The Last Letter from Your Lover(47)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She felt an overwhelming sense of relief—she no longer had to be Mrs. Stirling, to dress, behave, love, in a certain way. She realized, giddily, that she had no idea who or where she might be in a year’s time and almost laughed at the thought.

The streets were packed with marching pedestrians, the streetlamps coming to life in the encroaching dusk. Jennifer ran, her suitcase banging against her legs, her heart pounding. It was almost a quarter to seven. She pictured Laurence arriving home and calling irritably for her, Mrs. Cordoza tying her scarf over her head and observing that madam seemed to be a long time shopping. It would be another half an hour before he became properly concerned, and by that time she would be on the platform.

I’m coming, Anthony, she told him silently, and the bubble that rose in her chest might have been excitement or fear or a heady combination of both.

The endless movement of people along the platform made watching impossible. They swam in front of him, weaving in and out of each other so that he no longer knew what he was watching for. Anthony stood by a cast-iron bench, his cases at his feet, and checked his watch for the thousandth time. It was almost seven. If she was going to come, surely she would have been here by now?

He glanced up at the announcements board and then at the train that would carry him to Heathrow. Get a grip, man, he told himself. She’ll come.

“You for the seven-fifteen, sir?”

The guard was at his shoulder. “Train’s leaving in a few moments, sir. If this is yours, I’d advise you to get on.”

“I’m waiting for someone.”

He peered along the platform to the ticket barrier. An old woman stood there, scrabbling for a long-lost ticket. She shook her head in a way that suggested this was not the first time her handbag had seemingly swallowed some important document. Two porters stood chatting. No one else came through.

“Train won’t wait, sir. Next one’s at nine forty-five, if that’s any help.”

He began to pace between the two cast-iron benches, trying not to look at his watch again. He thought of her face that night at Alberto’s when she had said she loved him. There had been no guile in it, just honesty. It was beyond her to lie. He dared not think of how it might feel to wake up next to her every morning, the sheer elation of being loved by her, having the freedom to love her in return.

It had been something of a gamble, the letter he had sent her, the ultimatum it contained, but that night he had recognized that she was right: they couldn’t go on as they were. The sheer force of their feelings would convert to something toxic. They would come to resent each other for their inability to do what they wanted so badly. If the worst happened, he told himself, again and again, at least he would have behaved honorably. But somehow he didn’t believe the worst would happen. She would come. Everything about her told him she would.

He glanced at his watch again, and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes darting over the few commuters emerging through the ticket barrier.

“This will be a good move for you,” Don had told him. “Keep you out of trouble.” He had wondered whether his editor was secretly relieved to have him in some other part of the world.

It might be, he answered him, moving out of the way as a crowd of bustling businessmen pushed past and climbed aboard the train. I have fifteen minutes to find out if that’s true.

It was barely believable. It had begun to rain shortly after she reached New Cavendish Street, the sky turning first a muddy orange, then black. As if at some silent instruction, every taxi was occupied. Every black outline she saw had its yellow light dimmed; some shadowy passenger already en route to wherever they needed to be. She took to waving her arm anyway. Don’t you realize how urgent this is? she wanted to shout at them. My life depends on this journey.

The rain was torrential now, coming down in sheets, like a tropical storm. Umbrellas shot up around her, their spikes jabbing into her as she shifted her weight from foot to foot on the curb. She grew damp, then properly wet.

As the minute hand of her watch crept closer to seven o’clock, the vague thrill of excitement had hardened into a lump of something like fear. She wasn’t going to get there in time. Any minute now Laurence would be searching for her. She couldn’t make it on foot, even if she ditched her suitcase.

Anxiety rose like a tide within her, and the traffic sloshed past, sending great sprays across the legs of the unwary.

It was when she saw the man in the red shirt that she thought of it. She began to run, pushing past the people who blocked her way, for once uncaring of the impression she made. She ran along the familiar streets until she found the one she was looking for. She parked her suitcase at the top of the stairs and ran down, hair flying, into the darkened club.

Felipe was standing at the bar, polishing glasses. Nobody else was there other than Sherrie, the cloakroom girl. The bar felt petrified in an overwhelming air of stillness, despite the low music in the background.

“He’s not here, lady.” Felipe didn’t even look up.

“I know.” She was so breathless she could barely speak. “But this is terribly important. Do you have a car?”

The look he gave her was not friendly. “I might.”

“Could you possibly give me a lift to the station?”

“You want me to give you a lift?” He took in her wet clothes, the hair plastered to her head.

“Yes. Yes! I only have fifteen minutes. Please.”

He studied her. She noticed a large, half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him.

“Please! I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t terribly important.” She leaned forward. “It’s to meet Tony. Look, I have money—” She rummaged in her pocket for the notes. They came out damp.

He reached behind him through a door and pulled out a set of keys. “I don’t want your money.”

“Thank you, oh, thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Hurry. We have less than fifteen minutes.”

His car was a short walk away, and by the time they reached it he, too, was soaked. He didn’t open the door for her, and she wrenched at it, hurling her dripping case with a grunt onto the backseat. “Please! Go!” she said, wiping wet fronds of hair from her face, but he was motionless in the driver’s seat, apparently thinking. Oh, God, please don’t be drunk, she told him silently. Please don’t tell me now that you can’t drive, that your car’s out of petrol, that you’ve changed your mind. “Please. There’s so little time.” She tried to keep the anguish from her voice.