The Last Letter from Your Lover(58)
Author: Jojo Moyes

His train of thought was broken by her kissing his chest, his shoulder, his neck, with intense concentration. “You do realize,” he said, rolling her over so that her legs were entwined with his, her mouth inches away, “that we’re going to have to do that again. Just to make sure you remember.”

She said nothing, just closed her eyes.

This time when he made love to her, he did so slowly. He spoke to her body with his own. He felt her inhibitions fall away, her heart beat against his own, the mirroring of that faint tattoo. He said her name a million times, for the sheer luxury of being able to do so. In whispers, he told her everything he had ever felt for her.

When she told him she loved him, it was with an intensity that stopped his breath. The rest of the world slowed and closed in, until it was just the two of them, a tangle of sheets and limbs, hair and soft cries.

“You are the most exquisite . . .” He watched her eyes open with shy recognition of where she had been. “I would do that with you a hundred times just for the sheer pleasure of watching your face.” She said nothing, and he felt greedy now. “Vicariously,” he said suddenly. “Remember?”

Afterward, he was not sure how long they had lain there together, as if each wished to absorb the other through their skin. He heard the sounds of the street, the occasional pad of feet up and down the corridor outside the room, a distant voice. He felt the rhythm of her breathing against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, let his fingers rest in her tangled hair. A perfect peace had descended on him, spreading to his very bones. I’m home, he thought. This is it.

She shifted in his arms. “Let’s order up something to drink,” he said, kissing her collarbone, her chin, the space where her jaw met her ear. “A celebration. Tea for me, champagne for you. What do you say?”

He saw it then, an unwelcome shadow, her thoughts transferring to somewhere outside the room.

“Oh,” she said, sitting upright. “What’s the time?”

He checked his watch. “Twenty past four. Why?”

“Oh, no! I’ve got to be downstairs at half past.” She was off the bed, stooping to pick up her clothes.

“Whoa! Why do you have to be downstairs?”

“Mrs. Cordoza.”

“Who?”

“My housekeeper’s meeting me. I’m meant to be shopping.”

“Be late for her. Is shopping really that important? Jennifer, we have to talk—work out what we’re going to do next. I’ve got to tell my editor I’m not going to Congo.”

She was pulling on her clothes inelegantly, as if nothing mattered but speed, brassiere, trousers, pullover. The body he had taken, made his own, disappeared from view.

“Jennifer?” He slid out of the bed, reached for his trousers, belted them around his waist. “You can’t just go.”

She had her back to him.

“We’ve got things to talk about, surely, how we’re going to sort it all out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out.” She opened her handbag, pulled out a brush, and attacked her hair with short, fierce strokes.

“I don’t understand.”

When she turned to him, her face had closed, as though a screen had been pulled across it.

“Anthony, I’m sorry, but we—we can’t meet again.”

“What?”

She pulled out a compact, began to wipe the smudged mascara from under her eyes.

“You can’t say that after what we’ve just done. You can’t just turn it all off. What the hell is going on?”

She was rigid. “You’ll be fine. You always are. Look, I—I have to go. I’m so sorry.”

She swept up her bag and coat. The door closed behind her with a decisive click.

Anthony was after her, wrenching it open. “Don’t do this, Jennifer! Don’t leave me again!” His voice echoed down the already empty corridor, bouncing off the blank doors of the other bedrooms. “This isn’t some kind of game! I’m not going to wait another four years for you!”

He was frozen with shock until, cursing, he collected himself and sprinted back into the room, wrestled into his shirt and shoes.

He grabbed his jacket and ran out into the corridor, his heart thudding. He tore down the stairs, two at a time, to the foyer. He saw the lift doors open, and there she was, her heels clicking briskly across the marble floor, composed, recovered, a million miles from where she’d been only minutes earlier. He was about to shout to her when he heard the cry: “Mummy!”

Jennifer went down, her arms already outstretched. A middle-aged woman was walking toward her, the child breaking free from her grasp. The little girl threw herself into Jennifer’s arms and was lifted up, her voice bubbling across the echoing concourse. “Are we going to Hamleys? Mrs. Cordoza said we were.”

“Yes, darling. We’ll go right now. I just have to sort something out with reception.”

She put the child down and took her hand. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, but something made her look back as she walked to the desk. She saw him. Her eyes locked on his, and in them he caught a hint of apology—and guilt.

She looked away, scribbled something, then turned back to the receptionist, her handbag on the desk. A few words were exchanged, and she was away, walking out through the glass doors into the afternoon sunshine, the little girl chattering beside her.

The implication of what he had seen sank into Anthony, like feet into quicksand. He waited until she had disappeared, and then, like a man waking from a dream, shouldered on his jacket.

He was about to walk out when the concierge hurried up to him. “Mr. Boot? The lady asked me to give you this.” A note was thrust into his hand.

He unfolded the little piece of hotel writing paper.

Forgive me. I just had to know.

Chapter 15

Moira Parker walked up to the typing pool and switched off the transistor radio that had been balanced on a pile of telephone directories.

“Hey!” Annie Jessop protested. “I was listening to that.”

“It is not appropriate to have popular music blaring out in an office,” Moira said firmly. “Mr. Stirling doesn’t want to be distracted by such a racket. This is a place of work.” It was the fourth time that week.

“More like a funeral parlor. Oh, come on, Moira. Let’s have it on low. It helps the day go by.”

“Working hard helps the day go by.”

She heard the scornful laughter and tilted her chin a little higher. “You’d do well to learn that you’ll only progress at Acme Mineral and Mining with a professional attitude.”