The Last Letter from Your Lover

library:
    No he isn’t married. What kind of question is that?
    ‘I don’t know what your situation is. I don’t know if I’m being horribly intrusive. Perhaps I’m making the most awful mistake. But this is the address, Mr O’Hare,’ she says. He takes it from her. ‘This is where you write to.’

I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous as you cannot always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written. So I’m going to keep it straightforward. I’m sorry. So sorry. Forgive me. If there is any way I can change your opinion of me, I need to know.
    Female to Male, via letter

26
    Dear Jennifer?
    Is this really you? Forgive me. I have tried to write this a dozen times and I don’t know what to say.
    Anthony O,Hare
    Ellie tidies the notes on her desk, turns off her screen, and, closing her bag, makes her way out of Features, mouthing a silent goodbye at Rupert. He is hunched over an interview with an author who, he has complained all afternoon, is as dull as ditchwater. She has specifically asked not to write for Books just now. She has filed the story about surrogate mothers, and tomorrow she will travel to Paris to interview a Chinese charity worker who is not allowed to return to her home country because of controversial comments she made in a British documentary. She checks the address, then runs for the bus. As she wedges herself into the packed seat, her mind is on the background information she has gathered for the piece, already organising it into paragraphs.
    Later she is meeting Corinne and Nicky at a restaurant none of them can afford. Douglas is coming. He was so sweet when she rang the previous day – it was ridiculous that they hadn’t spoken for so long. Within seconds it was clear that he knew what had happened with John. Corinne and Nicky have alternative careers awaiting at the Nation , should they ever give up their day jobs, she says. ‘And don’t worry, I’m not going to give you the girlie-feelings talk,’ she says, when he agrees to meet her.
    ‘Thank Christ,’ says Douglas.
    ‘But I am going to buy you dinner. To say sorry.’
    ‘No casual sex?’
    ‘Only if your girlfriend’s included. She’s better-looking than you.’
    ‘I knew you’d say that.’
    She’s grinning when she puts the phone down.
    Dear Anthony,
    Yes, it is me. Whatever me is, compared to the girl you knew. I’m guessing you know our journalist friend has spoken to me by now. I’m still struggling to comprehend what she has told me.
    But in the Post Office box this morning, there was your letter. With the sight of your handwriting, forty years fell away. Does that make sense? The time that has passed shrank to nothing. I can barely believe I’m holding what you wrote two days ago, can hardly believe what it means.
    She has told me a little about you. I sat and wondered, and hardly dared think that I may get the chance to sit and talk to you.
    I pray that you are happy.
    Jennifer
    It’s the up-side of newspapers: your writing stock can rise stratospherically, twice as quickly as it fell. Two good stories and you can be the talk of the newsroom, the centre of chatter and admiration. Your story will be reproduced on the Internet, syndicated to other publications in New York, Australia, South Africa. They liked the piece, Syndication told her. Exactly the kind of thing they can find a market for. Within forty-eight hours she has had emails from readers, confiding their own stories. An agent has rung, wondering if she has enough of them to turn into a book.
    As far as Melissa’s concerned, Ellie can do no wrong. She is the first person she turns to in conference, if there’s a good thousand-worder to give out. Twice, this week, her short features have crossed to the front page. It’s the newspaper staffer’s equivalent of winning the lottery. Her increased visibility means she’s more in demand. She sees stories everywhere. She’s magnetic: contacts, features fly to her. She’s at her desk by nine a.m., works till the early evening. This time, she knows not to waste it.
    Her space on the great oval desk is gleaming and white, and on it sits a seventeen-inch non-gloss high-resolution screen, and a telephone with her name, clearly marked, on the extension number.
    Rupert no longer offers to make her tea.
    Dear Jennifer,
    I apologise for this tardy reply. Please excuse what may seem to you like reticence. I have not put pen to paper for many years,