The Last Letter from Your Lover

his fingers behind his head. ‘And you’re extremely nosy.’
    ‘This is a newspaper, in case you hadn’t noticed. Nosiness is our business.’
    He had barely slept, his senses hypersensitive to everything around him. He had given up trying at three and instead sat in the hotel bar, nursing cups of coffee, going over their conversation, trying to make sense of what had been said. He had fought the urge, in the small hours, to take a taxi to the square and sit outside her house for the pleasure of knowing that she was inside, a matter of feet away.
    I was coming to you.
    Cheryl was still watching him. He tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well. In my opinion, everyone’s far too interested in everyone else’s affairs.’
    ‘So it is an affair. You know the subs desk’s opened a book on it.’
    ‘Cheryl . . .’
    ‘Well, there’s not much copy going through at this time of the morning. And what’s in the letter? Where are you meeting her? Anywhere nice? Does she pay for everything, given that she’s plainly loaded?’
    ‘Good God!’
    ‘Well, she can’t be very practised at affairs, then. Tell her that the next time she leaves a love note she should take her wedding ring off first.’
    Anthony sighed. ‘You, young lady, are wasted as a secretary.’
    She lowered her voice to a whisper: ‘If you tell me her name, I’ll split the sweepstake with you. There’s a tidy sum.’
    ‘Send me to Africa, for God’s sake. The Congolese Army Interrogation Unit is nothing compared to you.’
    She laughed throatily and went back to her typewriter.
    He unfolded the note. The mere sight of that looped script transported him back to France, to notes pushed under his door in an idyllic week a million years ago. Some part of him had known she would contact him. He jumped when he realised Don had come in.
    ‘Tony. The editor wants a word. Upstairs.’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘No. Three weeks on Tuesday. Yes, now. He wants to talk to you about your future. And, no, you’re not for the chop, sadly. I think he’s trying to suss out whether or not to send you back to Africa.’ Don poked his shoulder. ‘Hello? Cloth Ears? You need to look like you know what you’re doing.’
    Anthony barely heard him. It was a quarter past eleven already. The editor was not a man who liked to do anything in a hurry, and it was entirely possible he would be with him for a good hour. He turned to Cheryl as he stood. ‘Blondie, do me a favour. Ring my hotel. Tell them a Jennifer Stirling is due to meet me at twelve and ask someone to tell her I’ll be late but not to leave. I’ll be there. She mustn’t leave.’
    Cheryl’s smile was laced with satisfaction. ‘ Mrs Jennifer Stirling?’
    ‘As I said, she’s an old friend.’
    Don was wearing yesterday’s shirt, Anthony noted. He was always wearing yesterday’s shirt. He was also shaking his head. ‘Jesus. That Stirling woman again? How much of an appetite for trouble have you got?’
    ‘She’s just a friend.’
    ‘And I’m Twiggy. Come on. Come and explain to the Great White Chief why you should be allowed to sacrifice yourself to the Simba rebels.’
    She was still there, he was relieved to see. It was more than half an hour after their supposed meeting time. She was seated at a small table in the extravagantly frothy salon, where the plaster mouldings resembled the icing on an over-adorned Christmas cake and most of the other tables were occupied by elderly widows exclaiming in shocked, hushed tones at the wickedness of the modern world.
    ‘I ordered tea,’ she said, as he sat down opposite her, apologising for the fifth time. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
    Her hair was down. She wore a black sweater, and tailored fawn trousers. She was thinner than she had been. He supposed it was the fashion.
    He attempted to regulate his breathing. He had pictured this moment so many times, sweeping her into his arms, their passionate reunion. Now he felt vaguely wrong-footed by her self-possession, the formality of the surroundings.
    A waitress arrived, pushing a trolley from which she took a teapot, milk jug, some precision-cut sandwiches on white bread, cups, saucers and plates. He realised he could probably fit four of the sandwiches into his mouth at once.
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘You don’t . . . take sugar.’ She frowned, as if she was trying to remember.
    ‘No.’
    They sipped their tea. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He