The Last Letter from Your Lover(39)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“Duty calls.” Reggie waved, and was gone, weaving through the tables. “Enjoy your . . . dancing.”

“Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

He steered her back into the main room. “Let’s get a drink.”

They slid into their booth, the rapture of fifteen minutes ago already a distant memory. Anthony had disliked the young man on sight—but for that loss he could have thumped him.

She downed a martini in a single gulp. In other circumstances he would have found it amusing. Now, however, it signified her anxiety.

“Stop fretting,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“But what if he tells—”

“So leave Laurence. Simple.”

“Anthony . . .”

“You can’t go back to him, Jenny. Not after that. You know it.”

She pulled out a compact and rubbed at the mascara under her eyes. Apparently dissatisfied, she snapped it shut.

“Jenny?”

“Think about what you’re asking me. I’d lose everything. My family . . . everything my life is. I’d be disgraced.”

“But you’d have me. I’d make you happy. You said so.”

“It’s different for women. I’d be—”

“We’ll get married.”

“You really think Laurence would ever divorce me? You think he’d let me go?” Her face had clouded.

“I know he’s not right for you. I am.” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Are you happy with him? Is this the life you want for yourself? To be a prisoner in a gilded cage?”

“I’m not a prisoner. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You just can’t see it.”

“No. That’s how you want to see it. Larry isn’t a bad man.”

“You can’t see it yet, Jenny, but you’re going to become more and more unhappy with him.”

“Now you’re a fortune-teller as well as a hack?”

He still felt raw, and it made him reckless. “He’ll squash you, extinguish the things that make you you. Jennifer, the man’s a fool, a dangerous fool, and you’re too blind to see it.”

Her face whipped around. “How dare you? How dare you?”

He saw the tears in her eyes, and the heat within him dissipated. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, made to wipe her eyes with it, but she blocked his hand. “Don’t,” she murmured. “Reggie might be watching.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you cry. Please don’t cry.”

They sat in an unhappy silence, staring at the dance floor.

“It’s just so hard,” she murmured. “I thought I was happy. I thought my life was fine. And then you came along, and nothing . . . nothing makes sense anymore. All the things I’d had planned—houses, children, holidays—I don’t want them now. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I think about you all the time. I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about that.” She gestured toward the cloakroom. “But the thought of actually leaving”—she sniffed—“it’s like looking into an abyss.”

“An abyss?”

She blew her nose. “Loving you would come at such a cost. My parents would disown me. I’d have nothing to bring with me. And I can’t do anything, Anthony. I’m no good for anything but living as I do. What if I couldn’t even run your house for you?”

“You think I care about that?”

“You would. Eventually. A spoiled little tai-tai. That was what you first thought of me, and you were right. I can make men love me, but I can’t do anything else.”

Her bottom lip was trembling. He wished, furious with himself, that he had never used that word against her. They sat in silence, watching Felipe play, both locked in thought.

“I’ve been offered a job,” he said eventually. “In New York, reporting on the United Nations.”

She turned to him. “You’re leaving?”

“Listen to me. For years I’ve been a mess. When I was in Africa, I fell apart. When I was at home, I couldn’t wait to get back there. I could never settle, could never escape the feeling that I should be somewhere else, doing something else.” He took her hand. “And then I met you. Suddenly I can see a future. I can see the point of staying still, of building a life in one place. Working at the UN would be fine. I just want to be with you.”

“I can’t. You don’t understand.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what he’d do?” Rage built within him. “You think I’m frightened of him? You think I couldn’t protect you?”

“No. Not of him. Please lower your voice.”

“Of those ridiculous people you hang around with? You really care about their opinions? They’re empty, stupid people with—”

“Stop it! It’s not them!”

“What, then? What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid of you.”

He battled to understand. “But I wouldn’t—”

“I’m afraid of what I feel for you. I’m afraid to love somebody this much.” Her voice broke. She folded her cocktail napkin, twisting it between her slim fingers. “I love him, but not like this. I’ve been fond of him and I’ve despised him, and much of the time we exist reasonably well together and I’ve made my accommodations and I know I can live like this. Do you understand? I know I can live like this for the rest of my life, and it won’t be so bad. Plenty of women have worse.”

“And with me?”

She didn’t answer for so long that he almost repeated the question. “If I let myself love you, it would consume me. There would be nothing but you. I would be constantly afraid that you might change your mind. And then, if you did, I would die.”

He took her hands, raised them to his lips, ignoring her whispered protests. He kissed her fingertips. He wanted to take her whole self into him. He wanted to wrap himself around her and never let her go. “I love you, Jennifer,” he said. “I will never stop loving you. I have never loved anyone before you, and there will never be anyone after you.”

“You say that now,” she said.

“Because it’s true.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“Nothing. You’ve said everything. I have them all on paper, your beautiful words.” She pulled her hand from his and reached for her martini. When she spoke again it was as if she was talking to herself. “But that doesn’t make it any easier.”