The Last Letter from Your Lover(51)
Author: Jojo Moyes

It was a quarter to ten. She would have liked to leave, but knew better than to press her husband. They would go when he was ready.

The waiter was on his way over to her. He proffered a silver tray, loaded with glasses of champagne. “Madam?” Home seemed suddenly an impossible distance away. “Thank you,” she said, and took one.

It was then that she saw him, half hidden by some potted palms. She watched almost absently at first, some distant part of her mind observing that she had once known someone whose hair met his collar just like that man’s did. There had been a time—perhaps a year ago or more—when she had seen him everywhere, a phantom, his torso, his hair, his laugh transplanted onto other men.

His companion guffawed, shaking his head as if pleading with him not to continue. They lifted their glasses to each other. And then he turned.

Jennifer’s heart stopped. The room stilled, then tilted. She didn’t feel the glass drop from her fingers, was only dimly aware of the crash that echoed through the vast atrium, a brief lull in the conversation, the brisk footsteps of a waiter hurrying toward her to clear it up. She heard Laurence, a short distance away, say something dismissively. She was rooted to the spot, until the waiter placed a hand on her arm, telling her, “Step back, madam, please step back.”

The room refilled with conversation. The music continued. And as she stared, the man with the dark hair looked back at her.

Chapter 13

SEPTEMBER 1964

“I don’t know. I thought you were done with that part of the world. Why would you want to head back there?”

“It’s a big story, and I’m the best person for the job.”

“You’re doing good stuff at the UN. Upstairs is happy.”

“But the real story is back in Congo, Don, you know that.”

Despite the seismic changes that had taken place, despite his promotion from news to executive editor, Don Franklin’s office and the man himself had changed little since Anthony O’Hare had left England. Every year Anthony had returned to visit his son and show his face in the newsroom, and every year the windows were a little more nicotine stained, the mammoth piles of press cuttings teetering a little more chaotically. “I like it like that,” Don would say, if asked. “Why the hell would I want a clear view of that sorry shower anyway?”

But Don’s scruffy, paper-strewn office was an anomaly. The Nation was changing. Its pages were bolder and brighter, speaking to a younger audience. There were features sections, filled with makeup tips and discussions on the latest musical trends, letters about contraception, and gossip columns detailing people’s extramarital affairs. In the newspaper offices, among the men with rolled-up shirtsleeves, girls in short skirts staffed the photocopier and stood in huddles along corridors. They would break off their conversations to eye him speculatively as he passed. London girls had become bolder. He was rarely alone on visits to the city.

“You know as well as I do. No one here has the Africa experience I do. And it’s not just the U.S. consulate staff that are being taken hostage now, it’s whites everywhere. There are terrible tales coming out of the country—the Simba leaders don’t care what the rebels are doing. Come on, Don. Are you telling me Phipps is the better man for the job? MacDonald?”

“I don’t know, Tony.”

“Believe me, the Americans don’t like their missionary, Carlson, being paraded around like a bargaining chip.” He leaned forward. “There’s talk of a rescue operation…. The name being bandied about is Dragon Rouge.”

“Tony, I don’t know that the editor wants anyone out there right now. These rebels are lunatics.”

“Who has better contacts than I do? Who knows more about Congo, more about the UN? I’ve done four years in that rabbit warren, Don, four bloody years. You need me out there. I need to be out there.” He could see Don’s resolve wavering. The authority of Anthony’s years outside the newsroom, his polished appearance, added weight to his claims. For four years he had faithfully reported the political to-and-fros of the labyrinthine United Nations.

During the first year he had given little thought to anything except getting up in the morning and making sure he could do his job. But since then he had struggled with the familiar nagging conviction that the real story, his life, even, was taking place somewhere far from where he was. Now Congo, teetering on the brink since Lumumba’s assassination, was threatening to implode, and its siren call, once a distant hum, was insistent.

“It’s a different game out there now,” Don said. “I don’t like it. I’m not sure we should have anyone in the country until it settles down a bit.”

But Don knew as well as Anthony did that this was the curse of reporting conflict: it gave you clear-cut rights and wrongs; the adrenaline surged, and you were filled with humor, desperation, and camaraderie. It might well burn you out, but anyone who had been there found it hard to relish the mundane slog of “normal” life at home.

Every morning Anthony made calls, searched the newspapers for the few lines that had made it out, interpreting what was happening. It was going to go big: he could feel it in his bones. He needed to be there, tasting it, bringing it back on paper. For four years he had been half dead. He needed it around him to feel alive again.

Anthony leaned over the desk. “Look, Philmore told me the editor asked specifically for me. You want to disappoint him?”

Don lit another cigarette. “Of course not. But he wasn’t here when you were . . .” He tapped the cigarette on the edge of the overflowing ashtray.

“That’s it? You’re afraid I’m going to crack up again?”

Don’s embarrassed chuckle told him everything he needed to know. “I haven’t had a drink in years. I’ve kept my nose clean. I’ll get inoculated against yellow fever, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m just thinking about you, Tony. It’s risky. Look. What about your son?”

“He’s not a factor.” One visit, two letters a year, if he was lucky. Clarissa was only thinking of Phillip, of course: it was better for him not to have the disruption of too much face-to-face contact. “Let me go for three months. It’ll be over by the end of the year. They’re all saying as much.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Have I ever missed a deadline? Haven’t I pulled in some good stories? For Christ’s sake, Don, you need me out there. The paper needs me out there. It’s got to be someone who knows their way around. Someone with contacts. Picture it.” He ran his hand along an imaginary headline. “‘Our man in Congo as the white hostages are rescued.’ Look, do this for me, Don, and then we’ll talk.”