The Last Letter from Your Lover(43)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Jennifer Stirling fell to the floor, curled up with the letter clutched to her chest, and silently began to cry.

Chapter 11

SEPTEMBER 1960

He saw them through the window of the coffee shop, half obscured by steam, even on this late-summer evening. His son was seated at the table nearest the window, his legs swinging as he read the menu. He paused on the pavement, taking in the longer limbs, the loss of the soft edges that had marked him out as a child. He could just make out the man he might become. Anthony felt his heart constrict. He tucked his parcel under his arm and walked in.

The café had been Clarissa’s choice, a large, bustling place where the waitresses wore old-fashioned uniforms and white pinafores. She had called it a tearoom, as if she was embarrassed by the word café.

“Phillip?”

“Daddy?”

He stopped beside the table, noting with pleasure the boy’s smile as he caught sight of him.

“Clarissa,” he added.

She was less angry, he thought immediately. There had been a tautness about her face for the past few years that had made him feel guilty whenever they met. Now she looked back at him with a kind of curiosity, as one might examine something that might turn around and snap: forensically, and from a distance.

“You look very well,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“And you’ve grown,” he said, to his son. “Goodness, I think you’ve shot up six inches in two months.”

“Three months. And they do, at that age.” Clarissa’s mouth settled into the moue of mild disapproval he knew so well. It made him think briefly of Jennifer’s lips. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her do that thing with her mouth; perhaps the way she was designed forbade it.

“And you’re . . . well?” she said, pouring him a cup of tea and pushing it toward him.

“Very, thank you. I’ve been working hard.”

“As always.”

“Yes. How about you, Phillip? School all right?”

His son’s face was buried in the menu.

“Answer your father.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Keeping your marks up?”

“I have his report here. I thought you might want to see it.” She fished in her bag, and handed it to him.

Anthony noted, with unexpected pride, the repeated references to Phillip’s “decent character,” his “genuine efforts.”

“He’s captain of the football team.” She couldn’t quite keep the pleasure from her voice.

“You’ve done well.” He patted his son’s shoulder.

“He does his homework every night. I make sure of that.”

Phillip wouldn’t look at him now. Had Edgar already filled the father-shaped hole that he feared existed in Phillip’s life? Did he play cricket with him? Read stories to him? Anthony felt something in him cloud over and took a gulp of tea, trying to gather himself. He called over a waitress and ordered a plate of cakes. “The biggest you have. An early celebration,” he said.

“He’ll spoil his supper,” Clarissa said.

“It’s just one day.”

She turned away, as if she was struggling to bite her tongue.

Around them the clamor of the café seemed to increase. The cakes arrived on a tiered silver platter. He saw his son’s eyes slide toward them and gestured that he should help himself.

“I’ve been offered a new job,” he said, when the silence grew too weighty.

“With the Nation?”

“Yes, but in New York. Their man at the UN is retiring, and they’ve asked me if I’d like to take his place for a year. It comes with an apartment, right in the heart of the city.” He had barely believed Don when he’d told him. It showed their faith in him, Don had said. If he got this right, who knew? This time next year he might be on the road again.

“Very nice.”

“It’s come as a bit of a surprise, but it’s a good opportunity.”

“Yes. Well. You always did like traveling.”

“It’s not traveling. I’ll be working in the city.”

It had been almost a relief when Don had mentioned it. This would decide things. It gave him a better job and meant that Jennifer could come too, start a new life with him . . . and, although he tried not to think of this, he knew that if she said no, it would give him an escape route. London had already become inextricably tied up with her: landmarks everywhere were imprinted with their time together.

“Anyway, I’ll be over a few times a year, and I know what you said, but I would like to send letters.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I’d like to tell Phillip a little of my life over there. Perhaps he could even come and visit when he’s a bit older.”

“Edgar thinks it will be better for all of us if things are kept simple. He doesn’t like . . . disruption.”

“Edgar is not Phillip’s father.”

“He’s as much of a father as you’ve ever been.”

They glared at each other.

Phillip’s cake was sitting in the middle of his plate; his hands were wedged under his thighs.

“Let’s not discuss this now, anyway. It’s Phillip’s birthday.” He brightened his voice. “I expect you’d like to see your present, wouldn’t you?”

His son said nothing. Christ, thought Anthony. What are we doing to him? He reached under the table and pulled out a large, rectangular parcel. “You can keep it for the big day, if you like, but your mother told me you were—you were all going out tomorrow, so I thought you might prefer it now.”

He handed it over. Phillip took it and glanced warily at his mother.

“I suppose you can open it, as you won’t have much time tomorrow,” she said, trying to smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to powder my nose.” She rose, and he watched her walk through the tables, wondering if she was as disheartened by these exchanges as he was. Perhaps she was off to find a public telephone from which she could ring Edgar and complain about how unreasonable her ex-husband was.

“Go on, then,” he said, to the boy. “Open it.”

Freed from the eye of his mother, Phillip became a little more animated. He ripped at the brown paper and stopped, in awe, when he saw what it had concealed.

“It’s a Hornby,” Anthony said. “The best you can get. And that’s the Flying Scotsman. You’ve heard of it?”