The Last Letter from Your Lover

from Accounts, walked up to her, holding out his hand. She took it and they chatted briefly before they looked across the office towards where she and Mr Stirling were standing. Mrs Stirling raised a hand in greeting.
    Moira’s was reaching for her hair. Some women managed always to look as if they had stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, and Jennifer Stirling was one of them. Moira didn’t mind: she had always preferred to focus her energies on work, on more substantial achievements. But it was hard when the woman walked into the office, her skin glowing from the cold outside, two fiery diamond studs glinting in her ears, not to feel the tiniest bit dull in comparison. She was like a perfectly wrapped Christmas parcel, a glittering bauble.
    ‘Mrs Stirling,’ Moira said politely.
    ‘Hello,’ she said.
    ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Mr Stirling stood to greet her, rather awkward but perhaps secretly pleased. Like an unloved student who had been approached by the school sweetheart.
    ‘Would you like me to leave?’ Moira felt awkward, standing between them. ‘I’ve got some filing I could be—’
    ‘Oh, no, not on my account. I’ll only be a minute.’ She turned back to her husband. ‘I was passing and I thought I’d check whether you were likely to be late this evening. If you are, I might pop over to the Harrisons’. They’re doing mulled wine.’
    ‘I . . . Yes, you do that. I can meet you there if I finish early.’
    ‘That would be nice,’ she said. She gave off a faint scent of Nina Ricci. Moira had tried it the previous week in D. H. Evans, but had thought it a little pricey. Now she regretted not having bought it.
    ‘I’ll try not to be too late.’
    Mrs Stirling didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. She stood in front of her husband, but she seemed more interested in looking at the office, the men at their desks. She surveyed it all with some concentration. It was if she had never seen the place before.
    ‘It’s been a while since you were here,’ he said.
    ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose it has.’
    There was a short silence.
    ‘Oh,’ she said abruptly. ‘What are your drivers’ names?’
    He frowned. ‘My drivers?’
    She gave a little shrug. ‘I thought you might like me to organise a Christmas gift for each of them.’
    He seem nonplussed. ‘A Christmas gift? Well, Eric’s been with me the longest. I usually buy him a bottle of brandy. Have done for the last twenty years, I think. Simon fills in on the odd occasion. He’s teetotal, so I put a little extra in his last pay packet. I don’t think it’s anything you need to worry about.’
    Mrs Stirling seemed oddly disappointed. ‘Well, I’d like to help. I’ll buy the brandy,’ she said finally, clutching her bag in front of her.
    ‘That’s very . . . thoughtful of you,’ he said.
    She let her gaze wander across the office, then returned it to them. ‘Anyway, I imagine you must be terribly busy. As I said, I just thought I’d call in. Nice to see you . . . er . . .’ Her smile wavered.
    Moira was stung by the woman’s casual dismissal. How many times had they met over the last five years? And she couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name.
    ‘Moira,’ Mr Stirling prompted, when the silence became uncomfortable.
    ‘Yes. Moira. Of course. Nice to see you again.’
    ‘I’ll be right back.’ Mr Stirling steered his wife to the door. Moira watched as they exchanged a few more remarks, and then, with a little wave of her gloved hand, she was gone.
    The secretary took a deep breath, trying not to mind. Mr Stirling stood immobile as his wife left the building.
    Almost before she knew what she was doing, Moira walked out of the office and swiftly to her desk. She pulled a key from her pocket and opened the locked drawer, hunting through the various pieces of correspondence until she found it. She was back in Mr Stirling’s office before he was.
    He closed the door behind him, glancing through the glass wall, as if he was half expecting his wife to come back. He seemed softened, a little more at ease. ‘So,’ he said, sitting down, ‘you were mentioning the office party. You’d been planning something.’ A small smile played about his lips.
    Her breath was tight in her chest. She had to swallow before she could speak normally. ‘Actually, Mr Stirling, there’s something else.’
    He had pulled out a letter, ready to sign. ‘Right-oh. What is it?’
    ‘This arrived two