The Last Letter from Your Lover

city.’
    It had been almost a relief when Don had mentioned it. This would decide things. It gave him a better job and meant that Jennifer could come too, start a new life with him . . . and, although he tried not to think of this, he knew that if she said no, it would give him an escape route. London had already become inextricably tied up with her: landmarks everywhere were imprinted with their time together.
    ‘Anyway, I’ll be over a few times a year, and I know what you said, but I would like to send letters.’
    ‘I don’t know . . .’
    ‘I’d like to tell Phillip a little of my life over there. Perhaps he could even come and visit when he’s a bit older.’
    ‘Edgar thinks it will be better for all of us if things are kept simple. He doesn’t like . . . disruption.’
    ‘Edgar is not Phillip’s father.’
    ‘He’s as much of a father as you’ve ever been.’
    They glared at each other.
    Phillip’s cake was sitting in the middle of his plate, his hands wedged under his thighs.
    ‘Let’s not discuss this now, anyway. It’s Phillip’s birthday.’ He brightened his voice. ‘I expect you’d like to see your present, wouldn’t you?’
    His son said nothing. Christ, thought Anthony. What are we doing to him? He reached under the table and pulled out a large, rectangular parcel. ‘You can keep it for the big day, if you like, but your mother told me you were – you were all going out tomorrow, so I thought you might prefer it now.’
    He handed it over. Phillip took it and glanced warily at his mother.
    ‘I suppose you can open it as you won’t have much time tomorrow,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to powder my nose.’ She rose, and he watched her walk through the tables, wondering if she was as disheartened by these exchanges as he was. Perhaps she was off to find a public telephone from which she could ring Edgar and complain about how unreasonable her ex-husband was.
    ‘Go on, then,’ he said, to the boy. ‘Open it.’
    Freed from the eye of his mother, Phillip became a little more animated. He ripped at the brown paper, and stopped, in awe, when he saw what it had concealed.
    ‘It’s a Hornby,’ Anthony said. ‘The best you can get. And that’s the Flying Scotsman . You’ve heard of it?’
    Phillip nodded.
    ‘There’s a fair bit of track with it, and I got the man to throw in a little station and some men. They’re in this bag here. Think you can set it up?’
    ‘I’ll ask Edgar to help me.’
    It was like a sharp kick to the ribs. Anthony forced himself to ride the pain. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, after all.
    ‘Yes,’ he said, through gritted teeth. ‘I’m sure he would.’
    They were quiet for a few moments. Then Phillip’s hand snaked out, snatched up his cake and stuffed into his mouth, an unthinking act conducted with greedy pleasure. Then he selected another, a chocolate fancy, and gave his father a conspiratorial wink before it followed the first.
    ‘Still happy to see your old dad then?’
    Phillip reached over and laid his head against Anthony’s chest. Anthony looped his arms around him, holding him tightly, breathing in the smell of his hair, feeling the visceral pull that he tried so hard not to acknowledge.
    ‘Are you better now?’ the boy said, when he pulled back. He had lost a front tooth.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    Phillip began to prise the engine from its box. ‘Mother said you weren’t yourself, that that was why you didn’t write.’
    ‘I am better. Yes.’
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘There – were unpleasant things going on when I was in Africa. Things that upset me. I got ill and then I was rather silly and drank too much.’
    ‘That was rather silly.’
    ‘Yes. Yes it was. I shan’t do it again.’
    Clarissa came back to the table. He saw, with a jolt, that her nose was pink, her eyes red-rimmed. He attempted a smile, and received a wan one in return.
    ‘He likes his present,’ Anthony said.
    ‘Goodness. Well, that’s quite a present.’ She gazed at the gleaming engine, at her child’s patent delight, and added, ‘I hope you said thank you, Phillip.’
    Anthony put a cake on a plate, and handed it to her, then took one for himself and they sat there in some strained facsimile of family life.
    ‘Let me write,’ Anthony said, after a beat.
    ‘I’m trying to start a new life, Anthony,’ she whispered. ‘Trying to start afresh.’ She was almost pleading.
    ‘It’s just letters