The Last Letter from Your Lover

I’m probably not great company right now.’
    He takes another look at the wine bottle. ‘Well, Haworth,’ he says, unwinding the scarf from his neck, ‘it’s never stopped me before. How about I stick the kettle on?’
    He makes tea, fumbling to locate teabags, milk, spoons in her tiny kitchen. She thinks of John who, just last week, had done the same thing, and her eyes fill again with tears. Then Rory sits and places the mug in front of her, and as she drinks it he talks uncharacteristically volubly about his day, the friend he has just met for a drink who suggested some oblique route across Patagonia. The friend – he has known him since childhood – has become something of a competitive traveller. ‘You know the type. You say you’re headed for Peru. He says, “Oh, forget the Machu Picchu trail, I spent three nights with the pygmies of Atacanta jungle. They fed me one of their relatives when we ran out of baboon meat.”’
    ‘Nice.’ She’s curled up on the sofa, cradling her mug.
    ‘I love the guy, but I’m just not sure I can take six months of him.’
    ‘That’s how long you’re going for?’
    ‘Hopefully.’
    She’s buffeted by another groundswell of misery. Granted, Rory isn’t John, but it has been some compensation to have a man to call on for the odd evening out.
    ‘So, what’s up?’ he says.
    ‘Oh . . . I had a weird day.’
    ‘It’s Saturday. I assumed girls like you went out gossiping over brunch and shopping for shoes.’
    ‘No stereotypes there, then. I went to see Jennifer Stirling.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The letter lady.’
    She sees his surprise. He leans forward. ‘Wow. She actually called you. What happened?’
    Suddenly she begins to cry again, tears pouring. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mutters, scrambling for tissues. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being so ridiculous.’
    She feels his hand on her shoulder, an arm around her. He smells of the pub, deodorant, clean hair and the outside. ‘Hey,’ he’s saying softly, ‘hey . . . this isn’t like you.’
    How would you know? she thinks. Nobody knows what is like me. I’m not even sure I know. ‘She told me everything. The whole love affair. Oh, Rory, it’s heartbreaking. They loved each other so much and they kept missing each other until he died in Africa and she never saw him again.’ She’s crying so hard her words are nearly unintelligible.
    He’s hugging her, his head dipping to catch the words. ‘Talking to an old lady made you this sad? A failed love affair from forty years ago?’
    ‘You had to be there. You had to hear what she said.’ She tells him a little of the story and wipes her eyes. ‘She’s so beautiful and graceful and sad . . .’
    ‘You’re beautiful and graceful and sad. Okay, perhaps not graceful.’
    She rests her head against his shoulder.
    ‘I never thought you were . . . Don’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, but you’ve surprised me. I never thought you could be that affected by those letters.’
    ‘It’s not just the letters.’ She sniffs.
    He waits. He’s leaning back on the sofa now, but his hand is still resting lightly on her neck. She realises she doesn’t want it to move. ‘Then . . . ?’ His voice is soft, inquisitive.
    ‘I’m afraid . . .’
    ‘Of?’
    Her voice drops to a whisper: ‘I’m afraid nobody will ever love me like that.’
    Drunkenness has made her reckless. His eyes have softened, his mouth turns down a little, as if in sympathy. He watches her and she dabs feebly at her eyes. For a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her, but instead he picks up a letter and reads aloud:
    On my way home this evening, I got caught in a row that spilled out of a public house. Two men were scrapping, egged on by drunken supporters, and suddenly I was caught up in their noise and chaos, the cursing and flying bottles. A police siren sounded in the distance. Men were flying off in all directions, cars screeching across the road to avoid the fight. And all I could think about was the way the corner of your mouth curves into itself when you smile. And I had this remarkable sensation that, at that precise moment, you were thinking about me too.
    Perhaps this sounds fanciful; perhaps you were thinking about the theatre, or the crisis in the economy, or whether to buy new curtains. But I realised suddenly, in the midst of that little tableau of insanity, that to have someone out there who understands you, who desires you, who sees you as