The Last Letter from Your Lover

themselves are precious.
    The phone on her desk rings.
    She jump, glances at it, as if she’d forgotten where she is, then wipes her eyes with a hand. She straightens, then picks it up. ‘Hello.’
    ‘Hey, birthday girl,’ says Rory, ‘get yourself down to the cells at chucking-out time. I might just have something for you. And bring me a coffee while you’re at it. That’s the charge for my labours.’
    She puts down the receiver, turns back to her computer and presses ‘delete’.
    ‘So, what did you find?’ She hands a cup of coffee over the counter and he takes it. There’s a fine sprinkling of dust in his hair and she fights the urge to ruffle it off, as one would with a child. He has already felt patronised by her once; she doesn’t want to risk offending him a second time.
    ‘Any sugar?’
    ‘No,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think you took it.’
    ‘I don’t.’ He leans forward over the countertop. ‘Look – boss is lurking. I need to be discreet. What time are you finishing?’
    ‘Whenever,’ she says. ‘I’m pretty much through.’
    He rubs his hair. The dust forms an apologetic cloud around him. ‘I feel like that character in Peanuts . Which was it?’
    She shook her head.
    ‘Pig Pen. The one with the dirt floating around him . . . We’re shifting boxes that haven’t been touched in decades. I can’t really believe we’re ever going to need parliamentary minutes from 1932, whatever he says. Still. The Black Horse? Half an hour?’
    ‘The pub?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I sort of might have plans . . .’ She wants to ask, ‘Can’t you just give me what you’ve found?’ But even she can see how ungrateful that will sound.
    ‘It’ll only take ten minutes. I’ve got to meet some friends afterwards, anyway. But it’s cool. It can wait till tomorrow if you’d prefer.’
    She thinks about her mobile phone, mute and recriminating in her back pocket. What’s her alternative? Rushing home and waiting for John to call there? Another evening spent sitting in front of the television, knowing that the world is revolving somewhere without her? ‘Oh – what the hell? A quick drink would be great.’
    ‘Half a shandy. Live dangerously.’
    ‘Shandy! Huh! I’ll see you in there.’
    He grins. ‘I’ll be the one clutching a file marked “Top Secret”.’
    ‘Oh, yes? I’ll be the one shouting, “Buy me a proper drink, cheapo. It’s my birthday.”’
    ‘No red carnation in your buttonhole? Just so I can identify you?’
    ‘No means of identification. That way it’s easier for me to escape if I don’t like the look of you.’
    He nods approvingly. ‘Sensible.’
    ‘And you’re not even going to give me a clue as to what you’ve found?’
    ‘Some birthday surprise that would be!’ With that he’s gone, back through the double doors and into the bowels of the newspaper.
    The Ladies is empty. She washes her hands, noting that now the building’s days are numbered the company is no longer bothering to refresh the soap dispenser or the tampon machine. Next week, she suspects, they’ll have to start bringing in emergency loo roll.
    She checks her face, applies some mascara and paints out the bags under her eyes. She puts on lipstick, then rubs it off. She looks tired, and tells herself the lighting in there is harsh, that this is not an inevitable consequence of being a year older. Then she sits beside a wash-basin, pulls her phone from her bag and types a message.
    Just checking – does ‘later’ mean this evening? Am trying to work out my plans. E
    It doesn’t come across as clingy, possessive or even desperate. It suggests that she’s a woman with many offers, things to do, but implies that she’ll put him first, if necessary. She fiddles with it for a further five minutes, making sure she has the tone completely right, then sends it.
    The reply comes back almost immediately. Her heart jumps, as it always does when she knows it’s him.
    Difficult to say at the moment. Will call later if I think I can make it. J
    A sudden rage ignites within her. That’s it? she wants to yell at him. My birthday, and the best you can do is ‘Will call later if I think I can make it’?
    Don’t bother , she types back, her fingers jabbing at the little keys. I’ll make my own plans .
    And, for the first time in months, Ellie Haworth turns off her phone before she sticks it back into her bag.
    She spends longer than she intended working on the problem-pages feature, writes up