The Last Letter from Your Lover

past, they would tap at the glass, waving and smiling if he was unwise enough to look up.
    They infuriated Laurence. There had been a High Court case earlier that year in which the judge had warned such women against doing this. Laurence said that their soliciting, low-key as it might be, was lowering the tone of the area. He couldn’t understand why if they were breaking the law, no one did a damn thing about it.
    Jennifer didn’t mind them. To her, they seemed imprisoned behind the glass. Once she had even waved to them, but they had stared blankly at her and she had hurried on.
    That aside, her days had fallen into a new routine. She would rise when Laurence did, make him coffee and toast and fetch the newspaper from the hallway while he shaved and dressed. Often she was up before him, fixing her hair and makeup so that while she moved around the kitchen in her dressing-gown, she appeared pleasing and put-together for those few occasions when he looked up from his newspaper. It was somehow easier to start the day without him sighing in irritation.
    He would leave the table, allow her to help him with his overcoat and, usually some time after eight, his driver would knock discreetly at the front door. She would wave until the car disappeared around the corner.
    Some ten minutes later she would greet Mrs Cordoza, and as the older woman made them a pot of tea, perhaps remarking on the cold, she would run through the list of things she had prepared that detailed what might need doing that day. On top of the usual tasks, the vacuuming, dusting and washing, there was often a little sewing: a button might have fallen off Laurence’s shirt cuff, or some shoes needed cleaning. Mrs Cordoza might be required to sort through the linen cupboard, checking and refolding what was within, or to polish the canteen of silver, sitting at the kitchen table, which would be spread with newspaper while she completed the task, listening to the wireless.
    Jennifer, meanwhile, would bathe and dress. She might pop next door for coffee with Yvonne, take her mother for a light lunch, or hail a taxi and go into the centre of town to do a little Christmas shopping. She made sure she had always returned by early afternoon. It was at that point that she usually found some other task for Mrs Cordoza: a bus trip to buy curtain material; a search for a particular type of fish that Laurence had said he might like. Once, she gave the housekeeper an afternoon off – anything to grant herself an hour or two alone in the house, buy time to search for more letters.
    In the two weeks that had passed since she’d discovered the first she had found two more. It, too, was addressed to a PO Box, but was clearly for her. The same handwriting, the same passionate, direct way of speaking. The words seemed to echo some sound deep within. They described events that, while she couldn’t remember them, held a deep resonance, like the vibrations of a huge bell long after it had stopped ringing.
    None was signed other than with ‘B’. She had read them, and read them again until the words were imprinted on her soul.
    Dearest girl,
    It’s 4 a.m. I can’t sleep, knowing he is returning to you tonight. It is the road to madness, but I lie here imagining him lying next to you, his licence to touch you, to hold you, and I would do anything to make that freedom mine.
    You were so angry with me when you found me drinking at Alberto’s. You called it an indulgence, and I’m afraid my response was unforgivable. Men hurt themselves when they lash out and, as cruel and stupid as my words may have been, I think you know your words hurt me more. Felipe told me I was a fool when you left, and he was right.
    I am telling you this because I need you to know that I’m going to be a better man. Hah! I can barely believe I’m writing such a cliché. But it’s true. You make me want to be a better version of myself. I have sat here for hours, staring at the whisky bottle, and then, not five minutes ago, I finally got up and poured the whole darned lot into the sink. I will be a better person for you, darling. I want to live well, wish for you to be proud of me. If all we are allowed is hours, minutes, I want to be able to etch each of them on to my memory with exquisite clarity so that I can recall them at moments like this, when my very soul feels blackened.
    Take him to you, if you must, my love, but don’t love him. Please don’t love him.
    Yours selfishly,
    B
    Her eyes