The Last Letter from Your Lover

I’m sorry, but we – we can’t meet again.’
    ‘What?’
    She pulled out a compact, began to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes.
    ‘You can’t say that after what we’ve just done. You can’t just turn it all off. What the hell is going on?’
    She was rigid. ‘You’ll be fine. You always are. Look, I – I have to go. I’m so sorry.’
    She swept up her bag and coat. The door closed behind her with a decisive click.
    Anthony was after her, wrenching it open. ‘Don’t do this, Jennifer! Don’t leave me again!’ His voice echoed down the already empty corridor, bouncing off the blank doors of the other bedrooms. ‘This isn’t some kind of game! I’m not going to wait another four years for you!’
    He was frozen with shock until, cursing, he collected himself and sprinted back into the room, wrestled into his shirt and shoes.
    He grabbed his jacket and ran out into the corridor, his heart thudding. He tore down the stairs, two at a time, to the foyer. He saw the lift doors open, and there she was, her heels clicking briskly across the marble floor, composed, recovered, a million miles from where she’d been only minutes earlier. He was about to shout to her when he heard the cry: ‘Mummy!’
    Jennifer went down, her arms already outstretched. A middle-aged woman was walking towards her, the child breaking free from her grasp. The little girl threw herself into Jennifer’s arms and was lifted up, her voice bubbling across the echoing concourse. ‘Are we going to Hamleys? Mrs Cordoza said we were.’
    ‘Yes, darling. We’ll go right now. I just have to sort something out with Reception.’
    She put the child down and took her hand. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, but something made her look back as she walked to the desk. She saw him. Her eyes locked on his, and them he caught a a hint of apology – and guilt.
    She looked away, scribbled something, then turned back to the receptionist, her handbag on the desk. A few words were exchanged and she was away, walking out through the glass doors into the afternoon sunshine, the little girl chattering beside her.
    The implication of what he had seen sank into Anthony, like feet into quicksand. He waited until she had disappeared, and then, like a man waking from a dream, shouldered on his jacket.
    He was about to walk out when the concierge hurried up to him. ‘Mr Boot? The lady asked me to give you this.’ A note was thrust into his hand.
    He unfolded the little piece of hotel writing-paper.
    Forgive me. I just had to know.

We do not conceive in our heart to take a husband, but highly recommend this single life.
    Queen Elizabeth I to Prince Erik of Sweden, via letter

15
    Moira Parker walked up to the typing-pool and switched off the transistor radio that had been balanced on a pile of telephone directories.
    ‘Hey!’ Annie Jessop protested. ‘I was listening to that.’
    ‘It is not appropriate to have popular music blaring out in an office,’ Moira said firmly. ‘Mr Stirling doesn’t want to be distracted by such a racket. This is a place of work.’ It was the fourth time that week.
    ‘More like a funeral parlour. Oh, come on, Moira. Let’s have it on low. It helps the day go by.’
    ‘Working hard helps the day go by.’
    She heard the scornful laughter and tilted her chin a little higher. ‘You’d do well to learn that you’ll only progress at Acme Mineral and Mining with a professional attitude.’
    ‘And loose knicker elastic,’ muttered someone behind her.
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘Nothing, Miss Parker. Shall we switch it on to Wartime Favourites ? Will that make you happy? “We’re going to hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line . . .”’ There was another burst of laughter.
    ‘I’ll put it in Mr Stirling’s office. Perhaps you can ask him what he prefers.’
    She heard the mutters of dislike as she crossed the office, and made herself deaf to them. As the company had grown, the standards of the staff had sunk commensurately. Nowadays nobody respected their superiors, the work ethic or what Mr Stirling had achieved. Quite frequently she found herself in such a poor humour on her way home that she was at Elephant and Castle before even her crochet could distract her. Sometimes it felt as if only she and Mr Stirling – and perhaps Mrs Kingston from Accounts – understood how to behave.
    And the clothes! Dolly-birds they called themselves, and it was horribly apt. Primping and preening,