The Last Letter from Your Lover

I’ve got to go out on this feature. Can you tell him I’ll pop down at the end of the day?’
    ‘Perhaps you should leave him a note.’
    ‘But you said you didn’t know where he was.’
    He looks up, his brow lowered. ‘Sorry, but we’re in the final stages of our move. I don’t have time to be passing on messages.’ He sounds impatient.
    ‘Fine. I’ll just head up to Personnel and waste their time asking for his mobile number, shall I? Just so I can make sure I don’t stand him up and waste his time.’
    He holds up a hand. ‘I’ll tell him if I see him.’
    ‘Oh, don’t trouble yourself. So sorry to have bothered you.’
    He turns slowly towards her and fixes her with what her mother might have termed an old-fashioned look. ‘We in the library may be considered something not far short of an irrelevance by you and your ilk, Miss Haworth, but at my age I stop a little short of office dogsbody. Forgive me if that inconveniences your social life.’
    She remembers, with a start, Rory’s claim that the librarians can all put a face to a byline. She doesn’t know this man’s name.
    She blushes as he disappears through the swing doors. She’s cross with herself for behaving like a stroppy teenager, cross with the old man for being so uncooperative. Cross that Melissa’s icy assessment means she can’t have a cheerful lunch outside on a day that had started so well. John had stayed till almost nine o’clock. The train from Somerset didn’t get in until a quarter to eleven, he said, so there was no point in racing off. She had cooked him scrambled eggs on toast – almost the only thing she can cook well – and sat there in bed blissfully stealing bits from his plate as he ate it.
    They had only spent a whole night together once before, back in the early days of their relationship when he had claimed to be obsessed with her. Last night, it had been like those early days: he had been tender, affectionate, as if his impending holiday had made him extra-sensitive to her feelings.
    She didn’t talk about it: if this past year has taught her one thing it is to live in the present. She immersed herself in every moment, refusing to cloud it by considering the cost. The fall would come – it always did – but she usually collected enough memories to cushion it a little.
    She stands on the stairs, thinking of his bare, freckled arms wrapped around her, his sleeping face on her pillow. It had been perfect. Perfect. A small voice wonders whether one day, if only he’d think about it hard enough, he’ll realise that their whole life could be like that.
    It’s a short taxi ride to the post office in Langley Street. Before she leaves the office she takes care to tell Melissa’s secretary. ‘Here is my mobile number, if she wants me,’ she says, her voice dripping with professional courtesy. ‘I’ll be about an hour.’
    Although it’s lunchtime, the post office isn’t busy. She walks to the front of the non-existent queue and waits obediently for the electronic voice to call, ‘Till number four, please.’
    ‘Can I talk to someone about PO boxes, please?’
    ‘Hang on.’ The woman disappears, then re-emerges, pointing for her to move to the end where there is a door. ‘Margie will meet you down there.’
    A young woman sticks her head around the door. She’s wearing a name-tag, a large gold chain with a crucifix and a pair of heels so high that Ellie wonders how she can bear to stand in them, let alone spend a whole day working in them. She smiles, and Ellie thinks briefly how rare it is that anyone smiles at you in the city any more.
    ‘This is going to sound a little strange,’ Ellie begins, ‘but is there a way of finding out who rented a PO box years ago?’
    ‘They can change pretty frequently. When are you talking about?’ Ellie wonders how much to tell her, but Margie has a nice face so she adopts her confidential tone. She reaches into her bag and pulls out the letters, carefully enclosed in a clear plastic folder. ‘It’s a bit of a strange one. It’s some love letters I found. They’re addressed to a PO box here and I want to return them.’
    She has Margie’s interest. It’s probably a nice change from benefit payments and catalogue returns.
    ‘PO box thirteen.’ Ellie points at the envelope.
    Margie’s face reveals recognition. ‘Thirteen?’
    ‘You know the one?’
    ‘Oh, yes.’ Margie’s lips are compressed, as if she’s considering how much she’s allowed