The Last Letter from Your Lover(48)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“Mrs. Stirling? Before I drive you?”

“Yes?”

“I need to know . . . Tony, he is a good man, but . . .”

“I know he was married. I know about his son. I know about it all,” she said impatiently.

“He is more fragile than he lets on.”

“What?”

“Don’t break his heart. I have never seen him like this with a woman. If you are not sure, if you think there is even a chance you might go back to your husband, please don’t do this.”

The rain beat down on the roof of the little car. She reached out a hand, placed it on his arm. “I’m not . . . I’m not who you think I am. Really.”

He looked sideways at her.

“I—just want to be with him. I’m giving it all up for him. It’s just him. It’s Anthony,” she said, and the words made her want to laugh with fear and anxiety. “Now go! Please!”

“Okay,” he said, wrenching the car around so that the tires squealed. “Where to?” He pointed the car toward Euston Road, bashing the button in an attempt to make the windscreen wipers work. She thought distantly of Mrs. Cordoza’s windows, washed until they shone, then pulled the letter from the envelope.

My dearest and only love. I meant what I said. I have come to the conclusion that the only way forward is for one of us to make a bold decision….

I am going to take the job. I’ll be at Platform 4 Paddington at 7:15 on Monday evening . . .

“Platform four,” she yelled. “We have eleven minutes. Do you think we’ll—”

Part 2

Chapter 12

SUMMER 1964

The nurse moved slowly down the ward, pushing a trolley on which sat neat rows of paper cups containing brightly colored pills. The woman in Bed 16c muttered, “Oh, God, not more . . .”

“Not going to make a fuss, are we?” The nurse placed a beaker of water on the bedside table.

“If I have any more of those things, I’ll start to rattle.”

“Yes, but we’ve got to get that blood pressure down now, haven’t we?”

“Do we? I hadn’t realized it was catching . . .”

Jennifer, perched on the chair beside the bed, lifted the beaker and handed it to Yvonne Moncrieff, whose swollen middle rose, domelike, beneath the blankets, curiously divorced from the rest of her body.

Yvonne sighed. She tipped the pills into her mouth, swallowed obediently, then smiled sarcastically at the young nurse, who pushed her way along the maternity ward to the next patient. “Jenny, darling, stage a breakout. I don’t think I can bear another night in here. The moaning and groaning—you wouldn’t believe it.”

“I thought Francis was going to put you in a private ward.”

“Not now that they think I’m going to be here for weeks. You know how careful he is with money. ‘What’s the point of it, darling, given that we can get perfectly good care for free? Besides, you’ll have the other ladies to chat to.’” She sniffed, tilting her head toward the large, freckled woman in the next bed. “Yes, because I have so much in common with Lilo Lil there. Thirteen children! Thirteen! I’d thought we were awful with three in four years, but goodness, I’m an amateur.”

“I brought you some more magazines.” Jennifer took them out of her bag.

“Oh, Vogue. You are a sweetie, but I’m going to ask you to take that one away. It’ll be months before I can get into anything in their pages, and it’ll only make me want to cry. I’m booking a fitting for a new girdle the day after this little one finally gets here…. Tell me something exciting.”

“Exciting?”

“What are you up to for the rest of this week? You don’t know what it’s like being stuck here for days on end, the size of a whale, being force-fed milk pudding and wondering what on earth’s actually happening in the world.”

“Oh . . . it’s rather dull. Drinks at some embassy tonight. I’d really rather stay at home, but Larry’s insistent I go with him. There’s been some conference in New York about people getting ill from asbestos, and he wants to go and tell them he thinks this man Selikoff, who’s something to do with it all, is a troublemaker.”

“But cocktails, pretty dresses . . .”

“Actually, I was rather looking forward to curling up with The Avengers. It’s too hot to get dressed up.”

“Ugh. You’re telling me. I feel like I’m trapped with my own little stove here.” She patted her stomach. “Oh! I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. Mary Odin popped in yesterday. She told me that Katherine and Tommy Broughton have agreed to divorce. And you’ll never guess what they’re doing?”

Jennifer shook her head.

“A hotel divorce. Apparently he’s agreed to be ‘caught’ in a hotel with some woman so they can be released without the usual delays. But that’s not the half of it.”

“No?”

“Mary says the woman who’s agreed to be pictured with him is actually his mistress. The one who sent those letters. Poor old Katherine thinks he’s paying someone to do it. She’s already using one of the love letters as evidence. Apparently he told Katherine he got a friend to write it and make it authentic. Isn’t that the most awful thing you ever heard?”

“Awful.”

“I’m praying Katherine doesn’t come to see me. I know I’ll end up giving the game away. Poor woman. And everyone but her knowing.”

Jennifer picked up a magazine and leafed through it, observing companionably on that recipe or this dress pattern. She became aware that her friend wasn’t listening. “Are you all right?” She put a hand on the bedcover. “Anything I can get you?”

“Keep an eye open for me, won’t you?” Yvonne’s voice was calm, but her swollen fingers beat a restless tattoo on the sheet.

“What do you mean?”

“Francis. Keep an eye open for any unexpected visitors. Female visitors.” Her face was turned resolutely toward the window.

“Oh, I’m sure Francis—”

“Jenny? Just do it for me, will you?”

A brief pause. Jennifer examined a stray thread on the lap of her skirt. “Of course.”

“Anyway,” Yvonne changed the subject, “let me know what you wear tonight. As I said, I simply can’t wait to be back in civilian clothes. Did you know my feet have gone up two sizes? I’ll be walking out of here in Wellington boots if they get any worse.”