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| Jojo_Moyes-The_Last_Letter_from_Your_Lover
 The
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 Pam ela Dor m a n Book s
V i k i ng
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 Th
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| VIKING
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
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(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
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(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
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South Africa
| | Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
| | First American edition
Published in 2011 by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
| | Copyright © Jojo Moyes, 2010
All rights reserved
| | A Pamela Dorman Book / Viking
| | Publisher’s Note
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
| | LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING IN PUBLICATION DATA
Moyes, Jojo, date.
The last letter from your lover : a novel / Jojo Moyes.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-101-50759-4
I. Title.
PR6113.O94L37 2011
823'.92—dc222011002023
Designed by Nancy Resnick
| | Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the
copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
| | The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the
permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic
editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrightable materials. Your support
of the author’s rights is appreciated.
|
| To Charles, who started it all with a paper message
|
| Thank you to the truly excellent team at Pamela Dorman Books/
Viking, especially Pamela Dorman and Julie Miesionczek. Thanks as
always to the wonderful team at Hachette in the UK: my editor,
Carolyn Mays, as well as Francesca Best, Eleni Fostiropoulos, Lucy
Hale, the sales team, and the fearsome copyediting skills of Hazel
Orme. Thanks also all at Curtis Brown, especially my agent, Sheila
Crowley, Sarah Lewis, and Tally Garner. My gratitude goes to the
British Newspaper Library at Colindale, a wonderful resource for
writers seeking to immerse themselves in another world.
I would like to acknowledge Jeanette Winterson, the Estate of F.
Scott Fitzgerald, and the University Press of New England for allow
ing me to reproduce the literary correspondence used in some versions
of this book.
Thank you, in no particular order, to Brigid Coady, Suzanne
Parry, Kate Lord Brown, Danuta Kean, Louise McKee, Suzanne
Hirsh, and Fiona Veacock. Other thanks are due to my parents, Jim
Moyes and Lizzie Sanders, and Brian Sanders, and to the Writers
block board, a constant source of support, encouragement, and time
wasting.
Greatest thanks—and love—go to my family, Charles, Saskia,
Harry, and Lockie.
|
| “She’s waking up.”
There was a swishing sound, a chair was dragged, then the brisk
click of curtain rings meeting. Two voices murmuring.
“I’ll fetch Dr. Hargreaves.”
A brief silence followed, during which she slowly became aware of
a different layer of sound—voices, muffled by distance, a car passing:
it seemed, oddly, as if it were some way below her. She lay absorbing it,
letting it crystallize, letting her mind play catch-up, as she recognized
each for what it was.
It was at this point that she became aware of the pain. It forced its
way upward in exquisite stages: first her arm, a sharp, burning sensa
tion from elbow to shoulder, then her head: dull, relentless. The rest
of her body ached, as it had done when she . . .
When she . . . ?
“He’ll be along in two ticks. He says to close the blinds.”
Her mouth was so dry. She closed her lips and swallowed painfully.
She wanted to ask for some water, but the words wouldn’t come. She
opened her eyes a little. Two indistinct shapes moved around her.
Every time she thought she had worked out what they were, they moved
again. Blue. They were blue.
“You know who’s just come in downstairs, don’t you?”
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| One of the voices dropped. “That singer. The one who looks like
Paul Newman.”
“I thought I heard something on the wireless about it. Lend me
your thermometer, will you, Vi, mine’s acting up again.”
“I’m going to try and have a peek at him at lunchtime. Matron’s had
newspapermen outside all morning. I’ll wager she’s at her wits’ end.”
She couldn’t understand what they were saying. The pain in her
head had become a thumping, rushing sound, building in volume and
intensity until all she could do was close her eyes again and wait for
it, or her, to go away. Then the white came in, like a tide, to envelop
her. With some gratitude she let out a silent breath and allowed her
self to sink back into its embrace.
| | “Are you awake, dear? You have a visitor.”
There was a flickering reflection above her, a phantasm that moved
briskly, first one way and then another. She had a sudden recollection
of her first wristwatch, the way she had reflected sunlight through its
glass casing onto the ceiling of the playroom, sending it backward
and forward, making her little dog bark.
The blue was there again. She saw it move, accompanied by the
swishing. And then there was a hand on her wrist, a brief spark of pain
so that she yelped.
“A little more carefully with that side, Nurse,” the voice chided.
“She felt that.”
“I’m terribly sorry, Dr. Hargreaves.”
“The arm will require further surgery. We’ve pinned it in several
places, but it’s not there yet.”
A dark shape hovered near her feet. She willed it to solidify, but,
like the blue shapes, it refused to do so, and she let her eyes close.
“You can sit with her, if you like. Talk to her. She’ll be able to
hear you.”
“How are her . . . other injuries?”
“There’ll be some scarring, I’m afraid. Especially on that arm. And
she took quite a blow to the head, so it may be a while before she’s
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | herself again. But given the severity of the accident, I think we can say
she’s had a rather lucky escape.”
There was a brief silence.
“Yes.”
Someone had placed a bowl of fruit beside her. She had opened her
eyes again, her gaze settling on it, letting the shape, the color, solidify
until she grasped, with a stab of satisfaction, that she could identify
what was there. Grapes, she said. And again, rolling the silent word
around the inside of her head: grapes. It felt important, as if it were
anchoring her in this new reality.
And then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone, obliter
ated by the dark blue mass that had settled beside her. As it moved
closer, she could just make out the faint scent of tobacco. The voice,
when it came, was tentative, perhaps a little embarrassed, even. “Jen
nifer? Jennifer? Can you hear me?” The words were so loud; strangely
intrusive.
“Jenny, dear, it’s me.”
She wondered if they would let her see the grapes again. It seemed
necessary that she did; blooming, purple, solid. Familiar.
“Are you sure she can hear me?”
“Quite sure, but she may find communicating rather exhausting to
begin with.”
There was some murmuring that she couldn’t make out. Or per
haps she just stopped trying.
Nothing seemed clear. “Can . . . you . . . ,” she whispered.
“But her mind wasn’t damaged? In the crash? You know that there
will be no . . . lasting . . . ?”
“As I said, she took a good bump to the head, but there were no
medical signs for alarm.” The sound of shuffled papers. “No fracture.
No swelling to the brain. But these things are always a little unpre
dictable, and patients are affected quite differently. So, you’ll just need
to be a little—”
“Please . . .” Her voice was a murmur, barely audible.
“Dr. Hargreaves! I do believe she’s trying to speak.”
“. . . want to see . . .”
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| A face swam down to her. “Yes?”
“. . . want to see . . .” The grapes, she was begging. I just want to see those
grapes again.
“She wants to see her husband!” The nurse sprang upward as she
announced this triumphantly. “I think she wants to see her husband.”
There was a pause, then someone stooped toward her. “I’m here,
dear. Everything is . . . everything’s fine.”
The body retreated, and she heard the pat of a hand on a back.
“There, you see? She’s getting back to herself already. All in good time,
eh?” A man’s voice again. “Nurse? Go and ask Sister to organize some
food for tonight. Nothing too substantial. Something light and easy
to swallow. . . . Perhaps you could fetch us a cup of tea while you’re
there.” She heard footsteps, low voices, as they continued to talk beside
her. Her last thought as the light closed in again was, Husband?
| | Later, when they told her how long she had been in the hospital,
she could barely believe it. Time had become fragmented, unmanage
able, arriving and departing in chaotic clumps of hours. It was Tues
day breakfast. Now it was Wednesday lunchtime. She had apparently
slept for eighteen hours—this was said with some disapproval, as if
there were an implied rudeness in being absent for so long. And then
it was Friday. Again.
Sometimes when she woke it was dark, and she would push her head
up a little against the starched white pillow and watch the soothing
movements of the ward at night; the soft-shoe shuffle of the nurses
moving up and down the corridors, the occasional murmur of conver
sation between nurse and patient. She could watch television in the
evenings if she liked, the nurses told her. Her husband was paying for
private care—she could have almost anything she liked. She always
said, No, thank you: she was confused enough by the unsettling torrent
of information without the endless chatter of the box in the corner.
As the periods of wakefulness stretched and grew in number, she
became familiar with the faces of the other women on the little ward.
The older woman in the room to her right, whose jet-black hair was
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | pinned immaculately in a rigid, sprayed sculpture upon her head, her
features fixed in an expression of mild, surprised disappointment.
She had apparently been in a moving picture when she was young,
and would deign to tell any new nurse about it. She had a command
ing voice, and few visitors. There was the plump young woman in the
room opposite, who cried quietly in the early hours of the morning.
A brisk, older woman—a nanny perhaps?—brought young children
in to see her for an hour every evening. The two boys would climb
onto the bed, clutching at her, until the nanny told them to get down
for fear they would “do your mother an injury.”
The nurses told her the other women’s names, and occasionally
their own, but she couldn’t remember them. They were disappointed
in her, she suspected.
Your Husband, as everyone referred to him, came most evenings.
He wore a well-cut suit, dark blue or gray serge, gave her a perfunctory
kiss on the cheek, and usually sat at the foot of her bed. He would
make small talk solicitously, asking how she was finding the food,
whether she would like him to have anything else sent along. Occa
sionally he would simply read a newspaper.
He was a handsome man, perhaps ten years older than she was,
with a high, noble forehead and serious, hooded eyes. She knew, at
some deep level, that he must be who he said he was, that she was mar
ried to him, but it was perplexing to feel nothing when everyone so
obviously expected a different reaction. Sometimes she would stare at
him when he wasn’t looking, waiting for some jolt of familiarity to
kick in. Sometimes, when she woke, she would find him sitting there,
newspaper lowered, gazing at her as if he felt something similar.
Dr. Hargreaves, the attending physician, came daily, checking her
charts, asking if she could tell him the day, the time, her name. She
always got those right now. She even managed to tell him the prime
minister was Mr. Macmillan and her age, twenty-seven. But she strug
gled with newspaper headlines, with events that had taken place be
fore she arrived here. “It will come,” he would say, patting her hand.
“Don’t try to force it, there’s a good girl.”
And then there was her mother, who brought little gifts—soap, nice
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| shampoo, magazines—as if they would nudge her into a semblance of
who she apparently used to be. “We’ve all been so worried, Jenny dar
ling,” she said, laying a cool hand on her head. It felt nice. Not familiar,
but nice. Occasionally her mother would begin to say something, then
mutter, “I mustn’t tire you out with questions. Everything will come
back. That’s what the doctors say. So you mustn’t worry.”
She wasn’t worried, Jenny wanted to tell her. It was quite peaceful
in her little bubble. She just felt a vague sadness that she couldn’t be
the person everyone evidently expected her to be. It was at this point,
when the thoughts got too confusing, that she would invariably fall
asleep again.
| | They finally told her she was going home on a morning so crisp that
the trails of smoke broke into the blue sky above the capital like a
spindly forest. By then she could walk around the ward occasionally,
swapping magazines with the other patients, who would be chatting
to the nurses, sometimes listening to the wireless, if they felt so in
clined. She had had a second operation on her arm and it was healing
well, they told her, although the long red scar where the plate had
been inserted made her wince, and she tried to keep it hidden under
a long sleeve. Her eyes had been tested, her hearing checked; her skin
had healed after the myriad scratches caused by fragments of glass.
The bruises had faded, and her broken rib and collarbone had knitted
well enough for her to lie in a variety of positions without pain.
To all intents and purposes, she looked, they claimed, like “her old
self,” as if saying it enough times might make her remember who that
was. Her mother, meanwhile, spent hours rummaging through piles
of black-and-white photographs so that she could reflect Jennifer’s life
back at her.
She learned that she had been married for four years. There were
no children—from her mother’s lowered voice, she guessed this was a
source of some disappointment to everyone. She lived in a very smart
house in a very good part of London, with a housekeeper and a driver,
and plenty of young ladies would apparently give their eyeteeth to
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | have half of what she had. Her husband was something big in mining
and was often away, although his devotion was such that he had put
off several very important trips since the accident. From the deference
with which the medical staff spoke to him, she guessed he was indeed
quite important and, by extension, that she might expect a degree of
respect, too, even if it felt nonsensical to her.
Nobody had said much about how she had got there, although she
had once sneaked a look at the doctor’s notes and knew that she had
been in a car accident. On the one occasion she had pressed her mother
about what had happened, she had gone quite pink and, placing her
plump little hand on Jennifer’s, had urged her “not to dwell on it,
dear. It’s all been . . . terribly upsetting.” Her eyes had filled with tears,
and not wanting to upset her, Jennifer had moved on.
| | A chatty girl with a bright orange helmet of hair came from another
part of the hospital to trim and set Jennifer’s hair. This, the young
woman told her, would make her feel a lot better. Jennifer had lost a
little hair at the back of her head—it had been shaved off for a wound
to be stitched—and the girl announced that she was a wonder at hid
ing such injuries.
A little more than an hour later she held up a mirror with a flour
ish. Jennifer stared at the girl who stared back at her. Quite pretty, she
thought, with a kind of distant satisfaction. Bruised, a little pale, but
an agreeable face. My face, she corrected herself.
“Do you have your cosmetics on hand?” the hairdresser said. “I
could do your face for you, if your arm’s still sore. Bit of lipstick will
brighten any face, madam. That and some Pan-Cake.”
Jennifer kept staring at the mirror. “Do you think I should?”
“Oh, yes. A pretty girl like you. I can make it very subtle . . . but
it’ll put a glow into your cheeks. Hold on, I’ll pop downstairs and get
my kit. I’ve got some lovely colors from Paris, and a Charles of the
Ritz lipstick that’ll be perfect on you.”
|
| “Well, don’t you look fetching? It’s good to see a lady with her makeup
on. Shows us that you’re a little more on top of things,” Dr. Har
greaves said on his rounds, some time later. “Looking forward to
going home, are we?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said politely. She had no idea how to convey
to him that she didn’t know what that home was.
He studied her face for a moment, perhaps gauging her uncertainty.
Then he sat on the side of her bed and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I
understand it must all seem a little disconcerting, that you might not
feel quite yourself yet, but don’t be too concerned if lots of things are
unclear. It’s quite common to get amnesia after a head injury.
“You have a very supportive family, and I’m sure once you’re sur
rounded by familiar things, your old routines, friends, shopping trips,
and the like, you’ll find that it’s all popping back into place.”
She nodded obediently. She had worked out pretty quickly that
everyone seemed happier if she did so.
“Now, I’d like you to come back in a week so that I can check the
progress of that arm. You’ll need some physiotherapy to recover the
full use of it. But the main thing is simply for you to rest and not
worry too much about anything. Do you understand?”
He was already preparing to leave. What else could she say?
| | Her husband picked her up shortly before teatime. The nurses had
lined up in the downstairs reception area to say good-bye to her,
bright as pins in their starched pinafores. She still felt curiously weak
and unsteady on her feet, and was grateful for the arm that he held
out to her.
“Thank you for the care you’ve shown my wife. Send the bill to
my office, if you would,” he said to the Sister.
“Our pleasure,” she said, shaking his hand and beaming at Jennifer.
“It’s lovely seeing her up and about again. You look wonderful, Mrs.
Stirling.”
“I feel . . . much better. Thank you.” She was wearing a long cash
mere coat and a matching pillbox hat. He had arranged for three
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | outfits to be sent over for her. She had chosen the most muted; she
didn’t want to draw attention to herself.
They glanced up as Dr. Hargreaves put his head out of an office.
“My secretary says there are some newspapermen outside. You might
wish to leave by the back entrance if you want to avoid any fuss.”
“That would be preferable. Would you mind sending my driver
round?”
After weeks in the warmth of the ward the air was shockingly cold.
She struggled to keep up with him, her breath coming in short bursts,
and then she was in the back of a large black car, engulfed by the huge
leather seats, and the doors closed with an expensive clunk. The car
moved off into the London traffic with a low purr.
She peered out of the window, watching the newspapermen, just
visible on the front steps, and muffled photographers comparing lenses.
Beyond, the central London streets were thick with people hurrying
past, their collars turned up against the wind, men with trilbies pulled
low over their brows.
“Who was the singer?” she said, turning to face him.
He was muttering something to the driver. “Who?”
“A singer. Apparently he’d been in some kind of accident.”
“I have no idea who you are talking about.”
“They were all talking about him. The nurses, at the hospital.”
“Oh. Yes. I think I read something.” He appeared to have lost in
terest. “I’ll be dropping Mrs. Stirling back at the house, and once she’s
settled I’ll be going on to the office,” he was saying to the driver.
“What happened to him?” she said.
“Who?”
“The singer.”
Her husband looked at her, as if he was weighing something up.
“He died,” he said. Then he turned back to his driver.
| | She walked slowly up the steps to the white stucco house and the
door opened, as if by magic, as she reached the top. The driver placed
her valise carefully in the hallway and retreated. Her husband, behind
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| her, nodded to a woman who was standing in the hallway, apparently
to greet them. She was in late middle age; her dark hair was pulled
back into a tight chignon, and she was dressed in a navy two-piece.
“Welcome home, madam,” she said, reaching out a hand. Her smile
was genuine, and she spoke in heavily accented English. “We are so
very glad to have you well again.”
“Thank you,” she said. She wanted to use the woman’s name, but
felt uncomfortable asking it.
The woman waited to take their coats, and disappeared along the
hall with them.
“Are you feeling tired?” He dipped his head to study her face.
“No. No, I’m fine.” She gazed around her at the house, wishing she
could disguise her dismay that she might as well have never seen it
before.
“I must go back to the office now. Will you be all right with Mrs.
Cordoza?”
Cordoza. It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. She felt a little surge of grati
tude. Mrs. Cordoza. “I’ll be quite all right, thank you. Please don’t worry
about me.”
“I’ll be back at seven . . . if you’re sure you’re fine . . .” He was
clearly keen to leave. He stooped, kissed her cheek, and, after a brief
hesitation, was gone.
She stood in the hallway, hearing his footsteps fade down the steps
outside, the soft hum of the engine as his great car pulled away. The
house seemed suddenly cavernous.
She touched the silk-lined wallpaper, took in the polished parquet
flooring, the vertiginously high ceilings. She removed her gloves, with
precise, deliberate motions. Then she leaned forward for a closer look
at the photographs on the hall table. The largest was a wedding pic
ture, framed in ornate, highly polished silver. And there she was,
wearing a fitted white dress, her face half masked by a white lace veil,
her husband smiling broadly at her side. I really did marry him, she
thought. And then: I look so happy.
She jumped. Mrs. Cordoza had come up behind her and was stand
ing there, her hands clasped in front of her. “I was wondering if you
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | would like me to bring you some tea. I thought you might like to take
it in the drawing room. I’ve laid a fire in there for you.”
“That would be . . .” Jennifer peered down the hallway at the vari
ous doors. Then she looked back at the photograph. A moment passed
before she spoke again. “Mrs. Cordoza . . . would you mind letting
me take your arm? Just till I sit down. I’m feeling a little unsteady on
my feet.”
Afterward she wasn’t sure why she didn’t want the woman to know
quite how little she remembered about the layout of her own house.
It just seemed to her that if she could pretend, and everyone else be
lieved it, what was an act might end up being true.
| | The housekeeper had prepared supper: a casserole, with potatoes and
fine French beans. She had left it in the bottom oven, she told Jen
nifer. Jennifer had had to wait for her husband to return before she
could put anything on the table: her right arm was still weak, and she
was afraid of dropping the heavy cast-iron pot.
She had spent the hour when she was alone walking around the
vast house, familiarizing herself with it, opening drawers and study
ing photographs. My house, she told herself over and over. My things.
My husband. Once or twice she let her mind go blank and her feet
carry her to where she thought a bathroom or study might be, and
was gratified to discover that some part of her still knew this place.
She gazed at the books in the drawing room, noting, with a kind of
mild satisfaction, that while so much was strange she could mentally
recite the plots of many.
She lingered longest in her bedroom. Mrs. Cordoza had unpacked
her suitcase and put everything away. Two built-in cupboards opened
to reveal great quantities of immaculately stored clothes. Everything
fitted her perfectly, even the most well-worn shoes. Her hairbrush,
perfumes, and powders were lined up on a dressing table. The scents
met her skin with a pleasant familiarity. The colors of the cosmetics
suited her: Coty, Chanel, Elizabeth Arden, Dorothy Gray—her mirror
was surrounded by a small battalion of expensive creams and unguents.
|
| She pulled open a drawer, held up layers of chiffon, brassieres, and
other foundation garments made of silk and lace. I am a woman to
whom appearances matter, she observed. She sat and stared at herself
in the three-sided mirror, then began to brush her hair with long,
steady strokes. This is what I do, she said to herself, several times.
In the few moments when she felt overwhelmed by strangeness, she
busied herself with small tasks: rearranging the towels in the down
stairs cloakroom, putting out plates and glasses.
He arrived back shortly before seven. She was waiting for him in
the hall, her makeup fresh and a light spray of scent over her neck and
shoulders. She could see it pleased him, this semblance of normality.
She took his coat, hung it in the cupboard, and asked if he would like
a drink.
“That would be lovely. Thank you,” he said.
She hesitated, one hand poised on a decanter.
Turning, he saw her indecision. “Yes, that’s it, darling. Whiskey.
Two fingers, with ice. Thank you.”
At supper, he sat on her right at the large, polished mahogany table,
a great expanse of which was empty and unadorned. She ladled the
steaming food onto plates, and he placed them at each setting. This is
my life, she found herself thinking, as she watched his hands move. This
is what we do in the evenings.
“I thought we might have the Moncrieffs to dinner on Friday. Might
you be up to it?”
She took a little bite from her fork. “I think so.”
“Good.” He nodded. “Our friends have been asking after you. They
would like to see that you’re . . . back to your old self.”
She raised a smile. “That will be . . . nice.”
“I thought we probably wouldn’t do too much for a week or two.
Just till you’re up to it.”
“Yes.”
“This is very good. Did you make it?”
“No. It was Mrs. Cordoza.”
“Ah.”
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | They ate in silence. She drank water—Dr. Hargreaves had advised
against anything stronger—but she envied her husband the glass in
front of him. She would have liked to blur the disconcerting strange
ness, to take the edge off it.
“And how are things at . . . your office?”
His head was down. “All fine. I’ll have to visit the mines in the next
couple of weeks, but I’ll want to be sure that you can manage before
I go. You’ll have Mrs. Cordoza to help, of course.”
She felt faint relief at the thought of being alone. “I’m sure I’ll be
all right.”
“And afterward I thought we might go to the Riviera for a couple
of weeks. I have some business there, and the sun might do you good.
Dr. Hargreaves said it might help your . . . the scarring . . .” His voice
faded.
“The Riviera,” she echoed. A sudden vision of a moonlit seafront.
Laughter. The clinking of glasses. She closed her eyes, willing the
fleeting image to become clear.
“I thought we might drive down, this time, just the two of us.”
It was gone. She could hear her pulse in her ears. Stay calm, she told
herself. It will all come. Dr. Hargreaves said it would.
“You always seem happy there. Perhaps a little happier there than
in London.” He glanced up at her and then away.
There it was again, the feeling that she was being tested. She forced
herself to chew and swallow. “Whatever you think best,” she said
quietly.
The room fell silent but for the slow scraping of his cutlery on his
plate, an oppressive sound. Her food suddenly appeared insurmount
able. “Actually, I’m more tired than I thought. Would you mind ter
ribly if I went upstairs?”
He stood as she got to her feet. “I should have told Mrs. Cor
doza a kitchen supper would suffice. Would you like me to help
you up?”
“Please, don’t fuss.” She waved away the offer of his arm. “I’m just
a little tired. I’m sure I’ll be much better in the morning.”
|
| At a quarter to ten she heard him enter the room. She had lain in the
bed, acutely aware of the sheets around her, the moonlight that sliced
through the long curtains, the distant sounds of traffic in the square,
of taxis slowing to disgorge their occupants, a polite greeting from
someone walking a dog. She had kept very still, waiting for something
to click into place, for the ease with which she had fitted back into
her physical environment to seep into her mind.
And then the door had opened.
He did not turn on the light. She heard the soft clash of wooden
hangers as he hung up his jacket, the soft vacuum thuck of his shoes
being pulled from his feet. And suddenly she was rigid. Her husband—
this man, this stranger—was going to climb into her bed. She had
been so focused on getting through each moment that she hadn’t con
sidered it. She had half expected him to sleep in the spare room.
She bit down on her lip, her eyes shut tight, forcing her breathing
to stay slow, in semblance of sleep. She heard him disappear into the
bathroom, the sluice of the tap, vigorous brushing of teeth and a brief
gargle. His feet padded back across the carpeted floor, and then he
was sliding between the covers, causing the mattress to dip and the
bedstead to creak in protest. For a minute he lay there, and she fought
to maintain her even breaths. Oh, please, not yet, she willed him. I hardly
know you.
“Jenny?” he said.
She felt his hand on her hip, forced herself not to flinch.
He moved it tentatively. “Jenny?”
She made herself let out a long breath, conveying the blameless
oblivion of deep sleep. She felt him pause, his hand still, and then,
with a sigh of his own, he lay back heavily on his pillows.
|
| Moira Parker regarded the grim set of her boss’s jawline, the determined
way in which he strode through her office to his own, and thought it
was probably a good thing that Mr. Arbuthnot, his two-thirty, was late.
Clearly the last meeting had not gone well.
She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and took his coat, which was
speckled with rain from the short walk between his car and the office.
She placed his umbrella in the stand, then took a moment longer than
usual to hang the coat carefully on the hook. She had worked for him
long enough now to judge when he needed a little time alone.
She poured him a cup of tea—he always had a cup of tea in the
afternoons, two cups of coffee in the mornings—collected up her pa
pers with an economy born of years’ practice, then knocked on his door
and walked in. “I suspect Mr. Arbuthnot has been held up in traffic.
Apparently there’s a big jam on the Marylebone Road.”
He was reading the letters she had left on his desk earlier for his
signature. Evidently satisfied, he took his pen from his breast pocket
and signed with short, abrupt strokes. She placed his tea on his desk
and folded the letters into her pile of papers. “I’ve picked up the tick
ets for your flight to South Africa, and arranged for you to be col
lected at the airport.”
“That’s the fifteenth.”
“Yes. I’ll bring them through if you’d like to check the paperwork.
Here are the sales figures for last week. The latest wage totals are in
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| this folder here. And as I wasn’t sure you would have had time for lunch
after the car manufacturers’ meeting, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering
you some sandwiches. I hope that’s acceptable.”
“Very kind, Moira. Thank you.”
“Would you like them now? With your tea?”
He nodded and smiled at her briefly. She did her best not to color.
She knew the other secretaries mocked her for what they considered
her overattentive manner with her boss, not to mention her prim
clothes and slightly stiff way of doing things. But he was a man who
liked things done properly, and she had always understood that. Those
silly girls, with their heads always stuck in a magazine, their endless
gossiping in the ladies’ cloakroom, they didn’t understand the inher
ent pleasure in a job well done. They didn’t understand the satisfac
tion of being indispensable.
She hesitated briefly, then pulled the last letter from her folder.
“The second post has arrived. I thought you should probably see this.
It’s another of those letters about the men at Rochdale.”
His eyebrows lowered, which killed the small smile that had illu
minated his face. He read the letter twice. “Has anyone else seen
this?”
“No, sir.”
“File it with the others.” He thrust it at her. “It’s all troublemaking
stuff. The unions are behind it. I won’t have any truck with them.”
She took it wordlessly. She made as if to leave, then turned back.
“And may I ask . . . how is your wife? Glad to be back at home, I
should say.”
“She’s fine, thank you. Much—much more her old self,” he said.
“It’s been a great help for her to be at home.”
She swallowed. “I’m very pleased to hear it.”
His attention was already elsewhere—he was flicking through the
sales figures she had left for him. Her smile still painted on her face,
Moira Parker clasped her paperwork to her chest and marched back
out to her desk.
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | Old friends, he had said. Nothing too challenging. Two of those friends
were familiar now, having visited Jennifer in the hospital and again
once she had returned home. Yvonne Moncrieff, an elongated, dark
haired woman in her early thirties, had been her friend since they had
become close neighbors in Medway Square. She had a dry, sardonic
manner, which stood in direct contrast to that of the other friend,
Violet, whom Yvonne had known at school and who seemed to accept
the other’s cutting humor and droll put-downs as her due.
Jennifer had struggled initially to catch the shared references, to
gauge any significance from the names they bandied between them,
but she had felt at ease in their company. She was learning to trust
her gut reactions to people: memories could be lodged in places other
than the mind.
“I wish I could lose my memory,” Yvonne had said, when Jennifer
confessed how strange she had felt on waking up in the hospital. “I’d
walk off into the sunset. Forget I ever married Francis in the first
place.” She had popped over to reassure Jennifer that all was in order.
It was to be a “quiet” dinner party, but as the afternoon had worn on,
Jennifer had become almost paralyzed with nerves.
“I don’t know why you’re flapping, darling. Your parties are leg
endary.” She perched on the bed, as Jennifer wriggled in and out of a
succession of dresses.
“Yes. But for what?” She tried to rearrange her bust inside a dress.
She seemed to have lost a little weight in the hospital, and the front
puckered unattractively.
Yvonne laughed. “Oh, relax. You don’t have to do a thing, Jenny.
The marvelous Mrs. C will have done you proud. The house looks
beautiful. You look stunning. Or, at least, you will if you put some
damned clothes on.” She kicked off her shoes and lifted her long, el
egant legs onto the bed. “I’ve never understood your enthusiasm for
entertaining. Don’t get me wrong, I do love going to parties, but all
that organizing.” She was examining her nails. “Parties are for going
to, not for having. That’s what my mother said, and frankly, it still
stands. I’ll buy myself a new dress or two, but canapés and seating
plans? Ugh.”
|
| Jennifer wrestled the neckline into shape and stared at herself in
the mirror, turning to the left, then the right. She held out her arm.
The scar was raised and still angrily pink. “Do you think I should
wear long sleeves?”
Yvonne sat up and peered at her. “Does it hurt?”
“My whole arm aches, and the doctor gave me some pills. I just
wondered whether the scar would be a bit . . .”
“Distracting?” Yvonne’s nose wrinkled. “You probably would do
better in long sleeves, darling. Just until it fades a little. And it’s so
cold.”
Jennifer was startled by her friend’s blunt assessment but not of
fended. It was the first straightforward thing anyone had said to her
since she had come home.
She stepped out of the dress, went to her wardrobe, and rifled
through it until she found a sheath in raw silk. She pulled it off the rail
and gazed at it. It was so flashy. Since she had been at home she had
wanted to hide in tweed, subtle grays and brown, yet these jeweled
dresses kept leaping out at her. “Is this the kind of thing?” she said.
“What kind of thing?”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “That I used to wear? Is this how I
used to look?” She held the dress against herself.
Yvonne pulled a cigarette from her bag and lit it, studying Jenni
fer’s face. “Are you telling me you really don’t remember anything?”
Jennifer sat on the stool in front of her dressing table. “Pretty
much,” she admitted. “I know I know you. Just like I know him. I
can feel it here.” She tapped her chest. “But it’s . . . there are huge
gaps. I don’t remember how I felt about my life. I don’t know how
I’m meant to behave with anyone. I don’t . . .” She chewed the side
of her lip. “I don’t know who I am.” Unexpectedly her eyes filled
with tears. She pulled open one drawer, then another, searching for a
handkerchief.
Yvonne waited a moment. Then she stood up, walked over, and sat
down with her on the narrow stool. “All right, darling, I’ll fill you in.
You’re lovely and funny and full of joie de vivre. You have the perfect
life, the rich, handsome husband who adores you, and a wardrobe any
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | woman would die for. Your hair is always perfect. Your waist is the
span of a man’s hand. You’re always the center of any social gathering,
and all our husbands are secretly in love with you.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not. Francis adores you. Whenever he sees your minxy little
smile, those blond tresses of yours, I can see him wondering why on
earth he married this lanky, cranky old Jewess. As for Bill . . .”
“Bill?”
“Violet’s husband. Before you were married, he virtually followed
you around like a lapdog. It’s a good job he’s so terrified of your hus
band, or he would have made off with you under his arm years ago.”
Jennifer wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’re being very
kind.”
“Not at all. If you weren’t so nice, I’d have to have you bumped
off. But you’re lucky. I like you.”
They sat together for a few minutes. Jennifer rubbed at a spot on
the carpet with her toe. “Why don’t I have children?”
Yvonne took a long drag on her cigarette. She glanced at Jennifer
and arched her eyebrows. “The last time we spoke about it, you re
marked that to have children it’s usually advisable for husband and
wife to be on the same continent for a while. He’s away an awful lot,
your husband.” She smirked, exhaled a perfect smoke ring. “It’s one
of the other reasons I’ve always been horribly envious of you.” As Jen
nifer gave a reluctant chuckle, she continued, “Oh, you’ll be fine, dar
ling. You should do what that ridiculously expensive doctor said and
stop fretting. You’ll probably have some eureka moment in a couple
of weeks and remember everything—disgusting snoring husband, the
state of the economy, the awful size of your account in Harvey Nich
ols. In the meantime, enjoy your innocence while it lasts.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“And having said that, I think you should wear the rose pink
thing. You have a quartz necklace that goes fabulously with it. The
emerald doesn’t do you any favors. It makes your bust look like two
deflated balloons.”
“Oh, you are a friend!” Jennifer said, and the two began to laugh.
|
| The door had slammed, and he had dropped his briefcase on the hall
floor, the chill air of outside on his overcoat and skin. He took off his
scarf, kissed Yvonne, and apologized for his lateness. “Accountants’
meeting. You know how these money men go on.”
“Oh, you should see them when they get together, Larry. Bores me
to tears. We’ve been married five years, and I still couldn’t tell you the
difference between a debit and a credit.” Yvonne checked her watch.
“He should be here soon. No doubt some unmissable column of fig
ures to wave his magic wand over.”
He faced his wife. “You look very fetching, Jenny.”
“Doesn’t she? Your wife always scrubs up rather well.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed. Right.” He ran a hand across his jawline. “If
you’ll both excuse me, I’ll go and freshen up before our other guests
arrive. I don’t suppose one of you ladies could pour me a whiskey?
Two fingers, no ice?
“We’ll have a drink waiting for you,” Yvonne called.
By the time the door opened a second time, Jennifer’s nerves had
been dulled by a potent cocktail. It will be fine, she kept telling her
self. Yvonne would step in with prompts if she was about to make a
fool of herself. These were her friends. They wouldn’t be waiting
for her to trip up. They were another step to bringing her back to
herself.
“Jenny. Thank you so much for asking us.” Violet Fairclough gave
her a hug, her plump face almost submerged in a turban. She unpinned
it from her head and handed it over with her coat. She was wearing a
scoop-necked silk dress, which strained like a wind-filled parachute
around her ample contours. Violet’s waist, as Yvonne would later re
mark, would require the hands of a small infantry company to span it.
“Jennifer. A picture of loveliness, as always.” A tall, redheaded
man stooped to kiss her.
Jennifer was astonished by the unlikeliness of this coupling. She
didn’t remember the man at all, and found it almost funny that he
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | should be little Violet’s husband. “Do come through,” she said, tear
ing her eyes off him and recovering her composure. “My husband will
be down in a few minutes. Let me get you a drink in the meantime.”
“ ‘My husband,’ eh? Are we terribly formal this evening?” Bill
laughed.
“Well . . .” Jennifer faltered. “. . . as it’s been so long since I’ve seen
you all . . .”
“Beast. You’ve got to be kind to Jenny.” Yvonne kissed him. “She’s
still terribly fragile. She should be reclining upstairs consumptively
while we select one man at a time to peel her a grape. But she would
insist on martinis.”
“Now that’s the Jenny we know and love.” Bill’s smile of apprecia
tion was so lingering that Jennifer glanced twice at Violet to make
sure she wasn’t offended. She didn’t seem to mind: she was rummag
ing in her handbag. “I’ve left your number with the new nanny, Jenny,”
she said, glancing up. “I hope you don’t mind. She really is the most
useless woman. I fully expect her to be calling here at any minute to
say she can’t get Frederick’s pajama bottoms on or some such.”
Jennifer caught Bill rolling his eyes and, with a flash of dismay,
realized that the gesture was familiar to her.
| | There were eight around the table, her husband and Francis at either
end. Yvonne, Dominic, who was quite high up in the Horse Guards,
and Jennifer sat along the window side, with Violet, Bill, and Anne,
Dominic’s wife, opposite. Anne was a cheerful sort, guffawing at the
men’s jokes with a benign twinkle in her eye that spoke of a woman
comfortable in her skin.
Jennifer found herself watching them as they ate, analyzing and
examining with forensic detail the things they said to each other, seek
ing out the clues to their past life. Bill, she noted, rarely looked at his
wife, let alone addressed her. Violet seemed oblivious to this, and Jen
nifer wondered whether she was unaware of his indifference or just
stoic in hiding her embarrassment.
|
| Yvonne, for all her joking complaints about Francis, watched him
constantly. She delivered her jokes at his expense while directing at
him a smile of challenge. This is how they are together, Jennifer
thought. She won’t show him how much he means to her.
“I wish I’d put my money in refrigerators,” Francis was saying. “The
newspaper said this morning that there should be a million of the
things sold in Britain this year. A million! Five years ago that was . . .
a hundred and seventy thousand.”
“In America it must be ten times that. I hear people exchange them
every couple of years.” Violet speared a piece of fish. “And they’re
huge—double the size of ours. Can you imagine?”
“Everything in America is bigger. Or so they love to tell us.”
“Including the egos, judging by the ones I’ve come up against.”
Dominic’s voice lifted. “You have not met an insufferable know-all
until you’ve met a Yank general.”
Anne was laughing. “Poor old Dom was a bit put out when one
tried to tell him how to drive his own car.”
“ ‘Say, your quarters are pretty small. These vehicles are pretty
small. Your rations are pretty small . . .’ ” Dominic mimicked. “They
should have seen what it was like with rationing. Of course, they have
no idea—”
“Dom thought he’d have some fun with him and borrowed my
mother’s Morris Minor. Picked him up in it. You should have seen
his face.”
“ ‘Standard issue over here, chum,’ I told him. ‘For visiting digni
taries we use the Vauxhall Velox. Gives you that extra three inches of
leg room.’ He virtually had to fold himself in two to fit inside.”
“I was howling with laughter,” said Anne. “I don’t know how Dom
didn’t end up in the most awful trouble.”
“How’s business, Larry? I hear you’re off to Africa again in a week
or so.”
Jennifer watched her husband settle back in his seat.
“Good. Very good, in fact. I’ve just signed a deal with a certain
motor company to manufacture brake linings.” He placed his knife
and fork together on his plate.
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | “What exactly is it you do? I’m never quite sure what this new
fangled mineral you’re using is.”
“Don’t pretend to be interested, Violet,” Bill said, from the other
side of the table. “Violet’s rarely interested in anything that isn’t pink
or blue or starts a sentence with ‘Mama.’ ”
“Perhaps, Bill, darling, that simply means there isn’t enough stim
ulation for her at home,” Yvonne parried, and the men whistled exu
berantly.
Laurence Stirling had turned toward Violet. “It’s not actually a
new mineral at all,” he was saying. “It’s been around since the days of
the Romans. Did you study the Romans at school?”
“I certainly did. I can’t remember anything about them now, of
course.” Her laugh was shrill.
Laurence’s voice dropped, and the table hushed, the better to hear
him. “Well, Pliny the Elder wrote about how he had seen a piece of
cloth thrown into a banqueting-hall fire and brought out again min
utes later without a scrap of damage. Some people thought it was
witchcraft, but he knew this was something extraordinary.” He pulled
a pen from his pocket, leaned forward, and scribbled on his damask
napkin. He pushed it round for her to see better. “The name chryso
tile, the most common form, is derived from the Greek words chrysos,
which means ‘gold,’ and tilos, ‘fiber.’ Even then they knew it had terrific
value. All I do—my company, I mean—is mine it and mold it into a
variety of uses.”
“You put out fires.”
“Yes.” He looked thoughtfully at his hands. “Or I make sure they
don’t start in the first place.” In the brief silence that followed, an
atmosphere fell over the table. He glanced at Jennifer, then away.
“So where’s the big money, old chap? Not flameproof tablecloths.”
“Car parts.” He sat back in his chair, and the room seemed to relax
with him. “They say that within ten years most households in Brit
ain will have a car. That’s an awful lot of brake linings. And we’re in
talks with the railways and the airlines. But the uses of white asbestos
are pretty limitless. We’ve branched out into guttering, farm build
ings, sheeting, insulation. Soon it’ll be everywhere.”
|
| “The wonder mineral indeed.”
He was at ease as he discussed his business with his friends in a
way that he had not been when the two of them were alone, Jennifer
thought. It must have been strange for him, too, to have her so badly
injured, and even now not quite herself. She thought of Yvonne’s de
scription of her that afternoon: gorgeous, poised, minxy. Was he miss
ing that woman? Perhaps conscious that she was watching him, he
turned his head and caught her eye. She smiled, and after a moment,
he smiled back.
“I saw that. C’mon, Larry. You’re not allowed to moon at your
wife.” Bill began to refill their glasses.
“He certainly is allowed to moon at his wife,” Francis protested,
“after everything that happened to her. How are you feeling now,
Jenny? You look wonderful.”
“I’m fine. Thank you.”
“I should think she’s doing terribly well holding a dinner party
not—what?—not a week after getting out of hospital.”
“If Jenny wasn’t giving a dinner party I should think there was some
thing terribly wrong—and not just with her but the whole damned
world.” Bill took a long swig of his wine.
“Awful business. It’s lovely to see you looking like your old self.”
“We were terribly worried. I hope you got my flowers,” Anne
put in.
Dominic laid his napkin on the table. “Do you remember any
thing about the accident itself, Jenny?”
“She’d probably prefer not to dwell on it, if you don’t mind.” Lau
rence stood up to fetch another bottle of wine from the sideboard.
“Of course not.” Dominic lifted a hand in apology. “Thoughtless
of me.”
Jennifer began to collect the plates. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just that
there isn’t much I could tell you. I don’t remember very much at all.”
“Just as well,” Dominic observed.
Yvonne was lighting a cigarette. “Well, the sooner you’re respon
sible for everyone’s brake linings, Larry darling, the safer we’ll all be.”
“And the richer he’ll be.” Francis laughed.
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| | “Oh, Francis, darling, must we really bring every single conversa
tion back to money?”
“Yes,” he and Bill answered in unison.
Jennifer heard them laughing as she picked up the pile of dirty
china and headed toward the kitchen.
| | “Well, that went well, didn’t it?”
She was seated at her dressing table, carefully removing her ear
rings. She saw his reflection in the mirror as he came into the bed
room, loosening his tie. He kicked off his shoes and went into the
bathroom, leaving the door open. “Yes,” she said. “I think it did.”
“The food was wonderful.”
“Oh, I can’t take any credit for that,” she said. “Mrs. Cordoza
organized it all.”
“But you planned the menu.”
It was easier not to disagree with him. She placed the earrings
carefully inside their box. She could hear the washbasin filling with
water. “I’m glad you liked it.” She stood up and wrestled herself out
of her dress, hung it up, and began to peel off her stockings.
She had removed one when she looked up to see him standing in
the doorway. He was gazing at her legs. “You looked very beautiful
tonight,” he said quietly.
She blinked hard, rolling off the second stocking. She reached
behind her to undo her girdle, now acutely self-conscious. Her left
arm was still useless—too weak to reach round to her back. She kept
her head down, hearing him moving toward her. He was bare-chested
now, but still in his suit trousers. He stood behind her, moved her
hands away, and took over. He was so close that she could feel his
breath on her back as he parted each hook from its eye.
“Very beautiful,” he repeated.
She closed her eyes. This is my husband, she told herself. He adores me.
Everyone says so. We’re happy. She felt his fingers running lightly along her
right shoulder, the touch of his lips at the back of her neck. “Are you
very tired?” he murmured.
|
| She knew this was her chance. He was a gentleman. If she said she
was, he would step back, leave her alone. But they were married. Mar
ried. She had to face this some time. And who knew? Perhaps if he
seemed less alien, she would find that a little more of herself was re
stored to her.
She turned in his arms. She couldn’t look at his face, couldn’t kiss
him. “Not if . . . not if you’re not,” she whispered into his chest.
She felt his skin against hers and clamped her eyes shut, waiting
to feel a sense of familiarity, perhaps even desire. Four years, they had
been married. How many times must they have done this? And since
her return he had been so patient.
She felt his hands moving over her, bolder now, unclipping her
brassiere. She kept her eyes closed, conscious of her appearance. “May
we turn out the light?” she said. “I don’t want . . . to be thinking about
my arm. How it looks.”
“Of course. I should have thought.”
She heard the click of the bedroom light. But it wasn’t her arm that
bothered her: she didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to be so
exposed, vulnerable, under his gaze. And then they were on the bed,
and he was kissing her neck, his hands, his breath, urgent. He lay on
top of her, pinning her down, and she linked her arms around his
neck, unsure what she should be doing in the absence of any feelings
she might have expected. What has happened to me? she thought.
What did I used to do?
“Are you all right?” he murmured into her ear. “I’m not hurt
ing you?”
“No,” she said, “no, not at all.”
He kissed her breasts, a low moan of pleasure escaping him. “Take
them off,” he said, pulling at her knickers. He shifted his weight off
her so that she could tug them down to her knees, then kick them
away. And she was exposed. Perhaps if we . . . , she wanted to say, but he
was already nudging her legs apart, trying clumsily to guide himself
into her. I’m not ready—but she couldn’t say that: it would be wrong
now. He was lost somewhere else, desperate, wanting.
She grimaced, drawing up her knees, trying not to tense. And then
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| T h e L a s t L e t t er f rom You r Lov er
| he was inside her, and she was biting her cheek in the dark, trying to
ignore the pain and that she felt nothing except a desperate desire for
it to be over and him out of her. His movements built in speed and
urgency, his weight squashing her, his face hot and damp against her
shoulder. And then, with a little cry, a hint of vulnerability he did not
show in any other part of his life, it was over, and the thing was gone,
replaced by a sticky wetness between her thighs.
She had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard that she could taste
blood.
He rolled off her, still breathing hard. “Thank you,” he said, into
the darkness.
She was glad he couldn’t see her lying there, gazing at nothing, the
covers pulled up to her chin. “That’s quite all right,” she said quie
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