The Last Letter from Your Lover

colour. Please don’t do it in front of Esmé , she willed him. Please let’s keep this civil.
    But the man sitting in the lobby was nothing like the Laurence she remembered. In fact, at first she didn’t recognise him. His skin was grey, his cheeks hollow; he seemed to have aged twenty years.
    ‘Hello, Daddy.’ Esmé hugged him.
    He nodded to Jennifer, but did not stretch out a hand. ‘Jennifer,’ he said.
    ‘Laurence.’ She was trying to cover her shock.
    The meeting was brief. The headmistress, a young woman possessed of a quietly assessing gaze, made no reference to the fact that they lived at separate addresses. Perhaps more people did now, Jennifer thought. That week she had seen four women in the Bureau who were seeking to leave their husbands.
    ‘Well, we’ll do everything in our power to make sure Esmé’s time here is happy,’ Mrs Browning said. She had kind eyes, Jennifer thought. ‘It does help if the girls have chosen to come to boarding-school, and I understand she already has friends here, so I’m sure she’ll settle in quickly.’
    ‘She reads rather a lot of Enid Blyton,’ Jennifer said. ‘I suspect she thinks it’s all midnight feasts.’
    ‘Oh, we have a few of those. The tuck shop is open on Friday afternoons pretty much for that sole purpose. We tend to turn a blind eye, provided it doesn’t get too lively. We like the girls to feel there are some advantages to boarding.’
    Jennifer relaxed. Laurence had chosen the school, and her fears seemed unfounded. The next few weeks would be hard, but she had grown used to Esmé’s periodic absences when she was staying with Laurence, and she had her work to occupy her.
    The headmistress got to her feet and held out a hand. ‘Thank you. We’ll telephone, of course, if there are any problems.’
    As the door closed behind them, Laurence began to cough, a harsh, hacking sound that made Jennifer’s jaw clench. She made to say something but he lifted a hand as if to tell her not to. They made their way slowly down the stairs side by side, as if they were not estranged. She could have walked at twice the speed but it seemed cruel to do so, given his laboured breathing and evident discomfort. Finally, unable to bear it, she stopped a passing girl and asked if she would mind fetching a glass of water. Within minutes the girl returned, and Laurence sat down heavily on a mahogany chair in the panelled corridor to sip it.
    Jennifer was now brave enough to let her eyes rest on him. ‘Is it . . . ?’ she said.
    ‘No.’ He took a long, painful breath. ‘It’s the cigars, apparently. I’m well aware of the irony.’
    She took the seat beside him.
    ‘You should know I’ve ensured that you will both be taken care of.’
    She glanced sideways at him, but he appeared to be thinking.
    ‘We raised a good child,’ he said eventually.
    Out of the window, they could see Esmé chatting to two other girls on the lawn. As if as some unheard signal, the three ran across the grass, their skirts flying.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, turning back to him. ‘For everything.’
    He placed the glass at his side, and hauled himself out of the chair. He stood for a minute, with his back to her, focusing on the girls outside the window, then turned towards her and, without meeting her eye, gave a small nod.
    She watched him walk stiffly out of the main door across the lawns to where his lady-friend was waiting in the car, his daughter skipping beside him. She waved enthusiastically as the chauffeur-driven Daimler made its way back down the drive.
    Two months later Laurence was dead.

I hate you and I know you still like me but I don’t like you I don’t care what your stupid friends say you make me touch your hands for stupid reasons u accidentally say you hugged me I will never never like you again I HATE YOU I HATE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THIS DAMN WORLDDDDD id rather date a spider or rat den u ur sooo ugly and fat!!!
    Female to Male, via email

21
    It has not stopped raining all evening, the dark grey clouds scudding across the city skyline until they’re swallowed by night. The relentless downpour confines people to their homes, blanketing the street so that all that is audible outside is the occasional swish of tyres on a wet road, or the gurgle of swollen drains, or the brisk footsteps of someone trying to get home.
    There are no messages on her answerphone, no winking envelopes suggesting a text message on her mobile. Her emails are