The Last Letter from Your Lover(83)
Author: Jojo Moyes

The only available room was a suite on the fourth floor, and she had agreed to it easily. Laurence wouldn’t dare quibble about money. And as Esmé sat happily in front of the large television, occasionally breaking off to bounce on the huge bed, she spent the rest of the evening pacing, thinking furiously, trying to work out how best to get a message to a man who was somewhere in the vast expanse of central Africa.

Finally, as Esmé slept, curled under the hotel quilt beside her, her thumb in her mouth, Jennifer lay watching her in the hotel bed, listening to the sounds of the city, fighting tears of impotence, and wondering whether, if she thought hard enough, she might somehow send a message to him telepathically. Boot. Please hear me. I need you to come back for me. I can’t do this by myself.

On the second and third days she spent most of the daylight hours focused on Esmé, taking her to the Natural History Museum, to tea at Fortnum & Mason. They shopped on Regent Street for clothes—she hadn’t been organized enough to send what they had with them to the hotel laundry—and had roast-chicken sandwiches from room service for supper, sent up on a silver salver. Occasionally Esmé would ask where Mrs. Cordoza or Daddy was, and Jennifer reassured her that they would see them very soon. She was grateful for her daughter’s stream of small, mostly achievable requests, the routines imposed by tea, bath, and bed. But once the little girl had fallen asleep, she would close the bedroom door and be filled with a kind of black fear. What had she done? With each hour that passed, the enormity—and futility—of her actions crept further in on her. She had thrown away her life, moved her daughter into a hotel room—and for what?

She called the Nation twice more. She had spoken to the gruff man with the large stomach; now she recognized his voice, his abrupt manner of speaking. He told her, Yes, he would pass on the message as soon as O’Hare called in. The second time she had the distinct impression he wasn’t telling the truth.

“But he must be there by now, surely. Aren’t all the journalists in the same place? Can’t someone get a message to him?”

“I’m not a social secretary. I told you I’ll pass on your message, and I will, but it’s a war zone out there. I’d imagine he’s got other things to think about.”

And she would be cut off.

The suite became an insular bubble, her only visitors the daily maid and the bellboy from room service. She dared not ring anybody, her parents, her friends, not yet knowing how to explain herself. She struggled to eat, could barely sleep. As her confidence dissipated, her anxiety grew.

She became increasingly filled with the conviction that she could not remain alone. How would she survive? She had never done anything by herself. Laurence would make sure she was isolated. Her parents would disown her. She fought the urge to order an alcoholic drink that might dull her growing sense of catastrophe. And with every day that passed, the little voice that echoed in her head grew more distinct: You could always return to Laurence. For a woman like her, whose only skill was to be decorative, what other option was there? In such fits and starts, in a surreal facsimile of ordinary life, the days went by. On day six she telephoned her house, guessing that Laurence would be at work. Mrs. Cordoza answered on the second ring, and she was humbled by the woman’s obvious distress.

“Where are you, Mrs. Stirling? Let me bring you your things. Let me see Esmé. I’ve been so worried.”

Something in Jennifer sagged with relief.

The housekeeper had come to the hotel with a suitcase of her belongings within the hour. Mr. Stirling, Mrs. Cordoza told her, had said nothing except that she should not expect anyone in the house for a few days. “He asked me to clear up the study. And when I looked in there”—her hand lifted briefly to her face—“I didn’t know what to think.”

“It’s all fine. Really.” Jennifer couldn’t bring herself to explain what had happened.

“I’d be happy to help you in any way I can,” Mrs. Cordoza went on, “but I don’t think he—”

Jennifer placed a hand on her arm. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Cordoza. Believe me, we’d love to have you with us. But I think that may be difficult. And Esmé will have to go home to visit her father quite soon, once everything has calmed down a little, so perhaps it will be better for everyone if she has you there to look after her.”

Esmé showed Mrs. Cordoza her new things and climbed onto her lap for a cuddle. Jennifer ordered tea, and the two women smiled awkwardly as she poured it for her housekeeper in a reversal of their former roles.

“Thank you so much for coming,” Jennifer said, when Mrs. Cordoza stood to leave. She felt a sense of loss at her imminent departure.

“Just let me know what you decide to do.” Mrs. Cordoza replied as she pulled on her coat. She looked steadily at Jennifer, her mouth compressed into a line of anxiety, and Jennifer, on impulse, stepped forward and hugged her. Mrs. Cordoza’s arms reached round her and held her tightly, as if she was trying to imbue Jennifer with strength, and had understood how much she had needed to feel that from someone. They stood like that in the middle of the room for several moments. Then, perhaps a little embarrassed, the housekeeper disengaged herself. Her nose was pink.

“I’m not going back,” Jennifer said, hearing her words hit the still air with unexpected force. “I’ll find somewhere for us to live. But I’m not going back.”

The older woman nodded.

“I’ll ring you tomorrow.” She scribbled a note on a piece of hotel writing paper. “You can tell him where we are. It’s probably best that he knows.”

That night, after she had put Esmé to bed, she rang all the newspapers in Fleet Street to ask if she could send messages to their correspondents on the off chance that they might run into Anthony in central Africa. She telephoned an uncle who, she remembered, had once worked out there, and asked if he could recall the names of any hotels. She had placed calls with the international operator to two hotels, one in Brazzaville, the other in Stanleyville, and left messages with receptionists, one of whom told her mournfully, “Madam, we have no white people here. There is trouble in our city.”

“Please,” she said, “just remember his name. Anthony O’Hare. Tell him ‘Boot.’ He’ll know what it means.”

She had sent another letter to the newspaper to be forwarded to him:

I’m sorry. Please come back to me. I’m free, and I’m waiting for you.