“No. I can do it myself.”
Mrs. Cordoza peered past her. “But that’s your gold dress. You love it.”
“Mrs. Cordoza, please will you let me sort out my own wardrobe?” she snapped.
The housekeeper flinched. “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Stirling,” she said, and withdrew in hurt silence.
Jennifer began to cry, sobs forcing their way out in ugly bursts. She crawled on top of the bedspread, her hands over her head, and howled, not knowing what she should do, only that, with every second of indecision, the direction of her life hung in the balance. She heard her mother’s voice, saw her appalled face at the news of her family’s disgrace, the whispers of delighted shock in church. She saw the life she had planned, the children that would surely soften Laurence’s coldness, force him to unbend a little. She saw a poky series of rented rooms, Anthony out all day working, herself afraid in a strange country without him. She saw him wearying of her in her drab clothes, his gaze already on some other married woman.
I will never stop loving you. I have never loved anyone before you, and there will never be anyone after you.
When she pushed herself up, Mrs. Cordoza was at the foot of the bed.
She wiped her eyes and her nose and was prepared to apologize for snapping when she saw that the older woman was packing her bag.
“I’ve put in your flat shoes and your brown slacks. They don’t need so much laundering.”
Jennifer stared at her, still hiccuping.
“There are undergarments and a nightdress.”
“I—I don’t—”
Mrs. Cordoza continued to pack. She removed things from the suitcase, refolding them with tissue paper and putting them back with the same reverent care one might lavish on a newborn. Jennifer was hypnotized by the sight of those hands smoothing, replacing.
“Mrs. Stirling,” Mrs. Cordoza said, without looking up, “I never told you this. Where I lived in South Africa, it was customary to cover your windows with ash when a man died. When my husband died, I kept my windows clear. In fact, I cleaned them so that they shone.”
Sure she had Jennifer’s attention, she continued folding. Shoes now, placed sole to sole in a thin cotton bag, tucked neatly in the base, a pair of white tennis shoes, a hairbrush.
“I did love my husband when we were young, but he was not a kind man. As we grew older, he cared less and less how he behaved toward me. When he died suddenly, God forgive me, I felt as if someone had set me free.” She hesitated, gazing into the half-packed suitcase. “If someone had given me the chance, many years ago, I would have gone. I think I would have had the chance of a different life.”
She placed the last folded clothes on top and closed the lid, securing the buckles on each side of the handle.
“It’s half past six. Mr. Stirling said he would be home by a quarter to seven, in case you’d forgotten.” Without another word, she straightened and left the room.
Jennifer checked her watch, then shrugged on the rest of her clothes. She ran across the room, sliding her feet into the nearest pair of shoes. She went to her dressing table, fumbled in the back of a drawer for the emergency supply of shopping money she always kept balled up in a pair of stockings, and thrust the notes into her pocket, with a handful of rings and necklaces from her jewelry box. Then she grabbed her suitcase and wrenched it down the stairs.
Mrs. Cordoza was holding out her mackintosh. “Your best chance of a taxi will be New Cavendish Street. I would suggest Portland Place, but I believe Mr. Stirling’s driver uses it.”
“New Cavendish Street.”
Neither woman moved, stunned, perhaps, by what they had done. Then Jennifer stepped forward and gave Mrs. Cordoza an impulsive hug. “Thank you. I—”
“I’ll inform Mr. Stirling that, to my knowledge, you’re on a shopping trip.”
“Yes. Yes, thank you.”
She was outside in the night air that suddenly felt loaded with possibility. She tripped carefully down the steps, scanning the square for the familiar yellow light of a taxi. When she reached the pavement, she set off at a run into the city dusk.
She felt an overwhelming sense of relief—she no longer had to be Mrs. Stirling, to dress, behave, love, in a certain way. She realized, giddily, that she had no idea who or where she might be in a year’s time and almost laughed at the thought.
The streets were packed with marching pedestrians, the streetlamps coming to life in the encroaching dusk. Jennifer ran, her suitcase banging against her legs, her heart pounding. It was almost a quarter to seven. She pictured Laurence arriving home and calling irritably for her, Mrs. Cordoza tying her scarf over her head and observing that madam seemed to be a long time shopping. It would be another half an hour before he became properly concerned, and by that time she would be on the platform.
I’m coming, Anthony, she told him silently, and the bubble that rose in her chest might have been excitement or fear or a heady combination of both.
The endless movement of people along the platform made watching impossible. They swam in front of him, weaving in and out of each other so that he no longer knew what he was watching for. Anthony stood by a cast-iron bench, his cases at his feet, and checked his watch for the thousandth time. It was almost seven. If she was going to come, surely she would have been here by now?
He glanced up at the announcements board and then at the train that would carry him to Heathrow. Get a grip, man, he told himself. She’ll come.
“You for the seven-fifteen, sir?”
The guard was at his shoulder. “Train’s leaving in a few moments, sir. If this is yours, I’d advise you to get on.”
“I’m waiting for someone.”
He peered along the platform to the ticket barrier. An old woman stood there, scrabbling for a long-lost ticket. She shook her head in a way that suggested this was not the first time her handbag had seemingly swallowed some important document. Two porters stood chatting. No one else came through.
“Train won’t wait, sir. Next one’s at nine forty-five, if that’s any help.”
He began to pace between the two cast-iron benches, trying not to look at his watch again. He thought of her face that night at Alberto’s when she had said she loved him. There had been no guile in it, just honesty. It was beyond her to lie. He dared not think of how it might feel to wake up next to her every morning, the sheer elation of being loved by her, having the freedom to love her in return.
It had been something of a gamble, the letter he had sent her, the ultimatum it contained, but that night he had recognized that she was right: they couldn’t go on as they were. The sheer force of their feelings would convert to something toxic. They would come to resent each other for their inability to do what they wanted so badly. If the worst happened, he told himself, again and again, at least he would have behaved honorably. But somehow he didn’t believe the worst would happen. She would come. Everything about her told him she would.
He glanced at his watch again, and ran his fingers through his hair, his eyes darting over the few commuters emerging through the ticket barrier.
“This will be a good move for you,” Don had told him. “Keep you out of trouble.” He had wondered whether his editor was secretly relieved to have him in some other part of the world.
It might be, he answered him, moving out of the way as a crowd of bustling businessmen pushed past and climbed aboard the train. I have fifteen minutes to find out if that’s true.
It was barely believable. It had begun to rain shortly after she reached New Cavendish Street, the sky turning first a muddy orange, then black. As if at some silent instruction, every taxi was occupied. Every black outline she saw had its yellow light dimmed; some shadowy passenger already en route to wherever they needed to be. She took to waving her arm anyway. Don’t you realize how urgent this is? she wanted to shout at them. My life depends on this journey.
The rain was torrential now, coming down in sheets, like a tropical storm. Umbrellas shot up around her, their spikes jabbing into her as she shifted her weight from foot to foot on the curb. She grew damp, then properly wet.
As the minute hand of her watch crept closer to seven o’clock, the vague thrill of excitement had hardened into a lump of something like fear. She wasn’t going to get there in time. Any minute now Laurence would be searching for her. She couldn’t make it on foot, even if she ditched her suitcase.
Anxiety rose like a tide within her, and the traffic sloshed past, sending great sprays across the legs of the unwary.
It was when she saw the man in the red shirt that she thought of it. She began to run, pushing past the people who blocked her way, for once uncaring of the impression she made. She ran along the familiar streets until she found the one she was looking for. She parked her suitcase at the top of the stairs and ran down, hair flying, into the darkened club.
Felipe was standing at the bar, polishing glasses. Nobody else was there other than Sherrie, the cloakroom girl. The bar felt petrified in an overwhelming air of stillness, despite the low music in the background.
“He’s not here, lady.” Felipe didn’t even look up.
“I know.” She was so breathless she could barely speak. “But this is terribly important. Do you have a car?”
The look he gave her was not friendly. “I might.”
“Could you possibly give me a lift to the station?”
“You want me to give you a lift?” He took in her wet clothes, the hair plastered to her head.
“Yes. Yes! I only have fifteen minutes. Please.”
He studied her. She noticed a large, half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him.
“Please! I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t terribly important.” She leaned forward. “It’s to meet Tony. Look, I have money—” She rummaged in her pocket for the notes. They came out damp.
He reached behind him through a door and pulled out a set of keys. “I don’t want your money.”
“Thank you, oh, thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Hurry. We have less than fifteen minutes.”
His car was a short walk away, and by the time they reached it he, too, was soaked. He didn’t open the door for her, and she wrenched at it, hurling her dripping case with a grunt onto the backseat. “Please! Go!” she said, wiping wet fronds of hair from her face, but he was motionless in the driver’s seat, apparently thinking. Oh, God, please don’t be drunk, she told him silently. Please don’t tell me now that you can’t drive, that your car’s out of petrol, that you’ve changed your mind. “Please. There’s so little time.” She tried to keep the anguish from her voice.
“Mrs. Stirling? Before I drive you?”
“Yes?”
“I need to know . . . Tony, he is a good man, but . . .”
“I know he was married. I know about his son. I know about it all,” she said impatiently.
“He is more fragile than he lets on.”
“What?”
“Don’t break his heart. I have never seen him like this with a woman. If you are not sure, if you think there is even a chance you might go back to your husband, please don’t do this.”
The rain beat down on the roof of the little car. She reached out a hand, placed it on his arm. “I’m not . . . I’m not who you think I am. Really.”
He looked sideways at her.
“I—just want to be with him. I’m giving it all up for him. It’s just him. It’s Anthony,” she said, and the words made her want to laugh with fear and anxiety. “Now go! Please!”
“Okay,” he said, wrenching the car around so that the tires squealed. “Where to?” He pointed the car toward Euston Road, bashing the button in an attempt to make the windscreen wipers work. She thought distantly of Mrs. Cordoza’s windows, washed until they shone, then pulled the letter from the envelope.