The Last Letter from Your Lover

place, perhaps she would become like all of the others: a pleasant physical diversion.
    It was as he put his shoes into the case that the call came from the concierge: a woman was waiting in Reception for him.
    ‘Blonde hair?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘Would you mind asking her to come to the telephone?’
    He heard a brief burst of French, then her voice, a little breathless, uncertain. ‘It’s Jennifer. I just wondered . . . if we might have a quick drink.’
    ‘Delighted, but I’m not quite ready. Do you want to come up and wait?’
    He tidied his room rapidly, kicking stray items under the bed. He rearranged the sheet of paper in his typewriter, as if he had been working on the piece he had wired across an hour earlier. He pulled on a clean shirt, although he didn’t have time to do it up. When he heard a soft knock, he opened the door. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘I was just finishing something, but do come in.’
    She stood awkwardly in the corridor. When she caught sight of his bare chest, she looked away. ‘Would you rather I waited downstairs?’
    ‘No. Please. I’ll only be a few minutes.’
    She stepped in and walked to the centre of the room. She was wearing a pale gold sleeveless dress with a mandarin collar. Her shoulders were slightly pink where the sun had touched them as she drove. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, a little windblown, as if she had driven there in a hurry.
    Her gaze took in the bed, littered with notepads, the near-packed suitcase. They were briefly silenced by proximity. She recovered first. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’
    ‘Sorry. Inconsiderate of me.’ He telephoned down for a gin and tonic, which arrived in minutes. ‘Where are we going?’
    ‘Going?’
    ‘Have I time to shave?’ He went in to the bathroom.
    ‘Of course. Go ahead.’
    He had done this on purpose, he thought afterwards, made her party to the enforced intimacy. He looked better: the sick man’s yellow pallor had left his skin, the lines of strain had been ironed from his eyes. He ran the hot water, and watched her in the bathroom mirror as he lathered his chin.
    She was distracted, preoccupied. As his razor scraped against his skin, he watched her pace, like a restless animal. ‘Are you all right?’ he called, rinsing his blade in the water.
    ‘I’m fine.’ She had drunk half the gin and tonic already, and poured another.
    He finished shaving, towelled dry his face, splashed on some of the aftershave he had bought from the pharmacie . It was sharp, with notes of citrus and rosemary. He did up his shirt and straightened his collar in the mirror. He loved this moment, the convergence of appetite and possibility. He felt oddly triumphant. He stepped out of the bathroom and found her standing by the balcony. The sky was dimming, the lights of the seafront glowing as dusk fell. She held her drink in one hand, the other arm laid slightly defensively across her waist. He took a step closer to her.
    ‘I forgot to say how lovely you look,’ he said. ‘I like that colour on you. It’s—’
    ‘Larry’s back tomorrow.’
    She drew away from the balcony and faced him. ‘I had a wire this afternoon. We’ll be flying to London on Tuesday.’
    ‘I see,’ he said. There were tiny blonde hairs on her arm. The sea breeze lifted and laid them down.
    When he looked up, her eyes locked with his. ‘I’m not unhappy,’ she said.
    ‘I know that.’
    She was studying him, her lovely mouth serious. She bit her lip, then turned her back to him. She stood very still. ‘The top button,’ she said.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I can’t undo it myself.’
    Something ignited inside him. He experienced it almost as relief, that this would happen, that the woman he had dreamt about, conjured at night in this bed, was to be his after all. Her distance, her resistance, had almost overwhelmed him. He wanted the release that comes with release, wanted to feel spent, the ache of perpetual unrelieved desire soothed.
    He took her drink from her, and her hand went to her hair, lifting it from the nape of her neck. He obeyed the silent instruction, lifting his hands to her skin. Usually so certain, his fingers fumbled, were thick and clumsy. He watched them as if from afar, wrestling with the silk-covered button, and as he released it, he saw that his hands were trembling. He stilled, and gazed at her neck: exposed now, it was bent forwards slightly, as if in supplication. He wanted to