The Last Letter from Your Lover(25)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Moira was stung by the woman’s casual dismissal. How many times had they met over the last five years? And she couldn’t even be bothered to remember her name.

“Moira,” Mr. Stirling prompted, when the silence became uncomfortable.

“Yes. Moira. Of course. Nice to see you again.”

“I’ll be right back.” Moira watched as Mr. Stirling steered his wife to the door. They exchanged a few more remarks, and then, with a little wave of her gloved hand, Mrs. Stirling was gone.

The secretary took a deep breath, trying not to mind. Mr. Stirling stood immobile as his wife left the building.

Almost before she knew what she was doing, Moira walked out of the office and swiftly to her desk. She pulled a key from her pocket and opened the locked drawer, hunting through the various pieces of correspondence until she found it. She was back in Mr. Stirling’s office before he was.

He closed the door behind him, glancing through the glass wall, as if he was half expecting his wife to come back. He seemed softened, a little more at ease. “So,” he said, sitting down, “you were mentioning the office party. You’d been planning something.” A small smile played about his lips.

Her breath was tight in her chest. She had to swallow before she could speak normally. “Actually, Mr. Stirling, there’s something else.”

He had pulled out a letter, ready to sign. “Right-oh. What is it?”

“This arrived two days ago.” She handed him the handwritten envelope. “At the PO box you mentioned.” When he said nothing, she added, “I’ve been keeping an eye on it, as you asked.”

He stared at the envelope, then looked up at her, the color draining from his face so rapidly that she thought he might pass out. “Are you sure? This can’t be right.”

“But it—”

“You must have got the wrong number.”

“I can assure you I got the right PO box. Number thirteen. I used Mrs. Stirling’s name, as you . . . suggested.”

He ripped it open, then stooped forward over the desk as he read the few lines. She stood on the other side, not wanting to appear curious, aware that the atmosphere in the room had become charged. She was already afraid of what she had done.

When he looked up, he seemed to have aged several years. He cleared his throat, then crumpled up the sheet of paper with one hand and threw it with some force into the bin beneath his desk. His expression was fierce. “It must have been lost in the postal system. Nobody must know about this. Do you understand?”

She took a step backward. “Yes, Mr. Stirling. Of course.”

“Close the PO box down.”

“Now? I still have the audit report to—”

“This afternoon. Do whatever you need to do. Just close it down. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mr. Stirling.” She tucked her file under her arm and let herself out of his office. She gathered up her handbag and coat and prepared to go to the post office.

Jennifer had planned to go home. She was tired, the trip to the office had been fruitless, and it had begun to rain, sending pedestrians hurrying along the pavement, collars up and heads down. But standing on the steps of her husband’s workplace, she had known she couldn’t go back to that silent house.

She stepped off the curb and hailed a cab, waving until she saw the yellow light swerve toward her. She climbed in, brushing raindrops from her red coat. “Do you know a place called Alberto’s?” she said, as the driver leaned back toward the dividing window.

“Which part of London is it in?” he said.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea. I thought you might know.”

He frowned. “There’s an Alberto’s club in Mayfair. I can take you there, but I’m not sure it’ll be open.”

“Fine,” she said, and settled back in the seat.

It took only fifteen minutes to get there. The taxi drew up, and the driver pointed across the road. “That’s the only Alberto’s I know,” he said. “Not sure if it’s your kind of place, ma’am.”

She wiped the window with her sleeve and peered out. Metal railings surrounded a basement entrance, the steps disappearing out of view. A weary sign bore the name, and two bedraggled yew trees stood in large pots at each side of the door. “That’s it?”

“You think it’s the right place?”

She managed a smile. “Well, I’ll soon find out.”

She paid him, and was left standing, in the thin rain, on the pavement. The door was half open, propped by a dustbin. As she entered, she was bombarded by the smell of alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and perfume. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light. To her left a cloakroom was empty and unattended, a beer bottle and a set of keys on its counter. She walked along the narrow hall and pushed open double doors to find herself in a huge empty room, chairs stacked up on round tables in front of a small stage. Weaving in and out of them, an old woman dragged a vacuum cleaner, muttering to herself occasionally in apparent disapproval. A bar ran along one wall. Behind it a woman was smoking and talking to a man stacking the illuminated shelves with bottles. “Hold up,” the woman said, catching sight of her. “Can I help you, love?”

Jennifer felt the woman’s assessing gaze on her. It was not entirely friendly. “Are you open?”

“Do we look open?”

She held her bag to her stomach, suddenly self-conscious. “I’m sorry. I’ll come back another time.”

“Who d’you want, lady?” said the man, straightening up. He had dark, slicked-back hair and the kind of pale, puffy skin that told of too much alcohol and too little fresh air.

She stared at him, trying to work out if what she felt was a glimmer of recognition. “Have you . . . have you seen me in here before?” she asked.

He looked mildly amused. “Not if you say I haven’t.”

The woman cocked her head. “We have a very bad memory for faces in this place.”

Jennifer walked a few steps toward the bar. “Do you know someone called Felipe?”

“Who are you?” the woman demanded.

“I—it doesn’t matter.”

“Why do you want Felipe?”

Their faces had hardened. “We have a mutual friend,” she explained.

“Then your friend should have told you that Felipe would be a bit difficult to get hold of.”

She bit her lip, wondering how much she could reasonably explain. “It’s not someone I’m in touch with very—”