The Last Letter from Your Lover

Jennifer.

“Hello, Boot,” she says.

Ellie sits in the car and wipes the steam from the passenger window with her sleeve. She’s parked on a red route, no doubt drawing down the wrath of the parking gods, but she doesn’t care. She can’t move.

She watches Jennifer’s steady progress down the path, sees the slight hesitation in her step that tells of her fears. Twice the older woman had insisted they return home, that they were too late, that all was lost, useless. Ellie had pretended to be deaf. Sang lalalalalalala until Jennifer Stirling told her, with uncharacteristic crossness, that she was an “interminable, ridiculous” girl.

She watches Jennifer moving forward under her umbrella and is afraid that she’ll turn and run away. This thing has shown her that age is no protection against the hazards of love. She has listened to Jennifer’s words, spinning wildly between triumph and disaster, and heard her own endless analyses of John’s words, her own desperate need for something that was so transparently wrong to be right. Her own conjuring of outcomes, emotions, from words whose meanings she could only guess at.

But Anthony O’Hare is a different creature.

She wipes the window again and sees Jennifer slow, then stop. And he is stepping out of the shadows, taller somehow than he had appeared before, stooping slightly at the shelter’s entrance before he stands squarely before her. They face each other, the slim woman in the mackintosh and the librarian. Even from this distance Ellie can see they are now oblivious to the rain, to the neat little park, to the curious eyes of observers. Their eyes have locked, and they stand as if they could stand there for a thousand years. Jennifer lets her umbrella fall, dips her head to one side, such a small movement, and lifts her hand tenderly to his face. As Ellie watches, Anthony’s own hand lifts and presses her palm against his skin.

Ellie Haworth watches a moment longer, then moves away from the window, lets the steam obscure the view. She shuffles over to the driving seat, blows her nose, and starts the engine. The best journalists know when to bow out of a story.

The house is in a Victorian terraced street, its windows and doorways iced in white masonry, the mismatched selection of blinds and curtains telling of the varied ownership within. She turns off the ignition, climbs out of the car, and walks up to the front door, gazing at the names on the two bells. It is only his name on the ground floor. She’s a little surprised; she had assumed he wouldn’t own a flat outright. But then, what does she know of his life before the newspaper? Nothing at all.

The article is in a large brown envelope, with his name on the front. She pushes it through the door, letting the letterbox clap loudly. She walks back to the front gate, climbs up, and sits on the brick pillar that supports it, her scarf pulled up around her face. She has become very good at sitting. She has discovered there is joy in letting the world move around her. It does so in the most unexpected ways.

“You spelled my name wrong. It’s R-u-a-r-i-d-h.”

She glances behind her, and he’s propped against the door frame, the newspaper in his hand. “I got a lot of things wrong.”

He is wearing the same long-sleeved T-shirt he had on the first time they spoke, soft from years of use. She remembers she liked the way he wasn’t fussy about his clothes. She knows how that T-shirt feels under her fingers.

“Nice piece,” he says, holding the newspaper up. “ ‘Dear John: Fifty Years of Love’s Last Letters.’ I see you’re the golden girl of Features again.”

“For now. Actually,” she says, “there’s one in there that I wrote myself. It’s something I would have said. Had I had the chance.”

It’s as if he hasn’t heard her. “And Jennifer let you use that Paddington letter.”

“Anonymously. Yes. She was great. I told her the whole thing, and she was great.” His face is even, untroubled.

Did you hear what I said? she asks him silently. “I think she was a little shocked, admittedly, but after everything that had happened, I don’t think she cared what I did.”

She stands there as he gazes at the article in his hands. “ ‘I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous, as you can’t always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written. So I’m going to be straightforward. I’m sorry. Forgive me. If there is any way I can change your opinion of me, please let me know.’” They had been the easiest words to write in the whole piece.

He folds the newspaper. “Anthony came here yesterday. He’s like a different man. I don’t know why he came. I think he just wanted to talk to someone.” He nods to himself, remembering. “He was wearing a new shirt and tie. And he’d had a haircut.”

The thought makes her smile, despite herself.

In the silence, Rory stretches on the step, his hands linked above his head. “It’s a nice thing you did.”

“I hope so,” she says. “It would be nice to think that someone got a happy ending.”

An old man walks past with a cane, the tip of his nose the color of red grapes, and all three murmur a greeting. When she looks up, Rory is looking at his feet. She watches him, wondering if this is the last time she will see him. I’m sorry, she tells him silently.

“I’d invite you in,” he says, “but I’m packing. Got a lot to do.” He places the folded newspaper under his arm.

She lifts a hand, trying not to let her disappointment show. She climbs down off the pillar, the fabric of her trousers catching slightly on the rough surface, and hoists her bag onto her shoulder. She can’t feel her feet.

“So . . . was there something you wanted? Other than to, you know, play papergirl?”

It’s turning cold. She shoves her hands into her pockets. He’s looking at her expectantly. She’s afraid to speak. If he says no, she’s afraid of how crushed she’ll feel. It’s why it’s taken her days to come here. But what does she have to lose? She’s never going to see him again.

She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to know . . . if you might write to me.”

“Write to you?”

“While you’re away. Look, I screwed up. I can’t ask anything of you, but I miss you. I really miss you. I’d—I’d just like to think that this wasn’t it. That we might”—she fidgets, rubs her nose—“write.”

“Write.”

“Just . . . stuff. What you’re doing. How it’s all going. Where you are.” The words sound feeble to her ears.

He has wedged his hands into his pockets and peers down the street. He doesn’t answer. The silence is as long as the street. “It’s freezing,” he says eventually.

Something large and heavy has settled in the pit of her stomach. Their story is over. He doesn’t have anything left to say to her. He glances behind him apologetically. “I’m letting all the heat out of the house.”

She can’t speak. She shrugs, as if in agreement, engineers a smile that she suspects looks like more of a grimace. As she turns away, she hears his voice again.

“I suppose you could come in and make me a coffee. While I’m sorting my socks. Actually, you owe me a coffee, if I remember rightly.”

When she turns back, his face has thawed. Actual warmth is still some degrees away, but it’s definitely there. “Perhaps you could run your eye over my Peruvian visa while you’re at it. Check I’ve spelled it all correctly.”

She lets her eyes rest on him now, on his socked feet, his too-longto-be-tidy brown hair. “You wouldn’t want to confuse your Patallacta with your Phuyupatamarca,” she says.

He raises his eyes to the heavens, slowly shaking his head. And, trying to hide her beaming smile, Ellie steps in behind him.