The Last Letter from Your Lover

lengthy search, conspicuous silence from the man who had previously never stopped telling her how he felt, and the eventual forging of a new life in London, alone.
    ‘And that’s it?’
    ‘In a nutshell.’
    ‘And in all that time you never . . . there was never anyone else?’
    Jennifer Stirling smiles again. ‘Not quite. I am human. But I will say that I never became emotionally involved with anyone. After Boot, I – I didn’t really want to be close to anyone else. There had been only him, for me. I could see that very clearly. And, besides, I had Esmé.’ Her smile broadens. ‘A child really is a wonderful consolation.’
    They have reached the top. The whole of north London stretches beneath them. They breathe deeply, scanning the distant skyline, hearing the traffic, the cries of dogwalkers and errant children recede beneath them.
    ‘Can I ask why you kept the PO box open for so long?’
    Jennifer leans against the cast-iron bench, thinks before replying. ‘I suppose it must seem rather silly to you, but we had missed each other twice, you see, both times by a matter of hours. I felt it was my obligation to give it every chance. I suppose shutting down that box would have been admitting it was finally over.’
    She shrugs ruefully. ‘Every year I’ve told myself it’s time to stop. The years crept by without me noticing how long it had been. But somehow I never have. I suppose I told myself it was a rather harmless indulgence.’
    ‘So that was actually it? His last letter?’ Ellie gestures somewhere in the direction of St John’s Wood. ‘Did you really never hear from him again? How could you bear not knowing what happened to him?’
    ‘The way I saw it, there were two possibilities. Either he had died in Congo, which was, at the time, too unbearable to contemplate. Or, as I suspect, he was very hurt by me. He believed I was never going to leave my husband, perhaps even that I was careless with his feelings, and I think it cost him dearly to get close to me a second time. Unfortunately I didn’t realise how dearly until it was too late.’
    ‘You never tried to have him traced? A private investigator? Newspaper advertisements?’
    ‘Oh, I wouldn’t do that. He would have known where I was. I had made my feelings plain. And I had to respect his.’ She regards Ellie gravely. ‘You know, you can’t make someone love you again. No matter how much you might want it. Sometimes, unfortunately, the timing is simply . . . out.’
    The wind is brisk up there: it forces itself into the gap between collar and neck, exploits any hint of exposure. Ellie thrusts her hands into her pockets. ‘What do you think would have happened to you if he had found you again?’
    For the first time, Jennifer Stirling’s eyes fill with tears. She stares at the skyline, gives a tiny shake of her head. ‘The young don’t have a monopoly on broken hearts, you know.’ She begins to walk slowly back down the path so that her face is no longer visible. The silence before she speaks again causes a small tear in Ellie’s heart. ‘I learnt a long time ago, Ellie, that if only is a very dangerous game indeed.’
    Meet me – Jx
    We’re using mobiles? X
    I have a lot to tell you. I just need to see you. Les Percivals on Derry Street. Tomorrow 1 pm x
    Percivals?!? Not your usual thing
    Ah. I’m all surprises these days Jx
    She sits at the linen-clad table, flicking through the notes she has scribbled on the Tube, and knows in her heart that she can’t run this story, and that if she doesn’t, her career at the Nation is over. Twice she has thought of running back to the apartment on St Johns Wood and throwing herself on the older woman’s mercy, explaining herself, begging her to let her reproduce her doomed love affair in print. But whenever she does she sees Jennifer Stirling’s face, hears her voice: The young don’t have a monopoly on broken hearts, you know.
    She stares at the glossy olives in the white ceramic dish on the table. She has no appetite. If she doesn’t write this story, Melissa will move her. If she does write it, she’s not sure she’ll ever feel quite the same about what she does or who she is. She wishes, again, that she could talk to Rory. He would know what she should do. She has an uncomfortable feeling that it might not be what she wants to do, but she knows he would be right. Her thoughts chase each other in circles, argument and counter-argument. Jennifer Stirling probably