The Last Letter from Your Lover(73)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She rereads the words again and again. They hold passion, force, even after so many years. Why would you suffer the priggish “I have pointed out to her that she will have a rather lower standard of living” when you could have “Know that you hold my heart, my hopes, in your hands”? She wishes the unknown girlfriend of the first correspondent a lucky escape.

Ellie makes a desultory check for new e-mail, then mobile-phone messages. She chews the end of a pencil. She picks up the photocopied problem page and puts it down again.

Then she clicks open a new message on her computer screen and, before she can think too hard about it, she types:

The one present I really want for my birthday is to know what

I mean to you. I need for us to have an honest conversation, and for me to be able to say what I feel. I need to know whether we have any kind of future together.

She adds:

I love you, John. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my whole life, and this is starting to drive me crazy.

Her eyes have filled with tears. Her hand moves to send. The department shrinks around her. She is dimly aware of Caroline, the health editor, chatting on the phone at the next desk, of the window cleaner on his teetering cradle outside the window, of the news editor having an argument with one of his reporters somewhere on the other side of the office, the missing carpet tile at her feet. She sees nothing but the winking cursor, her words, her future, laid bare on the screen in front of her.

I love you more than I have ever loved anyone in my whole life.

If I do this now, she thinks, it will be decided for me. It will be my way of taking control. And if it isn’t the answer I want, at least it’s an answer.

Her forefinger rests gently on send.

And I will never touch that face, kiss those lips, feel those hands on me again. I will never hear the way he says “Ellie Haworth,” as if the words themselves are precious.

The phone on her desk rings.

She jumps, glances at it, as if she’d forgotten where she is, then wipes her eyes with her hand. She straightens, then picks it up. “Hello.”

“Hey, birthday girl,” says Rory, “get yourself down to the cells at chucking-out time. I might just have something for you. And bring me a coffee while you’re at it. That’s the charge for my labors.”

She puts down the receiver, turns back to her computer, and presses delete.

“So, what did you find?” She hands a cup of coffee over the counter, and he takes it. There’s a fine sprinkling of dust in his hair, and she fights the urge to ruffle it off, as one would with a child. He has already felt patronized by her once; she doesn’t want to risk offending him a second time.

“Any sugar?”

“No,” she says. “I didn’t think you took it.”

“I don’t.” He leans forward over the countertop. “Look—boss is lurking. I need to be discreet. What time are you finishing?”

“Whenever,” she says. “I’m pretty much through.”

He rubs his hair. The dust forms an apologetic cloud around him. “I feel like that character in Peanuts. Which was it?”

She shook her head.

“Pig Pen. The one with the dirt floating around him . . . We’re shifting boxes that haven’t been touched in decades. I can’t really believe we’re ever going to need parliamentary minutes from 1932, whatever he says. Still. The Black Horse? Half an hour?”

“The pub?”

“Yes.”

“I sort of might have plans . . .” She wants to ask, Can’t you just give me what you’ve found? But even she can see how ungrateful that will sound.

“It’ll only take ten minutes. I’ve got to meet some friends afterward, anyway. But it’s cool. It can wait till tomorrow if you’d prefer.”

She thinks about her mobile phone, mute and recriminating in her back pocket. What’s her alternative? Rushing home and waiting for John to call there? Another evening spent sitting in front of the television, knowing that the world is revolving somewhere without her? “Oh—what the hell. A quick drink would be great.”

“Half a shandy. Live dangerously.”

“Shandy! Huh! I’ll see you in there.”

He grins. “I’ll be the one clutching a file marked ‘Top Secret.’ ”

“Oh, yes? I’ll be the one shouting, ‘Buy me a proper drink, cheapo. It’s my birthday.’ ”

“No red carnation in your buttonhole? Just so I can identify you?”

“No means of identification. That way it’s easier for me to escape if I don’t like the look of you.”

He nods approvingly. “Sensible.”

“And you’re not even going to give me a clue as to what you’ve found?”

“Some birthday surprise that would be!” With that he’s gone, back through the double doors and into the bowels of the newspaper.

The ladies’ is empty. She washes her hands, noting that now the building’s days are numbered, the company is no longer bothering to refresh the soap dispenser or the tampon machine. Next week, she suspects, they’ll have to start bringing in emergency loo roll.

She checks her face, applies some mascara, and paints out the bags under her eyes. She puts on lipstick, then rubs it off. She looks tired, and tells herself the lighting in there is harsh, that this is not an inevitable consequence of being a year older. Then she sits beside a washbasin, pulls her phone from her bag, and types a message.

Just checking—does “later” mean this evening? Am trying to work out my plans.

E

It doesn’t come across as clingy, possessive, or even desperate. It suggests that she’s a woman with many offers, things to do, but implies that she’ll put him first, if necessary. She fiddles with it for a further five minutes, making sure she has the tone completely right, then sends it.

The reply comes back almost immediately. Her heart jumps, as it always does when she knows it’s him.

Difficult to say at the moment. Will call later if I think I can make it. J

A sudden rage ignites within her. That’s it? she wants to yell at him. My birthday, and the best you can do is “Will call later if I think I can make it”?

Don’t bother, she types back, her fingers jabbing at the little keys. I’ll make my own plans.

And, for the first time in months, Ellie Haworth turns off her phone before she sticks it back into her bag.

She spends longer than she intended working on the problem-pages feature, writes up an interview with a woman whose child suffers from a form of juvenile arthritis, and when she arrives at the Black Horse Rory is there. She can see him across the room, his hair now free of dust. She makes her way through the crowd toward him, apologizing for the bumped elbows, the badly negotiated spaces, already preparing to say “Sorry I’m late” when she realizes he’s not alone. The group of people with him are not familiar; they’re not from the newspaper. He’s at their center, laughing. Seeing him like this, out of context, throws her. She turns away to gather her thoughts.