The Last Letter from Your Lover

the porcelain and leaning dark spots on her pale trousers. She took the Valium from the top shelf and unscrewed the lid.
    You are the strong one, the one who can endure living with the possibility of a love like this, and the fact that we will never be allowed it.
    Not as astute as you thought, Boot.
    She heard Mrs Cordoza’s voice downstairs and locked the bathroom door. She placed both hands on the side of the wash-basin. Can I do this?
    She lifted the bottle and tipped its contents down the plughole, watching the water carry away the little white pills. She unscrewed the next, barely pausing to check its contents. Her ‘little helpers’. Everyone did it, Yvonne had said blithely, the first time Jennifer had sat in her kitchen and found she couldn’t stop crying. Doctors were only too happy to supply them. They would even her out a little. I’m so evened out that nothing’s left, she thought, and reached for the next bottle.
    Then they were all gone, the shelf empty. She stared at herself in the mirror as, with a gurgle, the last of the pills was washed out of sight.
    There was trouble in Stanleyville. A note had arrived from the Foreign Desk at the Nation informing Anthony that the Congolese rebels, the self-styled Simba Army, had begun to herd more white hostages into the Victoria Hotel in retaliation against the Congolese government forces and their white mercenaries. ‘Have bags ready. Moving story,’ it said. ‘Editor has given special approval you go. With request that do not get yourself killed/captured.’
    For the first time, Anthony did not rush to the office to check the late news wires. He did not telephone his contacts at the UN or the army. He lay on his hotel bed, thinking of a woman who had loved him enough to leave her husband and then, in the space of four years, had disappeared.
    He startled at a knock on his door. The maid seemed to want to clean every half-hour. She had an annoying way of whistling as she worked so he could never quite ignore her presence. ‘Come back later,’ he called, and shifted on to his side.
    Had it simply been the shock of finding him alive that had caused her literally to vibrate in front of him? Had she realised today that the feelings she had once held for him had evaporated? Had she just gone through the motions, entertaining him as anyone would an old friend? Her manners had always been immaculate.
    Another knock, tentative. It was almost more irritating than if the girl had just opened the door and walked in. At least then he could have yelled at her. He got up and went to the door. ‘I’d really rather—’
    Jennifer stood in front of him, her belt tied tightly around her waist, her eyes bright. ‘Every day,’ she said.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Every month. Every day. Every hour.’ She paused, then added, ‘At least every hour. For four years.’
    The corridor was silent around them.
    ‘I thought you were dead, Anthony. I grieved for you. I grieved for the life I hoped I might have with you. I read and reread your letters until they fell apart. When I believed I might have been responsible for your death, I loathed myself so much I could barely get through each day. If it hadn’t been . . .’
    She corrected herself: ‘And then, at a drinks party I hadn’t even wanted to go to, I saw you. You. And you ask me why I wanted to see you?’ She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself.
    There were footsteps at the other end of the corridor. He held out a hand. ‘Come inside,’ he said.
    ‘I couldn’t sit at home. I had to say something before you were gone again. I had to tell you.’
    He stepped back, and she walked past him into the large double bedroom, its generous dimensions and decent position testament to his improved standing at the newspaper. He was glad that for once he had left it tidy, a laundered shirt hanging on the back of the chair, his good shoes against the wall. The window was open, allowing in the noise of the street outside, and he went over to close it. She put her bag on the chair, laid her coat over it.
    ‘It’s a step up,’ he said awkwardly. ‘The first time I came back I got a hostel in Bayswater Road. Do you want a drink?’ He felt oddly self-conscious as she sat down at the little table. ‘Shall I ring for something? Coffee, maybe?’ he continued.
    God, he wanted to touch her.
    ‘I haven’t slept,’ she said, rubbing her face ruefully. ‘I couldn’t think straight when I saw you. I’ve been trying to