The Last Letter from Your Lover(89)
Author: Jojo Moyes

She rests her head against his shoulder.

“I never thought you were . . . Don’t take this the wrong way, Ellie, but you’ve surprised me. I never would have thought you could be that affected by those letters.”

“It’s not just the letters.” She sniffs.

He waits. He’s leaning back on the sofa now, but his hand is still resting lightly on her neck. She realizes she doesn’t want it to move. “Then . . . ?” His voice is soft, inquisitive.

“I’m afraid . . .”

“Of?”

Her voice drops to a whisper: “I’m afraid nobody will ever love me like that.”

Drunkenness has made her reckless. His eyes have softened, his mouth turns down a little, as if in sympathy. He watches her, and she dabs feebly at her eyes. For a moment she thinks he’s going to kiss her, but instead he picks up a letter and reads aloud:

On my way home this evening, I got caught in a row that spilled out of a public house. Two men were scrapping, egged on by drunken supporters, and suddenly I was caught up in their noise and chaos, the cursing and flying bottles. A police siren sounded in the distance. Men were flying off in all directions, cars screeching across the road to avoid the fight. And all I could think about was the way the corner of your mouth curves into itself when you smile. And I had this remarkable sensation that, at that precise moment, you were thinking about me, too.

Perhaps this sounds fanciful; perhaps you were thinking about the theater, or the crisis in the economy, or whether to buy new curtains. But I realized suddenly, in the midst of that little tableau of insanity, that to have someone out there who understands you, who desires you, who sees you as a better version of yourself, is the most astonishing gift. Even if we are not together, to know that, for you, I am that man is a source of sustenance to me.

She has closed her eyes to listen to Rory’s voice, softly reciting the words. She imagines how Jennifer must have felt to be loved, adored, wanted.

I’m not sure how I earned the right. I don’t feel entirely confident of it even now. But even the chance to think upon your beautiful face, your smile, and know that some part of it might belong to me is probably the single greatest thing that has happened to me in my life.

The words have stopped. She opens her eyes to find Rory’s a few inches away. “For a smart woman,” he says, “you’re remarkably dim.” He reaches out a hand, wipes away a tear with his thumb.

“You don’t know . . . ,” she begins. “You don’t understand . . .”

“I think I know enough.” Before she can speak again, he kisses her. She stalls for just a moment, and that freckled hand is there again, tormenting her. Why should I feel loyalty to someone who’s probably having wild holiday sex right at this very minute?

And then Rory’s mouth is on hers, his hands cradling her face, and she’s kissing him back, her mind determinedly blank, her body simply grateful for the arms that enfold her, his lips upon hers. Blank it all out, she begs him silently. Rewrite this page. She shifts, feeling vague surprise that for all her desperate longing, she can want this man very much. And then she’s unable to think of anything at all.

She wakes up gazing at a set of dark eyelashes. What very dark eyelashes, she thinks, in the few seconds before consciousness properly seeps in; John’s are a caramel color. He has one white lash, toward the outer edge of his left eye, which she is pretty sure no one but her has ever noticed.

Birds are singing. A car is revving insistently outside. There is an arm across her naked hip. It’s surprisingly heavy, and when she shifts, a hand tightens momentarily on her bottom, as if reflexively unwilling to let her go. She stares at the eyelashes, remembering the events of the previous evening. She and Rory on the floor in front of her sofa. Him fetching the duvet when he noticed she was cold. His hair, rich and soft in her hands, his body, surprisingly broad, above hers, her bed, his head, disappearing under the duvet. She feels a vague thrill of knowledge and cannot yet quite determine how she feels about this.

John.

A text message.

Coffee, she thinks, grasping for safety. Coffee and croissants. She eases herself out of his hold, her eyes still fixed on his sleeping face. She lifts his arm, lays it gently on the sheet. He wakes, and she freezes. She sees her own confusion momentarily mirrored in his eyes.

“Hey,” he says, his voice hoarse with lack of sleep. What time had they finally slept? Four? Five? She remembers them giggling because it was growing light outside. He rubs his face, shifts heavily onto one elbow. His hair is sticking up at one side, his chin shadowed and rough. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine. I’m going to nip out for some proper coffee.” She backs to the door, conscious of her nakedness in the too bright morning.

“You sure?” he calls, as she disappears. “You don’t want me to go?”

“No, no.” She’s hopping into the jeans she discovers outside the living-room door. “I’m fine.”

“Black for me, please.” She hears him sink back against the pillows, muttering something about his head.

Her knickers are half under the DVD player. She picks them up hastily, stuffs them into a pocket. She hauls a T-shirt over her head, wraps herself in her jacket, and without pausing to see what she looks like, heads down the stairs. She walks briskly toward the local coffee shop, already dialing a number into her mobile phone.

Wake up. Pick up the phone.

By now she’s standing in the queue. Nicky picks up on the third ring.

“Ellie?”

“Oh, God, Nicky. I’ve done something awful.” She lowers her voice, shielding it from the family that has walked in behind her. The father is silent, the mother trying to shepherd two small children to a table. Their pale, shadowed faces speak of a night of lost sleep.

“Hang on. I’m at the gym. Let me take this outside.”

The gym? At nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? She hears Nicky’s voice against the traffic of some distant street. “Awful as in what? Murder? Rape of a minor? You didn’t call up thingy’s wife and tell her you were his mistress?”

“I slept with that bloke from work.”

A brief pause. She looks up to find the barista staring at her, eyebrows raised. She places her hand over her phone. “Oh. Two tall Americanos, please, one with milk, and croissants. Two—no, three.”

“Library Man?”

“Yes. He turned up last night and I was drunk and feeling really crap and he read out one of those love letters and . . . I don’t know . . .”