointing at the lines. “He’s asking her to follow him. A woman wouldn’t have asked a man to follow her. Not then.”

“You have a very stereotypical view of men and women.”

“No. I just spend a lot of time here immersed in the past.” He gestures around him. “And it’s a different country.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t addressed to a woman at all,” she teases. “Perhaps it’s to another man.”

“Unlikely. Homosexuality was still illegal then, wasn’t it? There would have been references to secrecy or something.”

“But there are references to secrecy.”

“It’s just an affair,” he says. “Obviously.”

“What’s this? The voice of experience?”

“Hah! Not me.” He hands the letter back to her, and drinks some of his tea.

He has long, squared-off fingers. Working hands, not a librarian’s, she thinks absently. But what would a librarian’s hands look like anyway? “So, you’ve never been involved with anyone married?” She glances at his finger. “Or you are married and have never had an affair?”

“Nope. And nope. Never had any kind of affair. With someone involved, that is. I like my life simple.” He nods at the letter, which she’s tucking back into her bag. “Those things never end well.”

“What? All love that isn’t simple and straightforward has to end tragically?” She hears defensiveness in her voice.

“That’s not what I said.”

“Yes, it is. You said earlier that you thought she said no.”

He finishes his tea, crumples his cup, and throws it into the garbage bag. “We’ll be done in ten minutes. You’d better grab what you want. Show me what you haven’t had a chance to go through, and I’ll try to keep it to one side.”

As she gathers up her belongings, he says, “For what it’s worth, I do think she probably said no.” His expression is unfathomable. “But why does that have to be the worst outcome?”

Chapter 18

Ellie Haworth is living the dream. She often tells herself so when she wakes up, hungover from too much white wine, feeling the ache of melancholy, in her perfect little flat that nobody ever messes up in her absence. (She secretly wants a cat, but is afraid of becoming a cliché.) She holds down a job as a feature writer on a national newspaper, has obedient hair, a body that is basically plump and slender in the right places, and is pretty enough to attract attention that she still pretends offends her. She has a sharp tongue—too sharp, according to her mother—a ready wit, several credit cards, and a small car she can manage without male help. When she meets people she knew at school, she can detect envy when she describes her life: she has not yet reached an age where the lack of a husband or children could be regarded as failure. When she meets men, she can see them ticking off her attributes—great job, nice rack, sense of fun—as if she’s a prize to be won.

If, recently, she has become aware that the dream is a little fuzzy, that the edge she was once famed for at the office has deserted her since John came, that the relationship she had once found invigorating has begun to consume her in ways that are not exactly enviable, she chooses not to look too hard. After all, it’s easy when you’re surrounded by people like you, journalists and writers who drink hard, party hard, have sloppy, disastrous affairs and unhappy partners at home who, tired of their neglect, will eventually have affairs. She is one of them, one of their cohorts, living the life of the glossy magazine pages, a life she has pursued since she first knew she wanted to write. She is successful, single, selfish. Ellie Haworth is as happy as she can be. As anyone can be, considering.

And nobody gets everything, so Ellie tells herself, when occasionally she wakes up trying to remember whose dream she’s meant to be living.

“Happy birthday, you old tart!” Corinne and Nicky are waiting in the coffee shop, waving and patting a seat as she rushes in, bag flying. “Come on, come on! You’re sooo late. We’re meant to be at work by now.”

“Sorry. I got a bit held up coming out.”

They glance at each other, and she can tell they suspect she’s been with John. She decides not to tell them that she was actually waiting for the post. She’d wanted to see if he had sent her something. Now she feels foolish for making herself twenty minutes late for her friends.

“How does it feel to be ancient?” Nicky has cut her hair. It’s still blond, but now short and choppy. She looks cherubic. “I got you a skinny latte. I’m assuming you’re going to need to watch your weight from now on.”

“Thirty-two is hardly ancient. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.”

“I’m dreading it,” says Corinne. “Somehow thirty-one sounds like you might only just be past thirty, still almost technically in your twenties. Thirty-two sounds ominously close to thirty-five.”

“And thirty-five is obviously just a short step to forty.” Nicky checks her hair in the mirror behind the banquette.

“And a happy birthday to you, too,” Ellie says.

“Aw! We’ll still love you when you’re wrinkly and alone and in flesh-colored big knickers.” They place two bags on the table. “Here are your presents. And, no, you can’t exchange either of them.”

They have chosen perfectly, as only friends of many years’ standing can. Corinne has bought her cashmere socks in dove gray, so soft that it’s all Ellie can do not to put them on there and then. Nicky has given her a voucher for a prohibitively expensive beauty salon. “It’s for an antiaging facial,” she says wickedly. “It was that or Botox.”

“And we know how you feel about injections.”

She’s filled with love, with gratitude for her friends. There have been many evenings in which they’ve said they’re one another’s new family, airing their fear that the others will find mates first and leave them single and alone. Nicky has a new man who, unusually, seems promising. He’s solvent, kind, and has her on her toes just enough to keep her interested. Nicky has spent ten years running away from men who behave well toward her. Corinne has just ended a relationship of a year. He was nice, she says, but they had become like brother and sister, “and I’d expected marriage and a couple of kids before that happened.”

They don’t talk seriously of the dread that they may have missed the boat their aunts and mothers are so fond of mentioning. They don’t discuss the fact that most of their male friends are now in relationships with women a good five to ten years younger than themselves. They make jokes about growing old disgracefully. They line up gay friends who promise to have children with them “in ten years’ time” if they’re both single, while neither party believes that could possibly end up happening.

“What did he get you?”

“Who?” Ellie says innocently.

“Mr. Paperback Writer. Or was what he
gave
you the reason you were late?”

“She already got her injection.” Corinne cackles.

“You’re both disgusting.” She sips her coffee, which is lukewarm. “I—I haven’t seen him yet.”

“But he
is
taking you out?” Nicky says.

“I think so,” she replies. She’s suddenly furious with them for looking at her like that, for seeing through it already. She’s furious with herself for not having thought up an excuse for him. She’s furious with him for needing one.

“Have you heard from him at all, El?”

“No. But it is only eight thirty—Oh, Christ, I’m meant to be at a Features meeting at ten, and I haven’t got a single good idea.”

“Well, sod him.” Nicky leans over and hugs her. “We’ll buy you a little birthday cake, won’t we, Corinne? Stay there and I’ll get one of those muffins with icing. We’ll have an early birthday tea.”

It’s then that she hears the muffled tone of her mobile phone. She flips it open.

Happy Birthday gorgeous. Present to come later.
X

“Him?” says Corinne.

“Yes.” She grins. “My present’s coming later.”

“Like him.” Nicky snorts, back at the table with the iced muffin. “Where’s he taking you?”

“Um . . . it doesn’t say.”

“Show me.” Nicky snatches it. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nicky . . .” Corinne’s voice holds a warning note.

“Well, ‘Present to come later. Kiss.’ It’s a bit bloody vague, isn’t it?”

“It’s her birthday.”

“Exactly. And that’s why she shouldn’t have to decipher crappy halfway-house messages from some half-baked boyfriend. Ellie—darling—what are you
doing
?”

Ellie is frozen. Nicky has broken the unspoken rule that they will say nothing no matter how foolish a relationship. They will be supportive; they will express concern through what is not said; they will not say things like “What are you
doing
?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Really.”

Nicky looks at her. “You’re thirty-two years old. You’ve been in a relationship—in love—with this man for almost a year, and what you really deserve for your birthday is some measly text message that may or may not mean you get a seeing-to at some unspecified date in the future? Aren’t mistresses at least meant to get expensive lingerie? The odd weekend in Paris?”

Corinne is wincing.

“I’m sorry, Corinne, I’m just telling it like it is for a change. Ellie, darling, I love you to death. But, really, what are you getting out of this?”

Ellie looks down at her coffee. The pleasure of her birthday is ebbing away. “I love him,” she says simply.

“And does he love you?”

She feels sudden hatred for Nicky.

“Does he know you love him? Can you actually tell him so?”

Ellie looks over at Corinne, hoping for support. But Corinne is stirring her coffee, her eyes fixed on her spoon.

“Do you ever think about her?”

“Who?”

“John’s wife. Do you think she knows?”

The mention of her dissipates the last of Ellie’s good mood. She shrugs. “I don’t know.” And then, to fill the silence, she adds: “I’m sure I would, if I were her. I think she’s more interested in the children than him. Sometimes I tell myself there might even be some little part of her that is glad she’s not having to worry about him. You know, about keeping him happy.”

“Now
that
is wishful thinking.”

“Maybe. But if I’m honest, the answer is no. I don’t think about her. I don’t feel guilty. Because I don’t think it would have happened if they had been happy, or . . . you know . . . connected.”

“You have such a misguided view of men.”

“You think he’s happy with her.” She studies Nicky’s face.

“I have no idea if he’s happy or not, Ellie. I just don’t think he needs to be unhappy with his wife to be sleeping with you.”

The café falls silent around them. Or perhaps that’s just how it feels. Ellie shifts in her chair.

Corinne finally stops stirring her coffee. She makes a despairing face at Nicky, who shrugs and lifts the muffin aloft. “Still. Happy birthday, eh? Anyone want another coffee?”

She slides into her desk in front of her computer. There is nothing on her desk. No note alerting her to flowers in Reception. No chocolates or champagne. There are eighteen e-mails in her in-box, not including the junk. Her mother—who bought a computer the previous year and still punctuates every e-mailed sentence with an exclamation mark—has sent her a message to wish her happy birthday and to tell her, “the dog is doing well after having had his hip replaced!” And that “the operation cost more than Grandma Haworth’s!!!” The features editor’s secretary has sent a reminder about this morning’s meeting. And Rory, the librarian, has sent her a message telling her to pop down later, but not after 2:00 p.m., as they’ll be at the new building then. There’s nothing from John. Not even a thinly disguised greeting. She deflates a little, and winces when she sees Melissa striding toward her office, followed closely by Rupert.

She is in trouble, she realizes, rifling through her desk. She has allowed herself to become so caught up in the letter that she has almost nothing to present from the 1960 edition, none of the contrasting examples that Melissa had asked for. She curses herself for having spent so long in the coffee shop, smoothes her hair, grabs the nearest folder of papers—so that at least she looks as if she’s on top of things—and runs into the meeting.

“So, the health pages are pretty much done and dusted, are they? And do we have the arthritis feature? I wanted that sidebar with the alternative remedies. Any celebrity arthritics? It would liven up the pictures. These are a bit dull.”

Ellie is fiddling with her papers. It’s almost eleven. What would it have cost him to send some flowers? He could have paid cash at the florist’s, if he was really afraid of something showing up on his credit card; he’d done it before.

Perhaps he’s cooling. Perhaps the Barbados trip is his way of trying to reconnect with his wife. Perhaps telling her about it was his cowardly way of communicating that she’s of less importance than she had been. She flicks through the saved text messages on her phone, trying to see if there has been a noticeable cooling-off in his communications.

Nice piece on the war veterans. X

Free for lunch? I’m your way around 12:30. J

You are something else. Can’t talk tonight. Will message you first thing.

It’s almost impossible to tell if there’s any change in tone: there’s so little to go on. Ellie sighs, flattened by the direction of her thoughts, by her friend’s too-blunt comments. What the hell is she doing? She asks for so little. Why? Because she’s afraid that if she asks for more, he’ll feel backed into a corner and the whole thing will crash down around them. She’s always known what the deal was. She can’t claim to have been misled. But just how little could she reasonably be expected to take? It’s one thing when you know you’re loved passionately, and only circumstances are keeping you apart. But when there’s no sign of that to keep the whole thing afloat . . .

“Ellie?”

“Hm?” She glances up to find ten pairs of eyes on her.

“You were going to talk us through the ideas for next Monday’s edition.” Melissa’s gaze is both blank and all-seeing. “The then-and-now pages?”