The Last Letter from Your Lover(71)
Author: Jojo Moyes

It’s then that she hears the muffled tone of her mobile phone. She flips it open.

Happy Birthday gorgeous. Present to come later. X

“Him?” says Corinne.

“Yes.” She grins. “My present’s coming later.”

“Like him.” Nicky snorts, back at the table with the iced muffin. “Where’s he taking you?”

“Um . . . it doesn’t say.”

“Show me.” Nicky snatches it. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Nicky . . .” Corinne’s voice holds a warning note.

“Well, ‘Present to come later. Kiss.’ It’s a bit bloody vague, isn’t it?”

“It’s her birthday.”

“Exactly. And that’s why she shouldn’t have to decipher crappy halfway-house messages from some half-baked boyfriend. Ellie—darling—what are you doing?”

Ellie is frozen. Nicky has broken the unspoken rule that they will say nothing no matter how foolish a relationship. They will be supportive; they will express concern through what is not said; they will not say things like “What are you doing?”

“It’s fine,” she says. “Really.”

Nicky looks at her. “You’re thirty-two years old. You’ve been in a relationship—in love—with this man for almost a year, and what you really deserve for your birthday is some measly text message that may or may not mean you get a seeing-to at some unspecified date in the future? Aren’t mistresses at least meant to get expensive lingerie? The odd weekend in Paris?”

Corinne is wincing.

“I’m sorry, Corinne, I’m just telling it like it is for a change. Ellie, darling, I love you to death. But, really, what are you getting out of this?”

Ellie looks down at her coffee. The pleasure of her birthday is ebbing away. “I love him,” she says simply.

“And does he love you?”

She feels sudden hatred for Nicky.

“Does he know you love him? Can you actually tell him so?”

Ellie looks over at Corinne, hoping for support. But Corinne is stirring her coffee, her eyes fixed on her spoon.

“Do you ever think about her?”

“Who?”

“John’s wife. Do you think she knows?”

The mention of her dissipates the last of Ellie’s good mood. She shrugs. “I don’t know.” And then, to fill the silence, she adds: “I’m sure I would, if I were her. I think she’s more interested in the children than him. Sometimes I tell myself there might even be some little part of her that is glad she’s not having to worry about him. You know, about keeping him happy.”

“Now that is wishful thinking.”

“Maybe. But if I’m honest, the answer is no. I don’t think about her. I don’t feel guilty. Because I don’t think it would have happened if they had been happy, or . . . you know . . . connected.”

“You have such a misguided view of men.”

“You think he’s happy with her.” She studies Nicky’s face.

“I have no idea if he’s happy or not, Ellie. I just don’t think he needs to be unhappy with his wife to be sleeping with you.”

The café falls silent around them. Or perhaps that’s just how it feels. Ellie shifts in her chair.

Corinne finally stops stirring her coffee. She makes a despairing face at Nicky, who shrugs and lifts the muffin aloft. “Still. Happy birthday, eh? Anyone want another coffee?”

She slides into her desk in front of her computer. There is nothing on her desk. No note alerting her to flowers in Reception. No chocolates or champagne. There are eighteen e-mails in her in-box, not including the junk. Her mother—who bought a computer the previous year and still punctuates every e-mailed sentence with an exclamation mark—has sent her a message to wish her happy birthday and to tell her, “the dog is doing well after having had his hip replaced!” And that “the operation cost more than Grandma Haworth’s!!!” The features editor’s secretary has sent a reminder about this morning’s meeting. And Rory, the librarian, has sent her a message telling her to pop down later, but not after 2:00 p.m., as they’ll be at the new building then. There’s nothing from John. Not even a thinly disguised greeting. She deflates a little, and winces when she sees Melissa striding toward her office, followed closely by Rupert.

She is in trouble, she realizes, rifling through her desk. She has allowed herself to become so caught up in the letter that she has almost nothing to present from the 1960 edition, none of the contrasting examples that Melissa had asked for. She curses herself for having spent so long in the coffee shop, smoothes her hair, grabs the nearest folder of papers—so that at least she looks as if she’s on top of things—and runs into the meeting.

“So, the health pages are pretty much done and dusted, are they? And do we have the arthritis feature? I wanted that sidebar with the alternative remedies. Any celebrity arthritics? It would liven up the pictures. These are a bit dull.”

Ellie is fiddling with her papers. It’s almost eleven. What would it have cost him to send some flowers? He could have paid cash at the florist’s, if he was really afraid of something showing up on his credit card; he’d done it before.

Perhaps he’s cooling. Perhaps the Barbados trip is his way of trying to reconnect with his wife. Perhaps telling her about it was his cowardly way of communicating that she’s of less importance than she had been. She flicks through the saved text messages on her phone, trying to see if there has been a noticeable cooling-off in his communications.

Nice piece on the war veterans. X

Free for lunch? I’m your way around 12:30. J

You are something else. Can’t talk tonight. Will message you first thing.

It’s almost impossible to tell if there’s any change in tone: there’s so little to go on. Ellie sighs, flattened by the direction of her thoughts, by her friend’s too-blunt comments. What the hell is she doing? She asks for so little. Why? Because she’s afraid that if she asks for more, he’ll feel backed into a corner and the whole thing will crash down around them. She’s always known what the deal was. She can’t claim to have been misled. But just how little could she reasonably be expected to take? It’s one thing when you know you’re loved passionately, and only circumstances are keeping you apart. But when there’s no sign of that to keep the whole thing afloat . . .