The Last Letter from Your Lover(94)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Say whatever you want now.

Keep your cool, she tells herself. It may not be in the bag yet. And he’s disappointed you so many times.

Her hand drops to the little keys, hovers over them, undecided. She types,

Will do, but not like this. I’m happy that we will get to talk.

Then adds:

Finding this all a little hard to get my head round. But I missed

you too. Call me as soon as you get back. E xx

She’s about to put her phone on her bedside table when it chimes again.

Still love me?

Her breath stops briefly in her throat.

Yes.

She sends it almost before she’s thought about it. She waits a couple of minutes, but there’s no response. And, not sure whether she’s glad or sorry, Ellie lies back against her pillows and gazes, for a long time, out of her window into the empty black sky, watching the airplanes wink silently through the darkness toward unknown destinations.

Chapter 24

Rory feels a hand on his shoulder and pulls out one of his earphones.

“Tea.”

He nods, turns off the music, and shoves his MP3 player into his pocket. The lorries have finished now; only the newspaper’s own small delivery vans remain, scurrying backward and forward with forgotten boxes, small loads of things vital to the newspaper’s survival. It’s Thursday. On Sunday the last of the boxes will have been packed away, the last mugs and teacups transported. On Monday the Nation will start its new life in its new offices, and this building will be stripped for demolition. This time next year some shimmering glass and metal construction will be in its place.

Rory takes a seat at the back of the van beside his boss, who is contemplating the old black marble frontage of the building. The metal insignia of the newspaper, a carrier pigeon, is being dismantled from its plinth at the top of the steps.

“Strange sight, isn’t it?”

Rory blows on his tea. “Bit weird for you? After all this time?”

“Not really. Everything comes to an end eventually. There’s a bit of me that’s quite looking forward to doing something different.”

Rory takes a sip.

“It’s a strange thing, to spend your days among other people’s stories. I feel as if my own has been on hold.”

It’s like hearing a picture speak. So unlikely. So utterly compelling. Rory puts down his tea and listens. “Not tempted to write something yourself?”

“No.” His boss’s tone is dismissive. “I’m not a writer.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t know. Travel, perhaps—maybe I’ll go backpacking like you.”

They both smile at the idea. They have worked together in near silence for months, rarely mentioning anything beyond the practical needs of the day. Now the fast-approaching end of their task has made them garrulous.

“My son thinks I should.”

He can’t hide the surprise in his voice. “I didn’t know you had a son.”

“And a daughter-in-law. And three very badly behaved grandchildren.”

Rory finds himself having to reassess his boss. He’s one of those people who gives off a solitary air, and it’s an effort to reposition him in his imagination as a family man.

“And your wife?”

“She died a long time ago.”

He says it without discomfort, but Rory still feels awkward, as if he has overstepped some mark. If Ellie was here, Rory thinks, she’d ask him straight out what happened to her.

If Ellie was here, Rory would have slunk off into a distant part of the library rather than talk to her. He dismisses her. He won’t think about her. He won’t think about her hair, her laughter, the way she frowns when she’s concentrating. The way she felt under his hands: uncharacteristically yielding. Uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“So, when are you going off on your travels?”

Rory hauls himself back from his thoughts and is handed a book, then another. This library’s like the Tardis: things keep turning up out of nowhere. “Gave notice yesterday. Just got to look up the flights.”

“Will you miss your girl?”

“She’s not my girl.”

“Just doing a good impression, eh? I thought you liked her.”

“I did.”

“I thought you two had a kind of shorthand.”

“Me too.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“She’s . . . more complicated than she looks.”

The older man smiles wryly. “I’ve never met a woman who wasn’t.”

“Yes . . . Well. I don’t like complications.”

“There’s no such thing as a life free of complications, Rory. We all end up making compromises in the end.”

“Not me.”

The librarian raises an eyebrow. There’s a small smile on his face.

“What?” Rory says. “What? You’re not going to give me some Waltons-family lecture about missed opportunities and how you wish you’d done things differently, are you?” His voice is louder, snappier, than he intended, but he can’t help himself. He starts to move boxes from one side of the van to the other. “It would have been pointless, anyway. I’m going away. I don’t need complications.”

“No.”

Rory shoots him a sideways look, registers the creeping smile. “Don’t go getting sentimental on me now. I need to remember you as a miserable old bugger.”

The miserable old bugger chuckles. “I wouldn’t dare. Come on. Let’s go and do a last check of the microfiche area and load up the tea stuff. Then I’ll buy you lunch. And then you can not tell me all about what happened between you and this girl you patently couldn’t care less about.”

The pavement outside Jennifer Stirling’s block is bleached a barnacle gray under the winter sun. A street sweeper is working his way along the curb, deftly picking up pieces of rubbish with a pair of pincers. Ellie wonders when she last saw a street sweeper in her part of London. Perhaps it’s considered too Sisyphean a task: her high street is a riot of takeaways and cheap bakeries, their red-and-white-striped paper bags floating merrily around the neighborhood, telling of yet another lunchtime orgy of saturated fat and sugar.

“It’s Ellie. Ellie Haworth,” she shouts into the entry phone, when Jennifer answers. “I left you a message. I hope it’s okay if I—”

“Ellie.” Her voice is welcoming. “I was just coming down.”

As the lift makes its unhurried way down the stories, she thinks about Melissa. Unable to sleep, Ellie had arrived at the Nation’s offices shortly after seven thirty. She needed to work out how to salvage the love-letters feature; rereading Clive’s communications to her has made her realize there’s no way she can return to her old life. She’ll make this feature work. She’ll get the rest of the information from Jennifer Stirling and somehow turn it around. She’s her old self; focused, determined. It helps her not think about how utterly confusing her personal life has become.