The Last Letter from Your Lover(14)
Author: Jojo Moyes

His voice dropped as he took a step toward her. “Moira, the matter we discussed some weeks ago.”

She had stared at him, stunned into paralysis by his proximity, the unexpected turn of events. She shook her head—a little foolishly, she suspected afterward.

“The matter we discussed”—his voice carried a hint of impatience—“after my wife’s accident. I thought I should check. There was never anything . . .”

She recovered, her hand fluttering at her collar. “Oh. Oh, no, sir. I went twice, as you asked. And no. There was nothing.” She waited a moment, then added, “Nothing at all. I’m quite sure.”

He nodded, as if reassured. Then he smiled at her, one of his rare, gentle smiles. “Thank you, Moira. You know how much I appreciate you, don’t you?”

She felt herself prickle with pleasure.

He walked toward the door and opened it again. “Your discretion has always been one of your most admirable qualities.”

She had to swallow hard before she spoke. “I . . . You can always rely on me. You know that.”

“What’s up with you, Moira?” one of the typists had asked, later that day in the ladies’ powder room. She had realized she was humming. She had reapplied her lipstick carefully and added just the lightest squirt of scent. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

“Perhaps Mario in the post room’s got past her stockings after all.” An unpleasant cackle followed from the cubicle.

“If you paid half as much attention to your work as you do to silly tittle-tattle, Phyllis, you might actually progress beyond junior typist,” she said, as she left. But even the giggling catcall as she walked out into the office couldn’t dampen her pleasure.

There were Christmas lights all around the square, large white tulipshaped bulbs. They were draped between the Victorian lampposts and strung in jagged spirals around the trees that bordered the communal gardens.

“Earlier every year,” Mrs. Cordoza remarked, turning from the big bay window in the drawing room as Jennifer walked in. She had been about to draw the curtains. “It’s not even December.”

“But very pretty,” Jennifer said, putting on an earring. “Mrs. Cordoza, would you mind terribly fastening this button at my neck? I can’t seem to reach.” Her arm was improved, but still lacked the flexibility that would have allowed her to dress unaided.

The older woman drew the collar together, fastened the dark blue silk-covered button, and stood back, waiting for Jennifer to turn. “That dress always looked lovely on you,” she observed.

Jennifer had become accustomed to such moments, the times when she had to catch herself so that she didn’t ask, “Did it? When?” She had grown adept at hiding them, at convincing the world around her that she was sure of her place in it.

“I can’t seem to remember when I last wore it,” she mused, after a beat.

“It was your birthday dinner. You were going to a restaurant in Chelsea.”

Jennifer hoped that this might dislodge a memory. But nothing. “So I did,” she said, raising a quick smile, “and it was a lovely evening.”

“Is it a special occasion tonight, madam?”

She checked her reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. Her hair was set in soft blond waves, her eyes outlined with artfully smudged kohl. “Oh, no, I don’t believe so. The Moncrieffs have invited us out. Dinner and dancing. The usual crowd.”

“I’ll stay an extra hour, if you don’t mind. There’s some linen that needs starching.”

“We do pay you for all your extra work?” She had spoken without thinking.

“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Cordoza said. “You and your husband are always very generous.”

Laurence—she still couldn’t think of him as Larry, no matter what everyone else called him—had said he would not be able to leave work early, so she had said she would take a taxi to his office and that they could go on from there. He had seemed a little reluctant, but she had insisted. During the last couple of weeks she had been trying to force herself out of the house a little more often to reclaim her independence. She had been shopping, once with Mrs. Cordoza and once by herself, walking slowly up and down Kensington High Street, trying not to let the sheer numbers of people, the constant noise and jostling, overwhelm her. She had bought a wrap from a department store two days previously, not because she particularly wanted or needed it but so that she could return home having fulfilled a purpose.

“Can I help you on with this, madam?”

The housekeeper was holding a sapphire brocade swing coat. She held it up by the shoulders, allowing Jennifer to slide her arms into the sleeves one at a time. The lining was silk, the brocade pleasingly heavy around her. She turned as she put it on, straightening the collar around her neck. “What do you do? After you leave here?”

The housekeeper blinked, a little taken aback. “What do I do?”

“I mean, where do you go?”

“I go home,” she said.

“To . . . your family?” I spend so much time with this woman, she thought. And I know nothing about her.

“My family are in South Africa. My daughters are grown up. I have two grandchildren.”

“Of course. Please forgive me, but I still can’t remember things as well as I might. I don’t remember you mentioning your husband.”

The woman looked at her feet. “He passed away almost eight years ago, madam.” When Jennifer didn’t speak, she added, “He was a manager at the mine in the Transvaal. Your husband gave me this job so I could continue to support my family.”

Jennifer felt as if she had been caught snooping. “I’m so sorry. As I said, my memory is a little unreliable at the moment. Please don’t think it reflects . . .”

Mrs. Cordoza shook her head.

Jennifer had flushed a deep red. “I’m sure in normal circumstances I would have—”

“Please, madam. I can see . . . ,” the housekeeper said carefully, “that you are not quite yourself yet.”

They stood there, facing each other, the older woman apparently mortified by her overfamiliarity.

But Jennifer didn’t see it that way. “Mrs. Cordoza,” she said, “do you find me much changed since my accident?” She saw the woman’s eyes search her face briefly before she answered. “Mrs. Cordoza?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Can you tell me in what way?”