The last letter from your beloved continued. Last letter from your loved one
Charles - you wrote me the very note that started it all
Happy birthday! Sending you a gift, I hope you like it...
Today I especially think about you a lot ... You see, I decided that although I am in love with you, I still don’t love you. It seems to me that you are not the only one who was destined for me by God. Be that as it may, I hope you enjoy the gift and have a wonderful holiday.
Later. Purpose
Making her way through the crowd, Ellie Howorth finally made out her friends in the far corner of the bar. Walking up to the table, she throws her bag on the floor next to the chair and pulls out her phone. And they are already good, the girl thinks, looking at the empty bottles standing on the table. Although usually this is already noticeable: people begin to speak in strange voices, wave their arms extravagantly, and laugh out loud.
You are late. - Nicky defiantly looks at his watch and shakes his finger at her. - Just do not need all these: "Ah, I did not have time to finish the article."
Interview with an extremely talkative and resentful wife of an MP. Well, forgive me, this is for tomorrow's issue, - Ellie tries to justify herself, sitting down in an empty seat and pouring the rest of the wine into her glass. “Look, guys,” she says, placing her phone in the center of the table. - I propose for discussion another word that infuriates me: “later”.
Yeah, as a way of signaling that the conversation is over. "Later" is when? Tomorrow? Or today, but later? Or is it just such teenage excuses that mean nothing at all?
Well, it says “later” and also “Intact.”, looking at the glowing screen, Nicky interrupts her. - Something like " Good night". I think he means tomorrow.
Of course "tomorrow", - supports her friend Corinne. "Later" always means "tomorrow"...or even "the day after tomorrow," she adds after a moment's thought.
Some household stuff.
Bytovuha?
Well, you know, I could tell our postman that.
Would you say “kiss” to him too?
Why not? Nicky smiles slyly. - We have such an interesting postman ...
It seems to me that this is unfair, - looking at the phone screen, Corinne suddenly declares. - Maybe he generally meant that now he is busy and he urgently needs to go on business.
Yeah, to his wife, for example, - Douglas intervenes in the conversation, and Ellie gives him a warning look. - So what? Don't you think that you are already past the age when relationships are built on unraveling the hidden meaning of mysterious messages?
Okay… Ellie gulps down her wine and leans over the table. - If you are going to give me a lecture, then I urgently need another glass.
Fine. That is, in order to have sex right in the office, your relationship is close enough, but asking over a cup of coffee what he had in mind is already too much?
What else did he write about? Don't tell me about sex in his office.
“From home is inconvenient. Next week in Dublin, not sure yet. Later. Whole,” Ellie reads aloud.
Leaves itself an escape route, - comments Douglas.
Well… maybe he just doesn't know for sure yet.
Then he would have written: "I'll call from Dublin."
Charles - you wrote me the very note that started it all
Happy birthday! Sending you a gift, I hope you like it...
Today I especially think about you a lot ... You see, I decided that although I am in love with you, I still don’t love you. It seems to me that you are not the only one who was destined for me by God. Be that as it may, I hope you enjoy the gift and have a wonderful holiday.
Later. Purpose
Making her way through the crowd, Ellie Howorth finally made out her friends in the far corner of the bar. Walking up to the table, she throws her bag on the floor next to the chair and pulls out her phone. And they are already good, the girl thinks, looking at the empty bottles standing on the table. Although usually this is already noticeable: people begin to speak in strange voices, wave their arms extravagantly, and laugh out loud.
- You are late. Nicky looks defiantly at her watch and shakes her finger at her. - Just do not need all these: "Ah, I did not have time to finish the article."
— Interview with an extremely talkative and resentful wife of an MP. Well, forgive me, this is for tomorrow's issue, - Ellie tries to justify herself, sitting down in an empty seat and pouring the rest of the wine into her glass. “Look, guys,” she says, placing her phone in the center of the table. - I propose for discussion another word that infuriates me: “later”.
“Yeah, as a way of signaling that the conversation is over. "Later" is when? Tomorrow? Or today, but later? Or is it just such teenage excuses that mean nothing at all?
“Well, it says “later” and also “Intact.”, looking at the glowing screen, Nicky interrupts her. “Something like good night.” I think he means tomorrow.
“Tomorrow, of course,” Corinne supports her friend. "Later" always means "tomorrow"... or even "the day after tomorrow," she adds after a moment's thought.
- Some household stuff.
- Household?
“Well, you know, I could tell our postman that.
Would you say "kiss" to him too?
- Why not? Nicky smiles slyly. - We have such an interesting postman ...
“I don’t think this is fair,” Corinne suddenly declares looking at the phone screen. - Maybe he generally meant that he was busy now and urgently needed something on business.
“Yeah, to his wife, for example,” Douglas interjects, and Ellie gives him a warning look. - So what? Don't you think that you are already past the age when relationships are built on unraveling the hidden meaning of mysterious messages?
“Okay…” Ellie gulps down her wine and leans over the table. “If you are going to lecture me, then I urgently need another glass.
- Fine. That is, in order to have sex right in the office, your relationship is close enough, but asking over a cup of coffee what he had in mind is already too much?
What else did he write about? Don't tell me about sex in his office.
“From home is inconvenient. Next week in Dublin, not sure yet. Later. Whole,” Ellie reads aloud.
“Leaves an escape route for itself,” Douglas comments.
“Well… maybe he just doesn't know for sure yet.
- Then I would have written: "I'll call from Dublin."
Current page: 1 (total book has 26 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 6 pages]
Jojo Moyes
Last letter from your loved one
Charles - you wrote me the very note that started it all
THE LAST LETTER FROM YOUR LOVER
Copyright © 2010 Jojo Moyes
All rights reserved
This edition is published by arrangement
with Curtis Brown UK and The Van Lear Agency
The publication was prepared with the participation of the publishing house "Azbuka"
Translation from English Natalia Press
Cover illustration Ekaterina Platonova
Registration Ilya Kuchma
© N. Press, translation, 2013
© Azbuka-Atticus Publishing Group LLC, 2013
Inostranka ® Publishing House
Prologue
Happy birthday! Sending you a gift, I hope you like it...
Today I especially think about you a lot ... You see, I decided that although I am in love with you, I still don’t love you. It seems to me that you are not the only one who was destined for me by God. Be that as it may, I hope you enjoy the gift and have a wonderful holiday.
Woman to man, in a letter
Making her way through the crowd, Ellie Howorth finally made out her friends in the far corner of the bar. Walking up to the table, she throws her bag on the floor next to the chair and pulls out her phone. And they are already good, the girl thinks, looking at the empty bottles standing on the table. Although usually this is already noticeable: people begin to speak in strange voices, wave their arms extravagantly, and laugh out loud.
- You are late. Nicky looks defiantly at her watch and shakes her finger at her. - Just do not need all these: "Ah, I did not have time to finish the article."
— Interview with an extremely talkative and resentful wife of an MP. Well, forgive me, this is for tomorrow's issue, - Ellie tries to justify herself, sitting down in an empty seat and pouring the rest of the wine into her glass. “Look, guys,” she says, placing her phone in the center of the table. - I propose for discussion another word that infuriates me: “later”.
“Yeah, as a way of signaling that the conversation is over. “Later” is when? Tomorrow? Or today, but later? Or is it just such teenage excuses that mean nothing at all?
“Well, it says “later” and also “Intact.”, looking at the glowing screen, Nicky interrupts her. “Something like good night.” I think he means tomorrow.
“Tomorrow, of course,” Corinne encourages her friend. "Later" always means "tomorrow"... or even "the day after tomorrow," she adds after a moment's thought.
- Some household stuff.
- Household?
“Well, you know, I could tell our postman that.
Would you say "kiss" to him too?
- Why not? Nicky smiles slyly. - We have such an interesting postman ...
“I don’t think this is fair,” Corinne suddenly declares, looking at the phone screen. - Maybe he generally meant that he was busy now and urgently needed something to do.
“Yeah, to his wife, for example,” Douglas cuts in, and Ellie gives him a warning look. - So what? Don't you think that you are already past the age when relationships are built on unraveling the hidden meaning of mysterious messages?
“Okay…” Ellie gulps down her wine and leans over the table. – If you are going to give me a lecture, then I urgently need another glass.
- Fine. That is, in order to have sex right in the office, your relationship is close enough, but asking over a cup of coffee what he had in mind is already too much?
What else did he write about? Don't tell me about sex in his office.
“From home is inconvenient. Next week in Dublin, not sure yet. Later. Whole,” Ellie reads aloud.
“Leaves an escape route for itself,” Douglas comments.
“Well… maybe he just doesn't know for sure yet.
- Then I would write: "I'll call from Dublin." Better yet: "Bought you a ticket to Dublin."
Is your wife going with him?
- No, what are you, he never takes her with him on business trips.
“Maybe he takes someone else,” Douglas grumbles, sipping his beer.
“God, how much easier it was when men had to call and talk to women,” Nicky shakes her head thoughtfully. - Then it was possible to determine the degree of their unwillingness even by their voice.
“Yeah,” Corinne snorts, “we sat at that poor phone for hours and waited for a call.
- Oh-oh-oh, how many sleepless nights ...
- And you constantly pick up the phone to check if there is a dial tone ...
- But then you leave her - what if he calls you right now, at this very moment.
The girls laugh. Ellie realizes that they are absolutely right, but still looks hopefully at the phone - what if an incoming call is displayed on the flashing screen? But she knows perfectly well: he won’t call, because not only is it already late, it’s also “uncomfortable from home.”
Douglas offers to walk her home. Of them friendly company only he found himself a constant companion of life. Lena is a big shot in PR technologies, so she often stays at work until ten or eleven. She doesn't mind at all that from time to time Douglas goes to a bar with old girlfriends. A couple of times he took Lena with him, but she simply did not understand a good half of all the jokes, allusions and stories about mutual acquaintances - of course, because they have been friends for fifteen years. Therefore, she does not mind that Douglas meets with them without her.
- Well, how is life, are you serious? Ellie shoves him in the side, indicating that they need to bypass the supermarket cart, which someone left right on the sidewalk. - About yourself, as always, did not say anything, or did I listen?
“Nothing new,” Douglas replies. “Although no,” he admits, after a little hesitation, shoving his hands into his pockets, “actually, there is news. Uh-uh ... Lena wants a baby.
- Come on! Ellie blurts out in surprise.
“And I want too,” he adds hastily. - We have been thinking about it for a long time, but now we have decided that it is useless to wait for the right moment, because it is unlikely to ever come - why wait?
“Douglas, you are an incorrigible romantic.
“I… well, I don’t know… actually, I’m very glad, really. Lena will not have to leave work - I will sit with the child. Well, if, of course, everything works out, you yourself understand ...
- Do you really want it? Ellie asks, trying to remain calm.
- Yes. Work still doesn’t give me pleasure, and to be honest, it has been for a long time, and Lena earns a lot of money. I think I'll enjoy being at home all day with the baby.
- Actually, being a parent is not just “staying at home with a baby” ...
“I know, I know, look under your feet,” Douglas interrupts, gently taking her by the elbow and helping to bypass the puddle. “But I’m ready for this: I’m tired of hanging around bars every evening, I want to go to the next level. Don’t think, I’m not saying that I stopped liking our gatherings, it’s just that sometimes I think if it’s time for us to grow up a little… well, grow up, or something…
- Oh no! Ellie screeches, clutching at his sleeve. You've crossed over to the dark side of the Force...
“But I don’t feel about work the way you do. After all, work is everything to you, right?
“Almost everything,” she agrees.
They pass in silence for a couple of blocks, the howl of sirens, the slamming of car doors and other muffled sounds of a big city can be heard from afar. Ellie likes this part of the evening more than anything, when she is among friends and can, at least for a little while, forget about the uncertainty that pervades the rest of her life. She has had a wonderful evening at the bar and is going home to her cozy apartment. She is healthy. She has credit card with a large unused limit, there are plans for the weekend, and also, unlike the rest of the company, so far there is not a single gray hair - life is good.
Do you ever think about her? Douglas asks.
About John's wife. How do you think she knows everything?
All Ellie's dreams of happiness are shattered as soon as Douglas starts this conversation.
“I have no idea…” she replies curtly. “I would probably guess if I were in her place,” she adds, as Douglas is silent. He says that children are much more important to her. Sometimes I tell myself that maybe she's glad in a way that she doesn't have to worry about him. Well, you see, she doesn't need to make him happy.
- Masterful self-deception.
- Maybe ... But to be honest, the answer is no: I don’t think about her at all and don’t feel guilty. It seems to me that if they were doing well, if they had a real connection, John would never date me.
“Women have a very strange idea of men.
Do you think he's happy with her? Ellie asks, peering intently into Douglas's face.
- How should I know? I just think that if he sleeps with you, then this does not mean at all that he is unhappy with his wife.
The mood changes, and as if to indicate this change, Ellie lets go of his hand and straightens her scarf.
"So you're saying that I'm doing bad things?" Or that he is doing bad things?
Well, finally there was someone who told her about it. And not anyone, but Douglas. A person who is generally not inclined to judge others. It hurts.
“I don't think any of you are doing bad things. I just think about Lena, about how much our child will mean to her and that I could go left simply because the attention that I used to get will now belong to our child ...
“So you still think John is doing bad things.
“No…” Douglas shakes his head, stops, peering up at the night sky and trying to formulate a better answer. “It seems to me, Ellie, that you should be careful. You keep trying to guess what he means, what he really wants... You're wasting your time. For me, everything is much simpler: someone likes you, you like him too, you start dating, that's all.
“Douglas, you live in a beautiful non-existent world. Too bad it's different in real life.
– Okay, let's change the subject, we shouldn't talk about it after all that we drank today.
- No, wait! Ellie cuts her off sharply. What is on the mind of a sober man is on the tongue of a drunk. It's all right, at least now I know what you think about it. Then you can not see off, I'll go myself. Hi Lena.
The last two blocks to Ellie's house, she practically runs without looking back at her old friend.
The Nation is moving, box after box being sent to a new glass-walled building on a colorful, busy waterfront on the east side of the city. Over the past few weeks, the office has seemed to be slowly dissolving, towering mountains of press releases, documents, and archival clippings vanishing, leaving behind empty desks and unexpectedly huge, shiny laminated surfaces bathed in the merciless fluorescent light. What is happening is reminiscent of archaeological excavations: long-forgotten articles emerge, flags from the anniversaries of members of the royal family, army helmets with dents received in long-ended wars, inserted into the frame of letters of victory in long-forgotten competitions. Coils of wires and tiles removed from the floor are scattered everywhere, huge holes gape in the ceiling, reminiscent of the visits of pompous inspectors of the sanitary and epidemiological station, fire control and other departments with the same folders in their hands. The advertising department, the "Top Secret" section and sports news have already moved to Compass Key. Saturday Application, Business and Personal Finance are gearing up to move in the coming weeks. Feature writers, including Ellie, would soon follow in their footsteps, along with the newsroom. The move is planned to be carried out very quickly: if the Saturday issue will be prepared in the old office on Turner Street, then the Monday issue, as if by magic, will be made at the new address.
The building, which has housed the editorial office for almost a hundred years, no longer meets the requirements of the newspaper - an unpleasant, dry phrase from the management. The Board of Directors of the Nation decided that the old building does not reflect the dynamic line of modern news politics - there are too many hidden corners, the authorities noted with irritation, managers begin to cling to their familiar places.
- It should be noted! editor Melissa proclaims, standing in the middle of an almost empty office.
She's wearing a dark red silk dress that Ellie would have looked like a grandmother's nightgown and Melissa would have looked like an artifact of extravagant haute couture.
– Moving? Ellie clarifies, glancing at the cell phone on silent on the table. Then he glances at his colleagues, who are sitting silently, buried in their notebooks.
- Yes. I spoke to one of the librarians yesterday. He said that the archive was full of old documents that no one had touched for many years. I want some story, say, fifty years ago, in the section for women: how the position of a woman, fashion, women's professions. For example, two real stories next - how women lived then and now. - Melissa opens the folder, takes out several photocopies of the AZ format from it and says in the calm tone of a person who is used to being always listened to attentively: - Here, for example, from our section "Psychological Advice": "What should I do? My wife does not want to dress nicely and take care of herself. I make £1500 a year and my sales career is just beginning. Often clients invite me somewhere with their spouse, but in recent times I have to refuse, because the wife looks just awful ". There are stifled chuckles in the office, but Melissa calmly continues: “I tried to tell her about it somehow softer, but she says that she is not at all interested in jewelry or cosmetics. To be honest, she doesn't look like a wife at all. successful person, but I would like it to look like this".
Once, in a conversation with Ellie, John casually mentioned that after the birth of children, his wife stopped caring about her appearance, but immediately changed the subject and never spoke about it again, as if it seemed to him a much more terrible betrayal than the fact itself that he is sleeping with another woman. Ellie, on the one hand, was outraged by his gentlemanly gesture towards his wife, and on the other, she began to admire him even more.
However, the seeds fell on fertile ground, and Ellie imagined John's wife in all colors: a sloppy dressing gown, covered in stains, a child under her arm and constant reproaches for all possible shortcomings. Ellie barely resisted telling him: "But I will never be like that."
“You could interview some modern female psychologist who answers these kinds of letters these days,” suggested Saturday's editor Rupert, bending over the photocopies.
- I don't think it's necessary. You listen to the answer: “Perhaps it never occurred to your wife that she is a dummy in the window of your career. Perhaps she simply tells herself that she is already married, her life is arranged, she is happy, so what is all this for? If she even thinks about it, of course.”.
- Oh, this eternal rest of the marital bed! Rupert exclaims.
– “I have watched more than once how girls in love surprisingly quickly turn into women who spend their time aimlessly in a cozy family nest. At first, they burst with energy, heroically fight with every extra pound, stay up at night, thinking where to buy stockings with an arrow, and pour pints of perfume on themselves. And then a man appears, says: “I love you,” and the chic young lady, in an incomprehensible way, immediately turns into a dishwasher - a happy dishwasher. ”.
The office is filled with polite, approving laughter for a second.
What do you girls choose? Fight heroically with extra pounds or become a happy dishwasher?
“I think I saw a movie with that name recently,” Rupert says casually, and immediately buries himself in his notebook, as dead silence reigns in the office after his remark.
– There is something to work on! Melissa proclaims, tapping her finger on the folder. “Ellie, dig through the archives after dinner, maybe you can find something else. We are interested in how women lived forty or fifty years ago. Perhaps a hundred is too much, too incomprehensible. The editor-in-chief wants us to cover our move in a way that will captivate readers.
Will I have to work in the archive?
- Any problems?
No, no problem. Of course, provided that you like to spend time in dark basements, sorting through the deposits of issues of the centrist newspaper, which was published by abnormal Stalinist men, and delving into materials that have not been of interest to anyone for thirty years.
“What are you, no problem,” Ellie smiles broadly. I'm sure I'll dig up something.
- If you want gels, take one of the Labor supporters to help you. They say there are a couple of people in the fashion news department...
Ellie does not even notice how gloatingly the editor says the last phrase. Recently, Melissa finally finished with the next upstarts, aiming at the new Anna Wintour 1
Anna Wintour is the editor-in-chief of the American edition of Vogue magazine. - Here and further approx. transl.
He does not notice, because he thinks only about one thing: in the basement, the mobile does not catch. Heck!
“By the way, Ellie, where were you this morning?”
- This morning. I wanted you to rewrite that article about children and bereavement, but no one knew where to find you. What does it mean?
- I did an interview.
- Well, who is it? Melissa asks with a smile, but Ellie, a natural sign language expert, immediately realizes that this is not a smile, but rather a predatory grin.
- A lawyer. Insider Information2
Insider information is a company's non-publicly disclosed information. - Approx. ed.
About the manifestations of sexism in parliament, - Ellie quickly answers and immediately regrets that she opened her mouth at all.
- Sexism in business circles. Yes, I also have news ... Please continue to come to the office on time. Questionable interviews can be done in your own time. It's clear?
- That is great. I need a full page article for the first edition of Compass Key. Something along the lines of "plus 5a change" 3
Much has changed (fr.).
Melissa continues, scribbling quickly on a leather-bound notebook. - Professions, announcements, letters from readers ... Bring today at the end of the day what you find, then we will decide.
“Of course,” Ellie hurries to assure her, walking with the others towards the exit.
Ellie has the most radiant and professional smile in the entire office.
Spent the day today in modern purgatory, she writes, pausing to take a sip of wine. Newspaper archive. Be glad you can make up your own stories.
John wrote to her in a chat on a hotmail, where he is registered under the nickname Clicker - only the two of them understand what's funny about it. Ellie climbs into a chair with legs and waits for the computer to make a characteristic sound that she has received an answer.
The screen will display:
Oh you ignoramus. I love archives. Remind me when we decide to have fun again, so next time I'll take you to the National Library of Journalism.
Ellie writes with a smile:
Do you know how to please a girl?
I try my best.
The only humanoid librarian in our archive gave me a pile of papers. Not the most interesting reading before bed.
She sends a message and immediately thinks if it sounds too pathetic, adds an emoji and immediately regrets it, recalling that he recently wrote an essay for the Literary Review that emojis are clear evidence of how poor modern communication is. .
It was an ironic smiley, she adds, pressing her hand to her mouth excitedly, waiting for a response.
Wait a minute. They call me.
The screen turns off.
They call me ... Wife? John is now in his suite in Dublin. He says it's a great view of the sea.
You would love it.
So what is his answer to that? Take me with you next time? Too insistent. Surely you would like it? It sounds kind of poignant.
Yes, she writes after a long torment and sighs loudly - all the same, he does not hear ...
She is to blame, her friends vying with each other tell her. And, most surprisingly, this time Ellie completely agrees with them.
They met on book festival in Suffolk. Ellie was sent there to interview a trendy writer who had made a fortune from thrillers, giving up trying to publish something more literary. The author's name is John Armor, the protagonist his Dan Hobson books are a fusion of old-fashioned notions of masculinity and resemble a cartoon character. She had arranged to have lunch with him, and on her way to the interview, she expected him to start clumsily defending such literature, perhaps letting out a sigh or two of anguish on the subject of the publishing business, acting like all the other boring writers. Ellie prepared to endure an hour in the company of yet another belly-eaten middle-aged fat man sitting at her desk, but at the table was a tall, fit man whose tanned, freckled face reminded her of South African farmers who had seen life. He turned out to be a funny and charming guy, an attentive listener, and also had a fair amount of self-criticism. It seemed that he was interviewing her: he asked Ellie about how she lives, and only after that he told her his theory of the origin of the language and told her that, in his opinion, communication between people is gradually degenerating, turning into a miserable semblance of true communication.
When coffee was brought to them, Ellie was suddenly horrified to find that she had not taken notes for forty minutes. They left the restaurant and headed back to the site of the literary festival. was approaching New Year The wintry sun shone dimly on the rooftops of Suffolk's main street, and the noise of the city faded away. Ellie overdid it a little, she did not want to leave the restaurant at all, and the words left her tongue before she had time to think about whether to say it out loud.
Well, don't you like the way they sound?
- Who are they?
- Languages. Spanish, for example… No, Italian. That's why I love Italian opera and can't stand German opera. All those rough guttural sounds, phew! - Ellie blurted out and, not hearing anything in response, got nervous. “I know it's terribly unfashionable, but I love Puccini. Such intensity of passion! And this is a rolling “rrr”, but a clear staccato phrasing,” she continued stuttering, beginning, however, to realize that her monologue sounds ridiculously pompous and pretentious.
John stopped, glanced at the distant street and, turning to Ellie, carefully looked into her eyes.
- I don't like opera! he challenged.
Oh my God, Ellie thought in horror, feeling the earth sway under her feet and treacherously sucked in her stomach. They looked at each other in silence for a full minute, and then he spoke, calling her by name for the first time:
“Listen, Ellie… I need to pick up something from the hotel before I get back to the festival. Do you want with me?
They pounced on each other even before he closed the bedroom door, bodies intertwined, lips eagerly seeking a kiss, hands hastily ripping off their clothes as if performing the movements of some frantic dance.
Subsequently, recalling this, she admired the way she behaved - as if she had experienced a temporary clouding of her mind. She replayed this scene in her head hundreds of times, but gradually began to forget about the feeling of something important, about the emotions that overwhelmed her at that moment. And in the end, the memory turned into many scattered fragments: her completely inappropriate everyday underwear, hurriedly thrown on the ironing board, their insane laughter as they lay on the floor, covered with a synthetic blanket with the hotel's monogram, his joyful and completely inappropriate appearance when he gave the administrator the key to the room before leaving.
John called her two days later, and the euphoria of what had happened was immediately replaced by a slight disappointment when his voice on the phone said:
You know that I am married. I must have read it in the articles.
“I read everything about you that I found on Google,” she admitted quietly.
- I have never ... never cheated on my wife and I still don’t understand how it happened ...
“I think it’s all the casserole’s fault,” Ellie joked in an exaggerated way.
“What are you doing to me, Ellie Howorth? Forty-eight hours have passed since our meeting, and I still haven’t written a single line… Because of you, I forget what I wanted to say,” he added embarrassedly.
So I'm lost, Ellie thought. She knew it the very moment she felt the heaviness of his body and the warmth of his lips. Despite everything she told her friends about married men, despite everything she firmly believed in, all it took was the slightest step forward from him, and she was gone.
And now, a year later, she has not been found - to be honest, she did not even try.
He reappears online almost forty-five minutes later. During this time, Ellie moved away from the computer, poured herself more wine, wandered aimlessly around the apartment, went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror for a long time, collected the socks scattered around the apartment and put them in the laundry basket. Then there was a characteristic sound - a message came - and she settled back into the chair in front of the computer.
Sorry. I didn't think it would take so long. Hopefully we'll chat tomorrow.
He asked her not to call him on his mobile under any circumstances - printouts from the operator are usually detailed.
Are you at the hotel now? she picks up quickly. Can I call your number? Really talking to him is a luxury, rarely given the chance. God, she just needed to hear his voice.
Later. Purpose
And disappears.
Ellie sits staring at a blank screen. Now John will leave the room, walk along the hotel lobby, charm all the administrators along the way, go out into the street and get into the car that the festival organizers sent for him. In the evening, he will immediately give out a stunning toast, and then he will entertain those who are lucky enough to sit at the same table with him, and from time to time peer dreamily into the distance. He will live a real life, and she ... Ge life seemed to be paused.
What is she doing?
– What am I doing? Ellie says aloud, clicking on the "Minimize Window" sign. She falls on the huge empty bed and, looking at the ceiling of the bedroom, groans from her own impotence. You can’t call your friends: she has already talked to them about it a hundred times and always got the same reaction - it’s understandable, but how else should they react? Doug's words that evening hurt her deeply, but in a similar situation, she herself would have said the same thing.
Ellie sits down on the sofa, turns on the TV, and then her eyes suddenly fall on a stack of paper on the table, and she thinks about the article. Scolding Melissa for what the world stands, Ellie begins to understand the archival materials - sheer chaos, it seems, so the librarian told her, no headings, no dates. “I don’t have time to sort through all the papers. We have to throw away a lot of these piles,” the only librarian under fifty told her. I wonder why I haven't seen him before, Ellie casually asks herself.
“Look, maybe you can use something,” he said, and then he leaned over and whispered in her ear in a conspiratorial tone: “You can throw out everything you don’t need, just don’t tell the boss.” We just don't have time to deal with all this pile of paper.
Soon she begins to understand him: several reviews on theatrical performances, a list of passengers on a cruise ship, several dinner menus that were attended by newspaper celebrities. She scans them quickly, glancing at the television from time to time. Yes, it is unlikely that any of this rubbish will be able to interest Melissa ...
Ellie flips through a tattered folder that looks like some sort of medical record. Everywhere we are talking about lung diseases, she notes to herself, all patients are related to the mines. She is about to toss the folder into the wastebasket, when suddenly a blue piece of paper sticking out of the middle catches her attention. Pulling it out with her thumb and forefinger, she discovers that it is not a piece of paper at all, but an open envelope with a handwritten postal address. Inside is a letter dated October 4, 1960.
My dear, my only one!
I spoke seriously. I came to the conclusion that there is only one way out: one of us must decide on a desperate step. I really think so.
I'm not like that the strong man, how are you. When we met, I thought that you were a fragile creature that needed my protection, but now I understand: everything is not so. You are a strong man, you can go on living knowing that real love possible, but we will never have the right to it.
Please don't judge me for my weakness. For me the only way survive this - go to a place where we will never see each other, where I will not be haunted by the thought that I might accidentally meet you with him on the street. I need to be where life itself will stubbornly make me forget about you, driving away thoughts of you minute by minute, hour by hour. It won't happen here.
I decided to accept this job. Friday at 7.15 pm I will be standing on platform four at Paddington Station and nothing in the world will make me happier than if you have the courage to leave with me.
If you do not come, I will understand that, despite all our feelings for each other, they are still not enough. I won't blame you for anything, dear. I know these last weeks have been unbearable for you, and I understand perfectly how you feel. I hate myself for being the cause of your unhappiness.
I'll be waiting for you on the platform from 7.15. Remember that my heart and my future are in your hands.
Your
Ellie rereads the letter again, feeling tears well up in her eyes for some inexplicable reason. She can't take her eyes off the large, sweeping handwriting: the sincerity of these words, even forty years after they were written, is simply stunning. She turns the envelope in her hands, looking for any clue. Recipient's address: P.O. Box 13, London. And what did you do, PO Box 13, mentally asks the addressee Ellie, and then gets up, carefully puts the letter in an envelope, goes to the computer, opens the mail and clicks "Update". Nothing - the last message received at seven forty-five flickers on the screen:
It's time for me to go to dinner, pretty girl. Sorry - I'm already late.
Charles - you wrote me the very note that started it all
THE LAST LETTER FROM YOUR LOVER
Copyright © 2010 Jojo Moyes
All rights reserved
This edition is published by arrangement
with Curtis Brown UK and The Van Lear Agency
The publication was prepared with the participation of the publishing house "Azbuka"
Translation from English Natalia Press
Cover illustration Ekaterina Platonova
Registration Ilya Kuchma
© N. Press, translation, 2013
© Azbuka-Atticus Publishing Group LLC, 2013
Inostranka ® Publishing House
Prologue
Happy birthday! Sending you a gift, I hope you like it...
Today I especially think about you a lot ... You see, I decided that although I am in love with you, I still don’t love you. It seems to me that you are not the only one who was destined for me by God. Be that as it may, I hope you enjoy the gift and have a wonderful holiday.
Woman to man, in a letter
Making her way through the crowd, Ellie Howorth finally made out her friends in the far corner of the bar. Walking up to the table, she throws her bag on the floor next to the chair and pulls out her phone. And they are already good, the girl thinks, looking at the empty bottles standing on the table. Although usually this is already noticeable: people begin to speak in strange voices, wave their arms extravagantly, and laugh out loud.
- You are late. Nicky looks defiantly at her watch and shakes her finger at her. - Just do not need all these: "Ah, I did not have time to finish the article."
— Interview with an extremely talkative and resentful wife of an MP. Well, forgive me, this is for tomorrow's issue, - Ellie tries to justify herself, sitting down in an empty seat and pouring the rest of the wine into her glass. “Look, guys,” she says, placing her phone in the center of the table. - I propose for discussion another word that infuriates me: “later”.
“Yeah, as a way of signaling that the conversation is over. “Later” is when? Tomorrow? Or today, but later? Or is it just such teenage excuses that mean nothing at all?
“Well, it says “later” and also “Intact.”, looking at the glowing screen, Nicky interrupts her. “Something like good night.” I think he means tomorrow.
“Tomorrow, of course,” Corinne encourages her friend. "Later" always means "tomorrow"... or even "the day after tomorrow," she adds after a moment's thought.
- Some household stuff.
- Household?
“Well, you know, I could tell our postman that.
Would you say "kiss" to him too?
- Why not? Nicky smiles slyly. - We have such an interesting postman ...
“I don’t think this is fair,” Corinne suddenly declares, looking at the phone screen. - Maybe he generally meant that he was busy now and urgently needed something to do.
“Yeah, to his wife, for example,” Douglas cuts in, and Ellie gives him a warning look. - So what? Don't you think that you are already past the age when relationships are built on unraveling the hidden meaning of mysterious messages?
“Okay…” Ellie gulps down her wine and leans over the table. – If you are going to give me a lecture, then I urgently need another glass.
- Fine.
That is, in order to have sex right in the office, your relationship is close enough, but asking over a cup of coffee what he had in mind is already too much?
What else did he write about? Don't tell me about sex in his office.
“From home is inconvenient. Next week in Dublin, not sure yet. Later. Whole,” Ellie reads aloud.
“Leaves an escape route for itself,” Douglas comments.
“Well… maybe he just doesn't know for sure yet.
- Then I would write: "I'll call from Dublin." Better yet: "Bought you a ticket to Dublin."
Is your wife going with him?
- No, what are you, he never takes her with him on business trips.
“Maybe he takes someone else,” Douglas grumbles, sipping his beer.
“God, how much easier it was when men had to call and talk to women,” Nicky shakes her head thoughtfully. - Then it was possible to determine the degree of their unwillingness even by their voice.
“Yeah,” Corinne snorts, “we sat at that poor phone for hours and waited for a call.
- Oh-oh-oh, how many sleepless nights ...
- And you constantly pick up the phone to check if there is a dial tone ...
- But then you leave her - what if he calls you right now, at this very moment.
The girls laugh. Ellie realizes that they are absolutely right, but still looks hopefully at the phone - what if an incoming call is displayed on the flashing screen? But she knows perfectly well: he won’t call, because not only is it already late, it’s also “uncomfortable from home.”
Douglas offers to walk her home. Of their friendly company, only he found himself a constant life partner. Lena is a big shot in PR technologies, so she often stays at work until ten or eleven. She doesn't mind at all that from time to time Douglas goes to a bar with old girlfriends. A couple of times he took Lena with him, but she simply did not understand a good half of all the jokes, allusions and stories about mutual acquaintances - of course, because they have been friends for fifteen years. Therefore, she does not mind that Douglas meets with them without her.
- Well, how is life, are you serious? Ellie shoves him in the side, indicating that they need to bypass the supermarket cart, which someone left right on the sidewalk. - About yourself, as always, did not say anything, or did I listen?
“Nothing new,” Douglas replies. “Although no,” he admits, after a little hesitation, shoving his hands into his pockets, “actually, there is news. Uh-uh ... Lena wants a baby.
- Come on! Ellie blurts out in surprise.
“And I want too,” he adds hastily. - We have been thinking about it for a long time, but now we have decided that it is useless to wait for the right moment, because it is unlikely to ever come - why wait?
“Douglas, you are an incorrigible romantic.
“I… well, I don’t know… actually, I’m very glad, really. Lena will not have to leave work - I will sit with the child. Well, if, of course, everything works out, you yourself understand ...
- Do you really want it? Ellie asks, trying to remain calm.
- Yes. Work still doesn’t give me pleasure, and to be honest, it has been for a long time, and Lena earns a lot of money. I think I'll enjoy being at home all day with the baby.
- Actually, being a parent is not just “staying at home with a baby” ...
“I know, I know, look under your feet,” Douglas interrupts, gently taking her by the elbow and helping to bypass the puddle. “But I’m ready for this: I’m tired of hanging around bars every evening, I want to go to the next level. Don’t think, I’m not saying that I stopped liking our gatherings, it’s just that sometimes I think if it’s time for us to grow up a little… well, grow up, or something…
- Oh no! Ellie screeches, clutching at his sleeve. You've crossed over to the dark side of the Force...
“But I don’t feel about work the way you do. After all, work is everything to you, right?
“Almost everything,” she agrees.
They pass in silence for a couple of blocks, the howl of sirens, the slamming of car doors and other muffled sounds of a big city can be heard from afar. Ellie likes this part of the evening more than anything, when she is among friends and can, at least for a little while, forget about the uncertainty that pervades the rest of her life. She has had a wonderful evening at the bar and is going home to her cozy apartment. She is healthy. She has a credit card with a large unused limit, she has plans for the weekend, and, unlike the rest of the company, she does not yet have a single gray hair - life is good.
Do you ever think about her? Douglas asks.
About John's wife. How do you think she knows everything?
All Ellie's dreams of happiness are shattered as soon as Douglas starts this conversation.
“I have no idea…” she replies curtly. “I would probably guess if I were in her place,” she adds, as Douglas is silent. He says that children are much more important to her. Sometimes I tell myself that maybe she's glad in a way that she doesn't have to worry about him. Well, you see, she doesn't need to make him happy.
- Masterful self-deception.
- Maybe ... But to be honest, the answer is no: I don’t think about her at all and don’t feel guilty. It seems to me that if they were doing well, if they had a real connection, John would never date me.
“Women have a very strange idea of men.
Do you think he's happy with her? Ellie asks, peering intently into Douglas's face.
- How should I know? I just think that if he sleeps with you, then this does not mean at all that he is unhappy with his wife.
The mood changes, and as if to indicate this change, Ellie lets go of his hand and straightens her scarf.
"So you're saying that I'm doing bad things?" Or that he is doing bad things?
Well, finally there was someone who told her about it. And not anyone, but Douglas. A person who is generally not inclined to judge others. It hurts.
“I don't think any of you are doing bad things. I just think about Lena, about how much our child will mean to her and that I could go left simply because the attention that I used to get will now belong to our child ...
“So you still think John is doing bad things.
“No…” Douglas shakes his head, stops, peering up at the night sky and trying to formulate a better answer. “It seems to me, Ellie, that you should be careful. You keep trying to guess what he means, what he really wants... You're wasting your time. For me, everything is much simpler: someone likes you, you like him too, you start dating, that's all.
“Douglas, you live in a beautiful non-existent world. Too bad it's different in real life.
– Okay, let's change the subject, we shouldn't talk about it after all that we drank today.
- No, wait! Ellie cuts her off sharply. What is on the mind of a sober man is on the tongue of a drunk. It's all right, at least now I know what you think about it. Then you can not see off, I'll go myself. Hi Lena.
The last two blocks to Ellie's house, she practically runs without looking back at her old friend.
The Nation is moving, box after box being sent to a new glass-walled building on a colorful, busy waterfront on the east side of the city. Over the past few weeks, the office has seemed to be slowly dissolving, towering mountains of press releases, documents, and archival clippings vanishing, leaving behind empty desks and unexpectedly huge, shiny laminated surfaces bathed in the merciless fluorescent light. What is happening is reminiscent of archaeological excavations: long-forgotten articles emerge, flags from the anniversaries of members of the royal family, army helmets with dents received in long-ended wars, inserted into the frame of letters of victory in long-forgotten competitions. Coils of wires and tiles removed from the floor are scattered everywhere, huge holes gape in the ceiling, reminiscent of the visits of pompous inspectors of the sanitary and epidemiological station, fire control and other departments with the same folders in their hands. The advertising department, the "Top Secret" section and sports news have already moved to Compass Key. Saturday Application, Business and Personal Finance are gearing up to move in the coming weeks. Feature writers, including Ellie, would soon follow in their footsteps, along with the newsroom. The move is planned to be carried out very quickly: if the Saturday issue will be prepared in the old office on Turner Street, then the Monday issue, as if by magic, will be made at the new address.
The building, which has housed the editorial office for almost a hundred years, no longer meets the requirements of the newspaper - an unpleasant, dry phrase from the management. The Board of Directors of the Nation decided that the old building does not reflect the dynamic line of modern news politics - there are too many hidden corners, the authorities noted with irritation, managers begin to cling to their familiar places.
- It should be noted! editor Melissa proclaims, standing in the middle of an almost empty office.
She's wearing a dark red silk dress that Ellie would have looked like a grandmother's nightgown and Melissa would have looked like an artifact of extravagant haute couture.
– Moving? Ellie clarifies, glancing at the cell phone on silent on the table. Then he glances at his colleagues, who are sitting silently, buried in their notebooks.
- Yes. I spoke to one of the librarians yesterday. He said that the archive was full of old documents that no one had touched for many years. I want some story, say, fifty years ago, to appear in the women's section: how the position of women, fashion, women's professions have changed. For example, two real stories side by side - how women lived then and now. - Melissa opens the folder, takes out several photocopies of the AZ format from it and says in the calm tone of a person who is used to being always listened to attentively: - Here, for example, from our section "Psychological Advice": "What should I do? My wife does not want to dress nicely and take care of herself. I make £1500 a year and my sales career is just beginning. Often clients invite me somewhere with their spouse, but lately I have to refuse, because my wife looks just awful.. There are stifled chuckles in the office, but Melissa calmly continues: “I tried to tell her about it somehow softer, but she says that she is not at all interested in jewelry or cosmetics. To be honest, she doesn’t look like the wife of a successful person, and I would like her to look like that.”.
Once, in a conversation with Ellie, John casually mentioned that after the birth of children, his wife stopped caring about her appearance, but immediately changed the subject and never spoke about it again, as if it seemed to him a much more terrible betrayal than the fact itself that he is sleeping with another woman. Ellie, on the one hand, was outraged by his gentlemanly gesture towards his wife, and on the other, she began to admire him even more.
However, the seeds fell on fertile ground, and Ellie imagined John's wife in all colors: a sloppy dressing gown, covered in stains, a child under her arm and constant reproaches for all possible shortcomings. Ellie barely resisted telling him: "But I will never be like that."
“You could interview some modern female psychologist who answers these kinds of letters these days,” suggested Saturday's editor Rupert, bending over the photocopies.
- I don't think it's necessary. You listen to the answer: “Perhaps it never occurred to your wife that she is a dummy in the window of your career. Perhaps she simply tells herself that she is already married, her life is arranged, she is happy, so what is all this for? If she even thinks about it, of course.”.
- Oh, this eternal rest of the marital bed! Rupert exclaims.
– “I have watched more than once how girls in love surprisingly quickly turn into women who spend their time aimlessly in a cozy family nest. At first, they burst with energy, heroically fight with every extra pound, stay up at night, thinking where to buy stockings with an arrow, and pour pints of perfume on themselves. And then a man appears, says: “I love you,” and the chic young lady, in an incomprehensible way, immediately turns into a dishwasher - a happy dishwasher. ”.
The office is filled with polite, approving laughter for a second.
What do you girls choose? Fight heroically with extra pounds or become a happy dishwasher?
“I think I saw a movie with that name recently,” Rupert says casually, and immediately buries himself in his notebook, as dead silence reigns in the office after his remark.
– There is something to work on! Melissa proclaims, tapping her finger on the folder. “Ellie, dig through the archives after dinner, maybe you can find something else. We are interested in how women lived forty or fifty years ago. Perhaps a hundred is too much, too incomprehensible. The editor-in-chief wants us to cover our move in a way that will captivate readers.
Will I have to work in the archive?
- Any problems?
No, no problem. Of course, provided that you like to spend time in dark basements, sorting through the deposits of issues of the centrist newspaper, which was published by abnormal Stalinist men, and delving into materials that have not been of interest to anyone for thirty years.
“What are you, no problem,” Ellie smiles broadly. I'm sure I'll dig up something.
- If you want gels, take one of the Labor supporters to help you. They say there are a couple of people in the fashion news department...
Ellie does not even notice how gloatingly the editor says the last phrase. Recently, Melissa finally finished with the next upstarts, aiming at the new Anna Wintour 1
Anna Wintour is the editor-in-chief of the American edition of Vogue magazine. - Here and further approx. transl.He does not notice, because he thinks only about one thing: in the basement, the mobile does not catch. Heck!
“By the way, Ellie, where were you this morning?”
- This morning. I wanted you to rewrite that article about children and bereavement, but no one knew where to find you. What does it mean?
- I did an interview.
- Well, who is it? Melissa asks with a smile, but Ellie, a natural sign language expert, immediately realizes that this is not a smile, but rather a predatory grin.
- A lawyer. Insider Information 2
Insider information is a company's non-publicly disclosed information. - Approx. ed.About the manifestations of sexism in parliament, - Ellie quickly answers and immediately regrets that she opened her mouth at all.
- Sexism in business circles. Yes, I also have news ... Please continue to come to the office on time. Questionable interviews can be done in your own time. It's clear?
- That is great. I need a full page article for the first edition of Compass Key. Something along the lines of "plus 5a change" 3
Much has changed (fr.).Melissa continues, scribbling quickly on a leather-bound notebook. - Professions, announcements, letters from readers ... Bring today at the end of the day what you find, then we will decide.
“Of course,” Ellie hurries to assure her, walking with the others towards the exit.
Ellie has the most radiant and professional smile in the entire office.
Spent the day today in modern purgatory, she writes, pausing to take a sip of wine. Newspaper archive. Be glad you can make up your own stories.
John wrote to her in a chat on a hotmail, where he is registered under the nickname Clicker - only the two of them understand what's funny about it. Ellie climbs into a chair with legs and waits for the computer to make a characteristic sound that she has received an answer.
The screen will display:
Oh you ignoramus. I love archives. Remind me when we decide to have fun again, so next time I'll take you to the National Library of Journalism.
Ellie writes with a smile:
Do you know how to please a girl?
I try my best.
The only humanoid librarian in our archive gave me a pile of papers. Not the most interesting reading before bed.
She sends a message and immediately thinks if it sounds too pathetic, adds an emoji and immediately regrets it, recalling that he recently wrote an essay for the Literary Review that emojis are clear evidence of how poor modern communication is. .
It was an ironic smiley, she adds, pressing her hand to her mouth excitedly, waiting for a response.
Wait a minute. They call me.
The screen turns off.
They call me ... Wife? John is now in his suite in Dublin. He says it's a great view of the sea.
You would love it.
So what is his answer to that? Take me with you next time? Too insistent. Surely you would like it? It sounds kind of poignant.
Yes, she writes after a long torment and sighs loudly - all the same, he does not hear ...
She is to blame, her friends vying with each other tell her. And, most surprisingly, this time Ellie completely agrees with them.
They met at the Suffolk Book Festival. Ellie was sent there to interview a trendy writer who had made a fortune from thrillers, giving up trying to publish something more literary. The author's name is John Armor, and the protagonist of his books, Dan Hobson, is a fusion of old-fashioned notions of masculinity and resembles a cartoon character. She had arranged to have lunch with him, and on her way to the interview, she expected him to start clumsily defending such literature, perhaps letting out a sigh or two of anguish on the subject of the publishing business, acting like all the other boring writers. Ellie prepared to endure an hour in the company of yet another belly-eaten middle-aged fat man sitting at her desk, but at the table was a tall, fit man whose tanned, freckled face reminded her of South African farmers who had seen life. He turned out to be a funny and charming guy, an attentive listener, and also had a fair amount of self-criticism. It seemed that he was interviewing her: he asked Ellie about how she lives, and only after that he told her his theory of the origin of the language and told her that, in his opinion, communication between people is gradually degenerating, turning into a miserable semblance of true communication.
When coffee was brought to them, Ellie was suddenly horrified to find that she had not taken notes for forty minutes. They left the restaurant and headed back to the site of the literary festival. It was New Year's Eve, the winter sun shone dimly on the low-rise rooftops of Suffolk's main street, and the noise of the city was gradually dying down. Ellie overdid it a little, she did not want to leave the restaurant at all, and the words left her tongue before she had time to think about whether to say it out loud.
Jojo Moyes
Last letter from your loved one
One morning the doctor informed her that her discharge was nearing. It was frosty weather, wisps of smoke lined the bright blue winter sky over the capital, as if covering it with a white weightless cobweb. She could now walk down the corridor by herself, swapping magazines with other patients who were talking animatedly with the nurses or listening to the radio if the mood was right. Doctors said that after the second operation, the arm healed well, although any touch on the long purple scar where the plate was inserted made her wince in pain, so she always tried to wear long sleeves. Her hearing and vision returned to normal, thousands of small cuts from broken glass gradually healed, bruises disappeared, a broken rib and collarbone healed, and now she could sleep in different positions without feeling pain.She had become in every respect "herself," they assured her, as if they thought that if she repeated this often, sooner or later she would understand what they meant and remember everything. Her mother sat in her room for hours, flipping through fat albums of black-and-white photographs, trying to show Jennifer her own life.
The mother said that she got married four years ago, and then quietly added that she and her husband had no children yet, which somewhat disappointed others. She lives in a beautiful mansion in the most respectable area of London, she has a housekeeper and a chauffeur - many young ladies would give anything to get at least half of what she has. Her husband is a prominent businessman, does something related to the mines, often travels on business trips, but is so devoted to her that since she had an accident, he even canceled several extremely important trips. The clinic staff spoke of her husband with such respect that, apparently, he really was important person, which means that she could count on such an attitude, although this seemed completely absurd to Jennifer herself.
Nobody told her about how she ended up in the clinic, although once she managed to secretly look into the doctor’s records and find out that she had been in a car accident. She tried to extract at least some details of the accident from her mother, but she blushed like cancer, clapped Jennifer hit her arm with her plump hand and stated that she "shouldn't think about it, it was all so ... terrible." Tears welled up in her mother's eyes, and Jennifer, not wanting to upset her any more, quickly changed the subject.
An incessantly chirping girl with a shock of fiery red hair came to Jennifer to cut and style her hair. “You will immediately feel much better,” she promised Jennifer. A small section of hair on the back of the head was shaved off when the wound was sewn up, and the girl assured that she was just a master at hiding such annoying flaws.
An hour later, with a theatrical gesture, the girl turned Jennifer to the mirror, and she hardly recognized herself: a rather pretty young woman was looking at her from the mirror. Her bruises have not yet completely disappeared, her face is slightly pale, but pleasant, she noted with some satisfaction and immediately corrected herself: “I have”, “my face”.
– Do you have cosmetics with you? the hairdresser asked. I can do your makeup. After all, your hand, probably, has not completely healed yet. A little lipstick is always refreshing, madam. And a drop of foundation wouldn't hurt either.
- Oh yes of course. You are such a beauty. I can give you a light make-up, just to make your cheeks shine.
Wait, I'll run downstairs for a cosmetic bag. I have new shades from Paris, Charles Reed lipstick will be perfect for you.
– Nu here is, the very charm! How nice to see a lady with makeup. You immediately understand that the lady is on top! Mr. Hargreaves exclaimed as they made their rounds. “Looking forward to getting home, aren’t you, dear?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied politely, giving up trying to convince him that she had no idea what her “house” looked like.
For a while the doctor studied her face intently. Apparently, he noticed the uncertainty in her voice, and then sat down on the edge of the bed and, putting his hand on her shoulder, spoke:
- Dear, I understand your confusion: you have not yet fully recovered, but I ask you not to worry that so far there is much that is not clear to you. Traumatic brain injuries quite often cause amnesia. You are surrounded loving people, and I'm sure that when you get into a familiar environment, enter the usual rhythm of life - girlfriends, shopping trips and so on - you will soon find that everything is back to normal.
Jennifer nodded obediently. She has long understood that people are pleased when she agrees with everything they say.
Come see me in a week. Let's see how your hand will heal. A full recovery will require a course of physical therapy, but first of all you need to get plenty of rest and not worry about anything, okay, dear? he said as he walked towards the door.
What could she answer him?
Her husband picked her up at six o'clock, just after afternoon tea. Nurses in perfectly starched gowns lined up on the ground floor at the front desk to say goodbye to her. She was still weak and could hardly stand on her feet, so she gratefully took her husband's arm when he offered to help her.
Thank you for taking care of my wife. Kindly send the bill to my office, he asked the head nurse.
“We're glad we could help,” she said, shaking his hand, and smiled at Jennifer. It's so nice to see her on her feet. Mrs Sterling, you look wonderful.
“I feel … much better, thank you,” Jennifer replied.
She wore a long cashmere coat and a matching brimless hat. He ordered that three outfits be sent to her clinic. She chose the most discreet, not wanting to draw too much attention to herself.
“The secretary said there were a bunch of newspapermen outside waiting for Cochrane's girlfriend,” Dr. Hargreaves called out to them, peering out of the office. - If you want to avoid unnecessary hype, use the back door.
- Yes you are right. Could you tell my driver to pull in the other way?
After several weeks spent in a warm clinic, the air seemed to her just icy. Out of breath, she struggled to keep up with her husband and eventually found herself in the cabin of a large black car, snuggling comfortably in the back of the spacious leather seat. The door slammed shut, the guttural growl of the engine was heard, and they drove out into the busy streets of London.
Through the window, she looked out at the crowd of newspapermen crowding the steps at the entrance to the clinic, and photographers comparing lenses. An endless stream of people moved along the sidewalks of the central streets. Turning up their collars and pulling their hats deeper over their foreheads to protect themselves from the wind, they were all hurrying somewhere.
Who is the Cochrane Girl? she asked her husband, who was quietly saying something to the driver.
– Who-who? he asked.
“The Cochrane girl that Mr. Hargreaves was talking about.
- And, it seems, the girlfriend of some popular singer. They were in a car accident shortly before...
- Everyone is talking about her - nurses, patients ...
"I'll take Mrs. Sterling home," he said to the driver, clearly losing all interest in the conversation. - And as soon as I arrange it, I'll go to the office.
- What happened to him? she asked.
“With this Cochrane. Singer.
The husband looked at her, as if considering how to answer her, and then briefly said before turning back to the driver:
- He died.
She slowly climbed the steps of the white stucco mansion, and as soon as she stepped on the last step, the door, as if by magic, swung open. The driver carefully placed her bag on the floor in the hall and immediately left. A dark-skinned middle-aged woman stood at the door, obviously waiting for their arrival. Her husband nodded to her. Jennifer glanced at her - a neat kitsch, a dark blue suit.
"Welcome home, ma'am!" she exclaimed in a thick accent, holding out her hand to Jennifer and smiling broadly. We're so glad you're on the mend.
“Thank you… Thank you,” Jennifer stammered her thanks, realizing that she did not know her name, but did not dare to ask.
The woman took the coat from them and disappeared into the bowels of the hall.
- You are tired? he asked, looking at her closely.
“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, looking around and realizing with horror that this place was completely unfamiliar to her.
It's time for me to get back to the office. Can I leave you with Mrs. Cordoza?
Cordoza. There was something familiar about that name. She felt grateful that he had tactfully reminded her of the housekeeper's name.
- Of course everything will be fine. Please don't worry about me.
“I'll be back at seven…if you're sure everything's all right.
He clearly couldn't wait to leave. He leaned over to her, kissed her on the cheek and, after a moment's hesitation, turned around and left.
Standing in the corridor, Jennifer listened to his fading steps, the muffled roar of the engine as a huge car pulled away from the house, which suddenly seemed empty and huge to her.
She touched the silky wallpaper, glanced at the polished parquet, the dizzyingly high ceiling, and then, with a precise, decisive movement, took off her gloves, leaned over the table in the corridor and began to look at the photographs. Here is a large photo in a frilly silver frame, polished to a shine, of their wedding: she is wearing a tight white dress, her face is half hidden by a lace veil, her husband is standing next to him, smiling widely. I'm really married, she thought, I'm so happy here ...