The Last Letter from Your Lover

smell of old paper. She thinks, fancifully, that she can almost hear the echoes of past stories hanging in the air, a hundred thousand voices, no longer heard. Lives moved, lost, twisted by Fate. Hidden within files that may remain unseen for another hundred years. She wonders which other Anthonys and Jennifers are buried in those pages, their lives waiting to be swung by some accident or coincidence. A padded, swivel chair in the corner is labelled ‘Digital Archive’ and she walks over to it, swinging it one way and then the other.
    She is suddenly, ridiculously tired, as if the adrenalin that had fuelled her for the last few hours has drained away. She sits down heavily in the warmth and the silence and, for the first time she can remember, Ellie is still. Everything inside her is still. She lets out a long breath.
    She doesn’t know how long she has been asleep when she hears the door click.
    Anthony O’Hare is holding up her bag. ‘Is this yours?’
    She pushes herself upright, disoriented and a little giddy. For a moment she can’t work out where she is. ‘God. Sorry.’ She rubs her face.
    ‘You won’t find much here,’ he says, handing it to her. He takes in her rumpled air, her sleep-shrunk eyes. ‘It’s all in the new building now. I’ve just come back to collect the last of the tea things. And that chair.’
    ‘Yes . . . comfy. Too good to leave . . . Oh, God, what’s the time?’
    ‘Quarter to eleven.’
    ‘Conference is at eleven. I’m fine. Conference is at eleven.’ She’s babbling, casting around her for non-existent belongings. Then remembers why she’s there. She tries to gather her thoughts, but she doesn’t know how to say what she must to this man. She glances surreptitiously at him, seeing someone else behind the grey hair, the melancholy eyes. She sees him through his words now.
    She gathers her bag to her. ‘Um . . . is Rory around?’
    Rory will know. Rory will know what to do.
    His smile is a mute apology, an acknowledgement of what they both know. ‘I’m afraid he’s not in today. He’s probably at home preparing.’
    ‘Preparing?’
    ‘For his grand tour? You did know he’s going away?’
    ‘I’d kind of hoped he wouldn’t. Not just yet.’ She reaches into her bag and scribbles a note. ‘I don’t suppose . . . you have his address?’
    ‘If you want to step into what remains of my office, I’ll dig it out for you I don’t think he leaves for a week or so.’
    As he turns away, her breath catches in her throat. ‘Actually, Mr O’Hare, it’s not just Rory I wanted to see.’
    ‘Oh?’ She can see his surprise at her use of his name.
    She pulls the folder from her bag and holds it towards him. ‘I found something of yours. A few weeks ago. I would have given them back earlier but I just . . . I didn’t know they were yours until last night.’ She watches as he opens copies of the letters. His face alters as he recognises his own handwriting.
    ‘Where did you get these?’ he says.
    ‘They were here,’ she says tentatively, afraid of what this information will do to him.
    ‘Here?’
    ‘Buried. In your library.’
    He glances around him, as if these empty shelves can provide some clue to what she’s saying.
    ‘I’m sorry. I know they’re . . . personal.’
    ‘How did you know they were mine?’
    ‘It’s a long story.’ Her heart is beating rapidly. ‘But you need to know something. Jennifer Stirling left her husband the day after she saw you in 1964. She came here, to the newspaper offices, and they told her you’d gone to Africa.’
    He is so still. Every part of him is focused on her words. He is almost vibrating, so intently is he listening.
    ‘She tried to find you. She tried to tell you that she was . . . she was free.’ She’s a little frightened by the effect this information seems to have on Anthony. The colour has drained from his face. He sits down on the chair, his breath coming hard. But she can’t stop now.
    ‘This is all . . .’ he begins, his expression troubled, so different from Jennifer’s barely disguised delight ‘. . .  this is all from so long ago.’
    ‘I haven’t finished.’ she says. ‘Please.’
    He waits.
    ‘These are copies. That’s because I had to return the originals. I had to give them back.’ She holds out the PO box number, her hand trembling, either from nervousness or excitement.
    She had received a text message two minutes before she went down to the