The Last Letter from Your Lover

cup of tea.
    Jennifer’s hand flew to her throat. She turned, half hiding the case behind her. ‘No – no. I’m just taking some clothes to Mrs Moncrieff. For her niece. Things I’ve grown tired of.’
    ‘There are some things in the laundry room that you said didn’t fit you any more. Do you want me to bring them up?’
    ‘No. I can do it myself.’
    Mrs Cordoza peered past her. ‘But that’s your gold dress. You love it.’
    ‘Mrs Cordoza, please will you let me sort out my own wardrobe?’ she snapped.
    The housekeeper flinched. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Stirling,’ she said, and withdrew in hurt silence.
    Jennifer began to cry, sobs forcing their way out in ugly bursts. She crawled on top of the bedspread, her hands over her head, and howled, not knowing what she should do, only that, with every second of indecision, the direction of her life hung in the balance. She heard her mother’s voice, saw her appalled face at the news of her family’s disgrace, the whispers of delighted shock in church. She saw the life she had planned, the children that would surely soften Laurence’s coldness, force him to unbend a little. She saw a poky series of rented rooms, Anthony out all day working, herself afraid in a strange country without him. She saw him wearying of her in her drab clothes, his gaze already on some other married woman.
    I will never stop loving you. I have never loved anyone before you and there will never be anyone after you .
    When she pushed herself up, Mrs Cordoza was at the foot of the bed.
    She wiped her eyes, her nose and prepared to apologise for snapping, when she saw that the older woman was packing her bag.
    ‘I’ve put in your flat shoes and your brown slacks. They don’t need so much laundering.’
    Jennifer stared at her, still hiccuping.
    ‘There are undergarments and a nightdress.’
    ‘I – I don’t—’
    Mrs Cordoza continued to pack. She removed things from the suitcase, refolding them with tissue paper, and putting them back with the same reverent care one might lavish on a newborn. Jennifer was hypnotised by the sight of those hands smoothing, replacing.
    ‘Mrs Stirling,’ Mrs Cordoza said, without looking up, ‘I never told you this. Where I lived in South Africa, it was customary to cover your windows with ash when a man died. When my husband died, I kept my windows clear. In fact, I cleaned them so that they shone.’
    Sure she had Jennifer’s attention, she continued folding. Shoes now, placed sole to sole in a thin cotton bag, tucked neatly in the base, a pair of white tennis shoes, a hairbrush.
    ‘I did love my husband when we were young, but he was not a kind man. As we grew older, he cared less and less how he behaved towards me. When he died suddenly, God forgive me, I felt as if someone had set me free.’ She hesitated, gazing into the half-packed suitcase. ‘If someone had given me the chance, many years ago, I would have gone. I think I would have had the chance of a different life.’
    She placed the last folded clothes on top and closed the lid, securing the buckles on each side of the handle.
    ‘It’s half past six. Mr Stirling said he would be home by a quarter to seven, in case you’d forgotten.’ Without another word, she straightened and left the room.
    Jennifer checked her watch, then shrugged on the rest of her clothes. She ran across the room, sliding her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. She went to her dressing-table and fumbled in the back of a drawer for the emergency supply of shopping money she always kept balled up in a pair of stockings and thrust the notes into her pocket, with a handful of rings and necklaces from her jewellery box. Then she grabbed her suitcase and wrenched it down the stairs.
    Mrs Cordoza was holding out her mackintosh. ‘Your best chance of a taxi will be New Cavendish Street. I would suggest Portland Place but I believe Mr Stirling’s driver uses it.’
    ‘New Cavendish Street.’
    Neither woman moved, stunned, perhaps, by what they had done. Then Jennifer stepped forward and gave Mrs Cordoza an impulsive hug. ‘Thank you. I—’
    ‘I’ll inform Mr Stirling that, to my knowledge, you’re on a shopping trip.’
    ‘Yes. Yes, thank you.’
    She was outside in the night air that suddenly felt loaded with possibility. She tripped carefully down the steps, scanning the square for the familiar yellow light of a taxi. When she reached the pavement she set off at a run into the city dusk.
    She felt