The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes

Author:Jojo Moyes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3, pdf
ISBN: 0670022802
Publisher: Pamela Dorman Books
Published: 2010-01-02T00:00:00+00:00

She was still there, he was relieved to see. It was more than half an hour after their supposed meeting time. She was seated at a small table in the extravagantly frothy salon, where the plaster moldings resembled the icing on an overadorned Christmas cake and most of the other tables were occupied by elderly widows exclaiming in shocked, hushed tones at the wickedness of the modern world.

“I ordered tea,” she said, as he sat down opposite her, apologizing for the fifth time. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Her hair was down. She wore a black sweater and tailored fawn trousers. She was thinner than she had been. He supposed it was the fashion.

He attempted to regulate his breathing. He had pictured this moment so many times, sweeping her into his arms, their passionate reunion. Now he felt vaguely wrong-footed by her self-possession, the formality of the surroundings.

A waitress arrived, pushing a trolley from which she took a teapot, milk jug, some precision-cut sandwiches on white bread, cups, saucers, and plates. He realized he could probably fit four of the sandwiches into his mouth at once.

“Thank you.”

“You don’t . . . take sugar.” She frowned, as if she was trying to remember.

“No.”

They sipped their tea. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He kept stealing glances at her, noting tiny details. The familiar shape of her nails. Her wrists. The way she periodically lifted herself from her waist, as if some distant voice was telling her to sit up straight.

“Yesterday was such a shock,” she said finally, placing her cup on the saucer. “I . . . must apologize for how I behaved. You must have thought I was very odd.”

“Perfectly understandable. Not every day you see someone risen from the dead.”

A small smile. “Quite.”

Their eyes met and slid away. She leaned forward and poured more tea. “Where do you live now?”

“I’ve been in New York.”

“All this time?”

“There wasn’t really a reason to come back.”

Another heavy silence, which she broke: “You look well. Very well.”

She was right. It was impossible to live in the heart of Manhattan and stay scruffy. He had returned to England this year with a wardrobe of good suits and a host of new habits: hot shaves, shoe polishing, teetotalism. “You look lovely, Jennifer.”

“Thank you. Are you in England for long?”

“Probably not. I may be going overseas again.” He watched her face to see what effect this news might have on her. But she merely reached for the milk. “No,” he said, lifting a hand. “Thank you.”

Her hand stilled, as if she was disappointed in herself for having forgotten.

“What does the newspaper have in mind for you?” She put a sandwich on a plate and placed it in front of him.

“They’d like me to stay here, but I want to return to Africa. Things have become very complicated in Congo.”

“Isn’t it very dangerous there?”

“That’s not the point.”

“You want to be in the thick of it.”

“Yes. It’s an important story. Plus I have a horror of being deskbound.

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