The Last Letter from Your Lover

he could only feel a welling joy that the thing he had thought lost for ever had been returned to him.
    It was time for her to go. She stood up, smoothed her hair. ‘Do I look . . . all right?’
    ‘You look—’
    ‘You look wonderful, Mrs Stirling. As always.’ Douglas opened the door.
    Such a small smile, heartbreaking in what it told Anthony. As she passed him, she reached out a slim hand and touched his arm just above the elbow. And then she walked into the crowded ballroom.
    Douglas raised an eyebrow as the door closed behind her. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Not another of your conquests? You old dog. You always did get what you wanted.’
    Anthony’s eyes were still on the door. ‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘I didn’t.’
    Jennifer was silent during the short drive back to the house. Laurence had offered a lift to a business colleague she didn’t know, which meant she could sit quietly while the men talked.
    ‘Of course, Pip Marchant was up to his old tricks, all his capital tied up in one project.’
    ‘He’s a hostage to fortune. His father was the same.’
    ‘I expect if you go far enough back in that family tree you’ll find the South Sea Bubble.’
    ‘I think you’ll find several! All filled with hot air.’
    The interior of the big black car was thick with cigar smoke. Laurence was garrulous, opinionated, in the way he often was when surrounded by businessmen or marinated in whisky. She barely heard him, swamped by this new knowledge. She stared out at the still streets, as the car glided along, seeing not the beauty of her surroundings, the occasional person dawdling on their way home, but Anthony’s face. His brown eyes, when they had fixed on hers, his face a little more lined, but perhaps more handsome, more at ease. She could still feel the warmth of his hand on her back.
    How can I reach you?
    Alive, these past four years. Living, breathing, sipping cups of coffee and typing. Alive. She could have written to him, spoken to him. Gone to him.
    She swallowed, trying to contain the tumultuous emotion that threatened to rise within her. There would be a time to deal with everything that must have led to this, to her being here, now, in this car with a man who no longer thought it necessary even to acknowledge her presence. Now was not it. Her blood fizzed within her. Alive , it sang.
    The car pulled up on Upper Wimpole Street. Martin climbed out of the driver’s seat, and opened the passenger door. The businessman climbed out, puffing at his cigar. ‘Much obliged, Larry. You at the club this week? I’ll buy you dinner.’
    ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ The man made his way heavily towards his front door, which opened, as if someone had been waiting for his arrival. Laurence watched his colleague disappear, then turned back to the front. ‘Home, please, Eric.’ He shifted in his seat.
    She felt his eyes on her. ‘You’re very quiet.’ He always made it sound disapproving.
    ‘Am I? I didn’t think I had anything to add to your conversation.’
    ‘Yes. Well. Not a bad evening, all in all.’ He settled back, nodding to himself.
    ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘Not a bad evening at all.’

Sorry but I have to break up with you. Don’t feel bad its not your fault. Dave said he would like a go if that’s OK. Please don’t tho because I would still hve to see you.
    Male to Female, via text message

14
    Your hotel, midday. J.
    Anthony stared at the letter, with its single line of text.
    ‘Delivered by hand this morning.’ Cheryl, the newsdesk secretary, stood in front of him, a pencil between her index and middle fingers. Her short, astonishingly blonde hair was so thick that he wondered briefly if she was wearing a wig. ‘I wasn’t sure whether to phone you, but Don said you’d be coming in.’
    ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He folded the note carefully and put it into his pocket.
    ‘Cute.’
    ‘Who – me?’
    ‘Your new girlfriend.’
    ‘Very funny.’
    ‘I mean it. I thought she looked far too classy for you, though.’ She sat on the edge of his desk, gazing up at him through impossibly blackened eyelashes.
    ‘She is far too classy for me. And she’s not my girlfriend.’
    ‘Oh, yes, I forgot. You have one of those in New York. This one’s married, right?’
    ‘She’s an old friend.’
    ‘Hah! I have old friends like that. Are you whisking her off to Africa with you?’
    ‘I don’t know that I’m going to Africa.’ He leant back in his chair, linked