The Last Letter from Your Lover(24)
Author: Jojo Moyes

There was Reggie Carpenter, Yvonne’s cousin, who sometimes made up the numbers at dinner. Dark-haired, with tired, humorous eyes, he was younger than she imagined her letter-writer to be, but he was charming, and funny, and seemed always to ensure that he was sitting at her side when Laurence wasn’t there.

And then there was Bill, of course. Bill, who told jokes as if they were only for her approval, who laughingly declared he adored her, even in front of Violet. He definitely had feelings for her. But could she have had feelings for him?

She began to pay more attention to her appearance. She made regular visits to the hairdresser, bought some new dresses, became chattier, “more your old self,” as Yvonne said approvingly. In the weeks after the accident she had hidden behind her girlfriends, but now she asked questions, quizzed them politely, but with some determination, seeking the chink in the armor that might lead to some answers. Occasionally she dropped clues into conversations, inquiring whether anyone might like a whiskey, then scanning the men’s faces for a spark of recognition. But Laurence was never far away, and she suspected that even if they had picked up on her clues, they could have conveyed little to her in response.

If her husband noticed a particular intensity in her conversations with their friends, he didn’t remark on it. He didn’t remark on much. He hadn’t approached her once, physically, since the night they had argued. He was polite but distant. She knew she should feel worse about it than she did, but increasingly she wanted the freedom to retreat into her private parallel world, where she could retrace her mythical, passionate romance, see herself through the eyes of the man who adored her.

Somewhere, she told herself, B was still out there. Waiting.

“These are to sign, and on the filing cabinet there are several gifts that arrived this morning. There’s a case of champagne from Citroën, a hamper from the cement people in Peterborough, and a box of chocolates from your accountants. I know you don’t like soft centers, so I was wondering if you’d like me to hand them round the office. I know Elsie Machzynski is particularly partial to fondants.”

He barely looked up. “That will be fine.” Moira observed that Mr. Stirling’s thoughts were far from Christmas gifts.

“And I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve gone ahead and organized the bits and pieces for the Christmas party. You decided it would be better held here than in a restaurant, now that the company is so much larger, so I’ve asked caterers to lay on a small buffet.”

“Good. When is it?”

“The twenty-third. After we finish for the day. That’s the Friday before we break up.”

“Yes.”

Why should he seem so preoccupied? So miserable? Business had never been better. Their products were in demand. Even with the credit squeeze predicted by the newspapers, Acme Mineral and Mining had one of the healthiest balance sheets in the country. There had been no more of the troublemaking letters, and those she had received the previous month still lingered, unseen by her boss, in her top drawer.

“I also thought you might like to—”

He glanced up suddenly at a sound outside, and Moira turned, startled, to see what he was looking at. There she was, walking through the office, her hair set in immaculate waves, a little red pillbox hat perched on her head, the exact shade of her shoes. What was she doing here? Mrs. Stirling gazed around her, as if she was looking for someone, and then Mr. Stevens, from Accounts, walked up to her, holding out his hand. She took it, and they chatted briefly before they looked across the office toward where she and Mr. Stirling were standing. Mrs. Stirling raised a hand in greeting.

Moira’s hand was reaching for her hair. Some women managed always to look as if they had stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, and Jennifer Stirling was one of them. Moira didn’t mind: she had always preferred to focus her energies on work, on more substantial achievements. But it was hard when the woman walked into the office, her skin glowing from the cold outside, two fiery diamond studs glinting in her ears, not to feel the tiniest bit dull in comparison. She was like a perfectly wrapped Christmas parcel, a glittering bauble.

“Mrs. Stirling,” Moira said politely.

“Hello,” she said.

“This is an unexpected pleasure.” Mr. Stirling stood to greet her, looking rather awkward but perhaps secretly pleased. Like an unloved student who had been approached by the school sweetheart.

“Would you like me to leave?” Moira felt ill at ease, standing between them. “I’ve got some filing I could be—”

“Oh, no, not on my account. I’ll only be a minute.” She turned back to her husband. “I was passing and I thought I’d check whether you were likely to be late this evening. If you are, I might pop over to the Harrisons’. They’re doing mulled wine.”

“I . . . Yes, you do that. I can meet you there if I finish early.”

“That would be nice,” she said.

She gave off a faint scent of Nina Ricci. Moira had tried it the previous week in D. H. Evans, but had thought it a little pricey. Now she regretted not having bought it.

“I’ll try not to be too late.”

Mrs. Stirling didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. She stood in front of her husband, but she seemed more interested in looking at the office, the men at their desks. She surveyed it all with some concentration. It was as if she had never seen the place before.

“It’s been a while since you were here,” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose it has.”

There was a short silence.

“Oh,” she said abruptly. “What are your drivers’ names?”

He frowned. “My drivers?”

She gave a little shrug. “I thought you might like me to organize a Christmas gift for each of them.”

He seemed nonplussed. “A Christmas gift? Well, Eric’s been with me the longest. I usually buy him a bottle of brandy. Have done for the last twenty years, I think. Simon fills in on the odd occasion. He’s a teetotaler, so I put a little extra in his last pay packet. I don’t think it’s anything you need to worry about.”

Mrs. Stirling seemed oddly disappointed. “Well, I’d like to help. I’ll buy the brandy,” she said finally, clutching her bag in front of her.

“That’s very . . . thoughtful of you,” he said.

She let her gaze wander across the office, then returned it to them. “Anyway, I imagine you must be terribly busy. As I said, I just thought I’d call in. Nice to see you . . . er . . .” Her smile wavered.