The Last Letter from Your Lover(62)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She beat the books from their cases, sent the frames flying from the mantelpiece. She brought the club down like an ax, splintering the heavy Georgian desk, then sent it whistling sideways. She swung until her arms ached and her whole body was beaded with sweat, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Finally, when there was nothing left to break, she stood in the center of the room, her shoes crunching on broken glass, wiping a sweaty frond of hair off her forehead as she surveyed what she had done. Lovely Mrs. Stirling, sweet-tempered Mrs. Stirling. Even, calm, tamped down. Her fire extinguished.

Jennifer Stirling dropped the bent club at her feet. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt, picked out a small shard of glass, which she dropped neatly on the floor, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Mrs. Cordoza was sitting in the kitchen with Esmé when Jennifer announced that they were going out again. “Does the child not want her tea? She’ll be hungry.”

“I don’t want to go out,” Esmé chimed in.

“We won’t be long, darling,” she said coolly. “Mrs. Cordoza, you can take the rest of the day off.”

“But I—”

“Really. It’s for the best.”

She scooped up her daughter, the suitcase she had just packed, the sweets in the brown-paper bag, ignoring the housekeeper’s perplexity. Then she was outside, down the steps and hailing a taxi.

She saw him even as she opened the double doors, standing outside his office, talking to a young woman at his desk. She heard a greeting, heard her own measured response, and was dimly surprised that she could be responsible for such a normal exchange.

“Hasn’t she grown!”

Jennifer looked down at her daughter, who was stroking her string of pearls, then at the woman who had spoken. “Sandra, isn’t it?” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Stirling.”

“Would you mind terribly letting Esmé have a little play on your typewriter while I nip in to see my husband?”

Esmé was delighted to be let loose on the keyboard, cooed and fussed over by the women who immediately surrounded her, delighted by a legitimate diversion from work. Then Jennifer pushed her hair off her face and went to his office. She walked into the secretary’s area, where he was standing.

“Jennifer.” He raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“A word?” she said.

“I have to go out at five.”

“It won’t take long.”

He shepherded her into his own office, closing the door behind him, and motioned her toward the chair. He seemed mildly irritated when she declined to sit and sank heavily into his own leather chair.

“Well?”

“What did I do to make you hate me so much?”

“What?”

“I know about the letter.”

“What letter?”

“The one you intercepted at the post office four years ago.”

“Oh, that,” he said dismissively. He wore the expression of someone who had been reminded that he had forgotten to pick up some item from the grocer.

“You knew, and you let me think he was dead. You let me think I was responsible.”

“I thought he probably was. And this is all history. I can’t see the point of dragging it up again.” He leaned forward and pulled a cigar from the silver box on his desk.

She thought briefly of the dented one in his study, shimmering with broken glass. “The point is, Laurence, that you’ve punished me day after day, let me punish myself. What did I ever do to you to deserve that?”

He threw a match into the ashtray. “You know very well what you did.”

“You let me think I’d killed him.”

“What you thought has nothing to do with me. Anyway, as I said, it’s history. I really don’t see why—”

“It’s not history. Because he’s back.”

That got his attention. She had a faint inkling that the secretary might be listening outside the door, so she kept her voice low. “That’s right. And I’m leaving to be with him—Esmé, too, of course.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it.”

“Jennifer, no court in the land would let a child stay with an adulterous mother—a mother who can’t get through the day without a pharmacy of pills. Dr. Hargreaves would testify to the sheer number you get through.”

“They’re gone. I’ve thrown them away.”

“Really?” He consulted his watch again. “Congratulations. So, you’ve made it a whole . . . twenty-four hours without pharmaceutical help? I’m sure the courts would find that admirable.” He laughed, pleased with his response.

“Do you think they would find the lung-disease file admirable, too?”

She caught the sudden rigidity of his jaw, the flash of uncertainty.

“What?”

“Your secretary gave it to me. I have the name of every one of your employees who has become ill and died over the past ten years. What was it?” She pronounced the word carefully, emphasizing its unfamiliarity. “Me-so-the-lio-ma.”

The color drained so quickly from his face that she thought he might pass out. He got up and walked past her to the door. He opened it, peered out, then closed it again firmly. “What are you talking about?”

“I have all the information, Laurence. I even have the bank slips for the money you paid them.”

He wrenched open a drawer and rifled through it. When he straightened up, he looked shaken. He took a step toward her so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “If you ruin me, Jennifer, you ruin yourself.”

“Do you really think I care?”

“I’ll never divorce you.”

“Fine,” she said, her resolve strengthened by his disquiet. “This is how it will be. Esmé and I will take a place nearby, and you can visit her. You and I will be husband and wife in name only. You will give me a reasonable stipend, to support her, and in return I’ll make sure those papers are never made public.”

“Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Oh, I’m far too dim to do something like that, Laurence, as you’ve reminded me countless times over the years. No, I’m just telling you how my life is going to be. You can keep your mistress, the house, your fortune, and . . . your reputation. None of your business colleagues needs to know. But I will never set foot in the same house as you again.”

He genuinely hadn’t realized she knew about the mistress. She saw impotent fury spread over his face, mixed with wild anxiety. Then they were smothered by a conciliatory attempt at a smile. “Jennifer, you’re upset. This fellow reappearing must have come as a shock. Why don’t you go home and we’ll talk about it?”