The Last Letter from Your Lover

city.’
    ‘Please,’ she said, ‘just remember his name. Anthony O’Hare. Tell him “Boot”. He’ll know what it means.’
    She had sent another letter to the newspaper to be forwarded to him:
    I’m sorry. Please come back to me. I’m free, and I’m waiting for you.
    She had handed it over at Reception, telling herself as she did so that once it was gone it was gone. She mustn’t think about its progress, mustn’t imagine over the next days or weeks where it lay. She had done what she could, and now it was time to focus on building a new life, ready for when one of the many messages reached him.
    Mr Grosvenor was grinning again. It seemed a reflexive, rictus thing and she tried to ignore it. It was the eleventh day.
    ‘If you could just put your signature there,’ he pointed with a beautifully manicured finger, ‘and there. Then, of course, we’ll need your husband’s signature here .’ He smiled again, his lips wavering a little.
    ‘Oh, you’ll need to send them to him directly,’ she said. Around them, the tearoom of the Regent Hotel was filled with women, retired gentlemen, anyone diverted from shopping by a wet Wednesday afternoon.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘I no longer live with my husband. We communicate by letter.’
    That floored him. The grin disappeared, and he snatched at the papers on his lap, as if he was trying to regroup his thoughts.
    ‘I believe I have already given you his home address. There.’ She pointed to one of the letters in the folder. ‘And we’ll be able to move in next Monday, will we? My daughter and I are wearying of hotel living.’
    Outside, somewhere, Mrs Cordoza was taking Esmé to the swings. She came daily now, during the hours that Laurence was at his office: ‘There’s so little to do in that house without you,’ she had said. Jennifer had seen the older woman’s face light up when she held Esmé, and sensed that she far preferred being with them in the hotel than in the empty house on the square.
    Mr Grosvenor’s brow knitted. ‘Ah, Mrs Stirling, may I just establish . . . Are you saying you will not be living in the property with Mr Stirling? It’s just that the landlord is a respectable gentleman. He was under the impression that he would be letting to a family.’
    ‘He is letting to a family.’
    ‘But you just said—’
    ‘Mr Grosvenor, we will be paying twenty-four pounds a week for this short let. I am a married woman. I’m sure a man like you would agree that how often, and indeed whether , my husband resides there with me is nobody’s business but our own.’
    His raised palm was conciliatory, a flush staining the skin around his collar. He began to stutter an apology: ‘It’s just—’
    He was interrupted by a woman calling her name urgently. Jennifer shifted in her chair to see Yvonne Moncrieff stalking across the crowded tearoom, her wet umbrella already thrust at an unsuspecting waiter. ‘So you’re here!’
    ‘Yvonne, I—’
    ‘Where have you been? I’ve had absolutely no idea what was going on. I got out of hospital last week and your ruddy housekeeper wouldn’t tell me a damned thing. And then Francis says—’ She stopped, having realised how far her voice had carried. The tearoom had hushed and the faces around them were agog.
    ‘Will you excuse us, Mr Grosvenor? I do believe we’ve finished,’ Jennifer said.
    He was already standing, had gathered his briefcase and now snapped it shut emphatically. ‘I’ll get those papers to Mr Stirling this afternoon. And I’ll be in touch.’ He made his way towards the lobby.
    When he had gone, Jennifer put a hand on her friend’s arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘There’s an awful lot to explain. Have you got time to come upstairs?’
    Yvonne Moncrieff had spent four weeks in hospital: two weeks before and two weeks after the birth of baby Alice. She had been so poleaxed by exhaustion when she’d returned home that it had taken her a further week to work out how long it had been since she had seen Jennifer. She had called twice next door, to be told only that Mrs Stirling was not there at present. A week later she had decided to find out what was going on. ‘Your housekeeper just kept shaking her head at me, telling me I had to speak to Larry.’
    ‘I suppose he’ll have told her not to say anything.’
    ‘About what?’ Yvonne threw her coat on to the bed, and sat down on one of the upholstered chairs. ‘Why on earth are you staying here? Have you