The Last Letter from Your Lover

Home seemed suddenly an impossible distance away. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and took one.
    It was then that she saw him, half hidden by some potted palms. She watched almost absently at first, some distant part of her mind observing that she had once known someone whose hair met his collar just like that man’s did. There had been a time – perhaps a year ago or more – when she had seen him everywhere, a phantom, his torso, his hair, his laugh transplanted on to other men.
    His companion guffawed, shaking his head as if pleading with him not to continue. They lifted their glasses to each other. And then he turned.
    Jennifer’s heart stopped. The room stilled, then tilted. She didn’t feel the glass drop from her fingers, was only dimly aware of the crash that echoed through the vast atrium, a brief lull in the conversation, the brisk footsteps of a waiter hurrying towards her to clear it up. She heard Laurence, a short distance away, say something dismissively. She was rooted to the spot, until the waiter placed a hand on her arm, asking her to ‘Step back, madam, please step back.’
    The room refilled with conversation. The music continued. And as she stared, the man with the dark hair looked back at her.

A piece of advice: the next time you get involved with a single mother, don’t wait months to make sure you are introduced to her kid.
    Don’t take said kid to football. Don’t play happy families at pizza restaurants. Don’t say stuff like how much fun it is all being together – and then bail because, as you told ****, YOU WERE NEVER SURE YOU ACTUALLY LIKED HER.
    Female to Male, via postcard

13
    ‘I don’t know. I thought you were done with that part of the world. Why would you want to head back there?’
    ‘It’s a big story, and I’m the best person for the job.’
    ‘You’re doing good stuff at the UN. Upstairs is happy.’
    ‘But the real story is back in Congo, Don, you know that.’
    Despite the seismic changes that had taken place, despite his promotion from news to executive editor, Don Franklin’s office and the man himself had changed little since Anthony O’Hare had left England. Every year Anthony had returned to visit his son, and show his face in the newsroom, and every year the windows were a little more nicotine-stained, the mammoth piles of press cuttings teetering a little more chaotically. ‘I like it like that,’ Don would say, if asked. ‘Why the hell would I want a clear view of that sorry shower anyway?’
    But Don’s scruffy, paper-strewn office was an anomaly. The Nation was changing. Its pages were bolder and brighter, speaking to a younger audience. There were features sections, filled with makeup tips and discussions on the latest musical trends, letters about contraception, and gossip columns detailing people’s extra-marital affairs. In the newspaper offices, among the men with rolled-up shirtsleeves, girls in short skirts staffed the photocopier and stood in huddles along corridors. They would break off their conversations to eye him speculatively as he passed. London girls had become bolder. He was rarely alone on visits to the city.
    ‘You know as well as I do. No one here has the Africa experience I do. And it’s not just the US consulate staff that are being taken hostage now, it’s whites everywhere. There are terrible tales coming out of the country – the Simba leaders don’t care what the rebels are doing. Come on, Don. Are you telling me Phipps is the better man for the job? MacDonald?’
    ‘I don’t know, Tony.’
    ‘Believe me, the Americans don’t like their missionary, Carlson, being paraded around like a bargaining chip.’ He leant forward. ‘There’s talk of a rescue operation . . . The name being bandied about is Dragon Rouge.’
    ‘Tony, I don’t know that the editor wants anyone out there right now. These rebels are lunatics.’
    ‘Who has better contacts than I do? Who knows more about Congo, more about the UN? I’ve done four years in that rabbit warren, Don, four bloody years. You need me out there. I need to be out there.’ He could see Don’s resolve wavering. The authority of Anthony’s years outside the newsroom, his polished appearance, added weight to his claims. For four years he had faithfully reported the political toings and froings of the labyrinthine United Nations.
    During the first year he had given little thought to anything except getting up in the morning and making sure he could do his job.