The Last Letter from Your Lover

days ago.’ She handed him the handwritten envelope. ‘At the PO box you mentioned.’ When he said nothing, she added, ‘I’ve been keeping an eye on it, as you asked.’
    He stared at the envelope, then looked up at her, the colour draining from his face so rapidly that she thought he might pass out. ‘Are you sure? This can’t be right.’
    ‘But it—’
    ‘You must have got the wrong number.’
    ‘I can assure you I got the right PO box. Number thirteen. I used Mrs Stirling’s name, as you . . . suggested.’
    He ripped it open, then stooped forward over the desk as he read the few lines. She stood on the other side, not wanting to appear curious, aware that the atmosphere in the room had become charged. She was already afraid of what she had done.
    When he looked up, he seemed to have aged several years. He cleared his throat, then screwed up the sheet of paper with one hand and threw it with some force into the bin beneath his desk. His expression was fierce. ‘It must have been lost in the postal system. Nobody must know about this. Do you understand?’
    She took a step backwards. ‘Yes, Mr Stirling. Of course.’
    ‘Close the PO box down.’
    ‘Now? I still have the audit report to—’
    ‘This afternoon. Do whatever you need to do. Just close it down. Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes, Mr Stirling.’ She tucked her file under her arm and let herself out of his office. She gathered up her handbag and coat and prepared to go to the post office.
    Jennifer had planned to go home. She was tired, the trip to the office had been fruitless and it had begun to rain, sending pedestrians hurrying along the pavement, collars up and heads down. But standing on the steps of her husband’s workplace, she had known she couldn’t go back to that silent house.
    She stepped off the kerb and hailed a cab, waving until she saw the yellow light swerve towards her. She climbed in, brushing raindrops from her red coat. ‘Do you know a place called Alberto’s?’ she said, as the driver leant back towards the dividing window.
    ‘Which part of London is it in?’ he said.
    ‘I’m sorry, I have no idea. I thought you might know.’
    He frowned. ‘There’s an Alberto’s club in Mayfair. I can take you there, but I’m not sure it’ll be open.’
    ‘Fine,’ she said, and settled back in the seat.
    It took only fifteen minutes to get there. The taxi drew up, and the driver pointed across the road. ‘That’s the only Alberto’s I know,’ he said. ‘Not sure if it’s your kind of place, ma’am.’
    She wiped the window with her sleeve and peered out. Metal railings surrounded a basement entrance, the steps disappearing out of view. A weary sign bore the name, and two bedraggled yew trees stood in large pots at each side of the door. ‘That’s it?’
    ‘You think it’s the right place?’
    She managed a smile. ‘Well, I’ll soon find out.’
    She paid him, and was left standing, in the thin rain, on the pavement. The door was half open, propped by a dustbin. As she entered, she was bombarded by the smell of alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, sweat and perfume. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light. To her left a cloakroom was empty and unattended, a beer bottle and a set of keys on its counter. She walked along the narrow hall and pushed open double doors to find herself in a huge empty room, chairs stacked up on round tables in front of a small stage. Weaving in and out of them, an old woman dragged a vacuum-cleaner, muttering to herself occasionally in apparent disapproval. A bar ran along one wall. Behind it a woman was smoking and talking to a man stacking the illuminated shelves with bottles. ‘Hold up,’ the woman said, catching sight of her. ‘Can I help you, love?’
    Jennifer felt the woman’s assessing gaze on her. It was not entirely friendly. ‘Are you open?’
    ‘Do we look open?’
    She held her bag to her stomach, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll come back another time.’
    ‘Who d’you want, lady?’ said the man, straightening up. He had dark, slicked-back hair and the kind of pale, puffy skin that told of too much alcohol and too little fresh air.
    She stared at him, trying to work out if what she felt was a glimmer of recognition. ‘Have you . . . have you seen me in here before?’ she asked.
    He looked mildly amused. ‘Not if you say I haven’t.’
    The woman cocked her head. ‘We have a very bad memory for faces in this place.’
    Jennifer walked