The Last Letter from Your Lover

gloved hand shot out surreptitiously, and as he stood there, the envelope disappeared into her bag.
    ‘Fourth floor,’ said the bellboy. ‘Restaurant.’
    Everyone except Anthony moved forwards. Stirling glanced to his right, apparently remembering his wife’s presence, and reached out a hand, not in affection, Anthony observed, but to propel her forwards. The doors closed behind her, and he was alone as, with the bellboy’s cry of ‘Ground floor’, the lift began to descend.
    Anthony had barely expected a response. He hadn’t even bothered to check his post until he left his house, late, and found two letters on the mat. He half walked, half ran along the baked, busy pavement, ducking in and out of the nurses and patients leaving the vast St Bartholomew’s Hospital, his suitcase bashing against his legs. He was meant to be at Heathrow for half past two, was barely sure even now how he would make it in time. The sight of her handwriting had induced a kind of shock in him, followed by panic when he realised it was already ten to twelve and he was at the wrong end of London.
    Postman’s Park. Midday.
    There had, of course, been no taxis. He had jumped on a Tube part of the way and run the rest. His shirt, neatly pressed, now stuck to his skin; his hair flopped over his sweaty forehead. ‘Excuse me,’ he muttered, as a woman in high-heeled sandals tutted, forced to step out of his way. ‘Excuse me .’ A bus stopped, belching purple fumes, and he heard the conductor ring the bell for it to move off again. He hesitated as the passengers poured across the pavement, trying to catch his wind, and checked his watch. It was a quarter past twelve already. It was entirely possible she would already have given up on him.
    What the hell was he doing? If he missed this flight Don would personally see to it that he was on Golden Weddings and Other Anniversaries for the next ten years. They would view it as another example of his inability to cope, a reason to give the next good story to Murfett or Phipps.
    He ducked down King Edward Street, gasping, and then he was in a tiny oasis of peace in the middle of the City. The Postman’s Park was a small garden, created by a Victorian philanthropist to mark the lives of ordinary heroes. He walked, breathing hard, into the centre.
    It was blue, a gently moving swarm of blue. As his vision steadied, he saw postmen in their blue uniforms, some walking, some lying on the grass, a few lined up along the bench in front of the glazed Doulton tablets that commemorated each act of bravery. The postmen of London, freed from their rounds and postbags, were enjoying the midday sun, in their shirtsleeves with their sandwich boxes, chatting, exchanging food, relaxing on the grass under the dappled shade of the trees.
    His breathing had steadied. He dropped his suitcase and fished for a handkerchief, mopped his forehead, then turned in a slow circle, trying to see behind the large ferns, the wall of the church, and into the shadowed enclaves of the office buildings. He scanned the park for a jewelled emerald dress, the flash of pale gold hair that would mark her out.
    She was not there.
    He looked at his watch. Twenty past. She had come and gone. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Perhaps Stirling had found the ruddy letter. It was then that he remembered the second envelope, the one from Clarissa, which he had stuffed into his pocket as he left home. He pulled it out now and read it swiftly. He could never see her handwriting without hearing her tight, disappointed voice, or seeing her neat blouses, always buttoned to the neck when she saw him, as if he might gain some advantage from a glimpse of her skin.
    Dear Anthony,
    This is to let you know as a matter of courtesy that I am to be married.
    He felt a vague sense of proprietory shock at the idea that Clarissa might find happiness with someone else. He had thought her incapable of it with anybody.
    I have met a decent man who owns a chain of drapery shops, and he is willing to take on me and Phillip. He is kind, and says he will treat him as his own. The wedding will be in September. This is difficult for me to broach, but you might want to think about how much contact you wish to maintain with the boy. I would like him to be able to live as a normal family, and it may well be that continued, erratic contact with you will make it harder for him to settle.
    Please consider this, and let me know what you think.
    We will not require further