The Last Letter from Your Lover

place his mouth on it, could already taste that pale, lightly freckled skin. His thumb rested there, tender, luxuriating in the prospect of what lay ahead. She let out a small breath at the pressure, so subtle that he felt rather than heard it. And something in him stalled.
    He stared at the down where her golden hair met her skin, at the slender fingers still holding it up. And he understood, with horrible certainty, what was going to happen.
    Anthony O’Hare closed his eyes very tightly, and then, with exquisite deliberation, he refastened her dress. He took a small step backwards.
    She hesitated, as if she was trying to work out what he had done, perhaps registering the absence of his skin on hers.
    Then she turned, her hand on the back of her neck, establishing what had taken place. She gazed at him, and her face, at first questioning, coloured.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he began, ‘but I – I can’t.’
    ‘Oh . . .’ She flinched. Her hand went to her mouth and a deep blush stained her neck. ‘Oh, God.’
    ‘No. You don’t understand, Jennifer. It’s not anything that—’
    She pushed past him, grabbing her handbag. And then, before he could say anything else, she was wrestling with the door handle and running down the corridor.
    ‘Jennifer!’ he yelled. ‘Jennifer! Let me explain!’ But by the time he had reached the door she was gone.
    The French train plodded through the parched countryside to Lyon, as if it was determined to grant him too long to think of all the things he had got wrong and all the things he couldn’t have changed even if he’d wanted to. Several times an hour he thought about ordering himself a large whisky from the dining car; he watched the stewards move deftly up and down the carriage, carrying glasses on silver trays, a choreographed ballet of stooping and pacing, and knew it would take only the lifting of a finger to have that consolation for himself. Afterwards he was barely sure what had prevented him doing so.
    At night, he settled into the couchette, pulled out with disdainful efficiency by the steward. As the train rumbled on through the darkness, he clicked on his bedside light and picked up a paperback book he had found at the hotel, left by some former traveller. He read the same page several times, took nothing in and eventually threw it down in disgust. He had a French newspaper, but the space was too cramped to unfold the pages properly, and the print too small in the dim light. He dozed, and awoke, and as England drew closer, the future settled on him like a big black cloud.
    Finally, as dawn broke, he found pen and paper. He had never written a letter to a woman, other than brief thank-you notes to his mother, for whatever small gift she had sent, and to Clarissa about financial matters, his brief apology to Jennifer after that first night. Now, consumed by an aching melancholy, haunted by the mortified look in Jennifer’s eyes, freed by the prospect that he might never see her again, he wrote unguardedly, wanting only to explain himself.
    Dearest,
    I couldn’t make you listen, when you left in such a hurry. But I need you to know that I was not rejecting you. You were so far from the truth I can hardly bear it.
    Here is the truth: you would not be the first married woman I have made love to. You know my personal circumstances and, to be frank, these relationships, such as they are, have suited me. I did not want to be close to anyone. When we first met, I chose to think you would be no different . . .
    . . . It was for that reason that I redid that wretched button at your neck. And for that reason I have lain awake for the last two nights, hating myself for the one decent thing I have ever done.
    Forgive me.
    B
    He folded it carefully into his breast pocket, and then, at last, he slept.
    Don stubbed out his cigarette and studied the typewritten sheet while the young man standing awkwardly to the side of his desk shifted from one foot to the other. ‘You can’t spell bigamy. It’s an a , not an o .’ He swiped his pencil belligerently across three lines. ‘And this intro’s terrible. You’ve got a man who married three women called Hilda, all within two miles of each other. That’s a gift of a story. The way you’ve written it I’d rather be reading Hansard on municipal drainage.’
    ‘Sorry, Mr Franklin.’
    ‘Bugger sorry. Get it right. This was for an early page and it’s already twenty to four. What the hell is the matter with you?’