The Last Letter from Your Lover(52)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“You’ve still got itchy feet, eh?”

“I know where I should be.”

Don blew out his cheeks, like a human hamster, then exhaled noisily. “Okay. I’ll talk to Him Upstairs. I can’t promise anything—but I’ll talk to him.”

“Thank you.” Anthony got up to leave.

“Tony.”

“What?”

“You look good.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Fancy a drink tonight? You, me, and some of the old crowd? Miller’s in town. We could grab a few beers—iced water, Coca-Cola, whatever.”

“I said I’d go to some do with Douglas Gardiner.”

“Oh?”

“At the South African embassy. Got to keep up the contacts.”

Don shook his head resignedly. “Gardiner, eh? Tell him I said he couldn’t write his way out of a paper bag.”

Cheryl, the news-desk secretary, was standing by the stationery cupboard and winked at him as he passed her on the way out. She actually winked at him. Anthony O’Hare sighed, shook his head, and reached for his jacket.

“Winked at you? Tony, old son, you were lucky she didn’t pull you into the damned cupboard.”

“I’ve only been gone a few years, Dougie. It’s still the same country.”

“No.” Douglas’s eyes darted round the room. “No, it’s not, old chap. London’s now at the center of the universe. It’s all happening here, old chum. Equality between men and women is only the half of it.”

There was, he had to acknowledge, truth in what Douglas had said. Even the appearance of the city had changed: gone were many of the sober streets, the elegant, shabby facades and echoes of postwar penury. They had been replaced by illuminated signage, women’s boutiques with names like Party Girl and Jet Set, foreign restaurants, and high-rise towers. Every time he returned to London, he felt increasingly a stranger: familiar landmarks disappeared, and those that remained were overshadowed by the Post Office Tower or other examples of its architect’s futuristic craft. His old apartment building had been torn down and replaced by something brutally modernistic. Alberto’s jazz club was now some rock-and-roll setup. Even clothes were brighter. The older generation, stuck in brown and navy, looked somehow more dated and faded than they actually were.

“So . . . you miss being out in the field?”

“Nah. We’ll all have to lay down our tin helmets one day, won’t we? Better-looking women in this job, that’s for sure. How’s New York? What do you think of Johnson?”

“He’s no Kennedy, that’s for sure…. So, what do you do now? Weave your way through high society?”

“It’s not like when you left, Tony. They don’t want ambassadors’ wives and tittle-tattle about indiscretions. Now it’s pop stars—the Beatles and Cilla Black. No one with any breeding. It’s all egalitarian, the society column.”

The sound of smashing glass echoed in the vast ballroom. The two men broke off their conversation.

“Whoops. Someone’s had one too many,” Douglas observed. “Some things don’t change. The ladies still can’t hold their drink.”

“Well, I have a feeling that some of the girls in the newspaper office could have drunk me under the table.” Anthony shuddered.

“Still off the sauce?”

“More than three years now.”

“You wouldn’t last long in this job. Don’t you miss it?”

“Every damned day.”

Douglas had stopped laughing and was looking past him. Anthony glanced over his shoulder. “You need to speak to someone?” He shifted to one side obligingly.

“No.” Douglas squinted. “I thought someone was staring at me. But I think it’s you. She familiar?”

Anthony turned—and his mind went blank. Then it hit him with the brutal inevitability of a demolition ball. Of course she’d be here. The one person he had tried not to think about. The one person he had hoped never to see again. He had come to England for a little less than a week, and there she was. On his first evening out.

He took in the dark red dress, the almost perfect posture that marked her out from any other woman in the room. As their eyes met, she seemed to sway.

“Nope. Can’t have been you,” Douglas remarked. “Look, she’s headed for the balcony. I know who that is. She’s . . .” He clicked his fingers. “Stirling. Thingy Stirling’s wife. The asbestos magnate.” He cocked his head. “Mind if we go over? It might make a paragraph. She was quite the society hostess a few years back. They’ll probably drop in some piece about Elvis Presley instead, but you never know . . .”

Anthony swallowed. “Sure.” He straightened his collar, took a deep breath, and followed his friend through the crowd toward the balcony.

“Mrs. Stirling.”

She was looking down at the busy London street, her back to him. Her hair was in a sculptural arrangement of glossy bubble curls, and rubies hung at her throat. She turned slowly, and her hand lifted to her mouth.

It had to happen, he told himself. Perhaps seeing her like this, having to meet her, would mean he could finally lay it to rest. Even as he thought this, he had no idea what to say to her. Would they engage in some polite social exchange? Perhaps she would make an excuse and walk straight past him. Was she embarrassed about what had happened? Guilty? Had she fallen in love with someone else? His thoughts careened wildly.

Douglas extended his hand to her, and she took it, but her eyes settled on Anthony. All color had drained from her face.

“Mrs. Stirling? Douglas Gardiner, the Express. We met at Ascot, I believe, back in the summer?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. Her voice shook. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—I—”

“I say, are you all right? You look awfully pale.”

“I . . . Actually I’m feeling a little faint.”

“Would you like me to fetch your husband?” Douglas took her elbow.

“No!” she said. “No.” She took a breath. “Just a glass of water. If you’d be so kind.”

Douglas shot him a fleeting look. What have we here? “Tony . . . you’ll stay with Mrs. Stirling for a minute, won’t you? I’ll be right back.” Douglas stepped into the party, and as the door closed behind him, muffling the music, it was just the two of them. Her eyes were wide and terrible. She didn’t seem able to speak.