Read Online The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes - Free Book Online
Authors: Jojo Moyes
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had written a short description at each end—pumps, claret, and evening, green silk. She had held each shoe, trying to leach from it some memory of a previous occasion. A couple of times a fleeting image had passed through her mind: her feet, clad in the green silk, descending from a taxi—to a theater?—but they were frustratingly ephemeral, gone before she could fix them.
Do try not to dwell on matters.
She was just placing the last pair of shoes back in their box when she spied the paperback. It was a cheap historical romance, tucked between the tissue paper and the side of the box. She gazed at the cover, wondering why she couldn’t recall the plot when she had been able to do so with many of the books on her shelves.
Perhaps I bought it and decided against it, she thought, flicking through the first few pages. It looked rather lurid. She’d skim a little tonight and perhaps give it to Mrs. Cordoza, if it wasn’t her cup of tea. She placed it on her bedside table and dusted off her skirt. Now she had more pressing matters to attend to, such as tidying this mess away and working out what on earth she was going to wear this evening.
There were two in the second post. They were almost carbon copies of each other, Moira thought, as she read them, the same symptoms, the same complaints. They were from the same factory, where each man had started work almost two decades before. Perhaps it was something to do with the unions, as her boss had said, but it was a little unnerving that the faint trickle of such correspondence several years ago had become a regular drip, drip, drip.
Glancing up, she saw him returning from lunch and wondered what to tell him. He was shaking hands with Mr. Welford, their faces wreathed in the satisfied smiles that told of a successful meeting. After the briefest hesitation, she swept both letters from the table and into her top drawer. She would put them with the others. There was no point in worrying him. She knew, after all, what he would say.
She let her gaze rest on him for a moment, as he saw Mr. Welford out of the boardroom toward the lifts, recalling their conversation of that morning. It had been just the two of them in the office. The other secretaries rarely turned up before nine, but she regularly arrived an hour earlier to start the coffee machine, lay out his papers, check for overnight telegrams, and make sure his office was running smoothly by the time he stepped into it. That was her job. Besides, she preferred eating her breakfast at her desk: it was less lonely somehow than it was at home, now that Mother was gone.
He had motioned her into his office, standing and half raising one hand. He knew she would catch the gesture: she always had an eye half open in case he needed something. She had straightened her skirt and walked in briskly, expecting a piece of dictation, a request for figures, but instead he had crossed the room and closed the door quietly after her. She had tried to suppress a shiver of excitement. He had never closed the door behind her before, not in five years. Her hand had reached unconsciously to her hair.
His voice dropped as he took a step toward her. “Moira, the matter we discussed some weeks ago.”
She had stared at him, stunned into paralysis by his proximity, the unexpected turn of events. She shook her head—a little foolishly, she suspected afterward.
“The matter we discussed”—his voice carried a hint of impatience—“after my wife’s accident. I thought I should check. There was never anything . . .”
She recovered, her hand fluttering at her collar. “Oh. Oh, no, sir. I went twice, as you asked. And no. There was nothing.” She waited a moment, then added, “Nothing at all. I’m quite sure.”
He nodded, as if reassured. Then he smiled at her, one of his rare, gentle smiles. “Thank you, Moira. You know how much I appreciate you, don’t you?”
She felt herself prickle with pleasure.
He walked toward the door and
Do try not to dwell on matters.
She was just placing the last pair of shoes back in their box when she spied the paperback. It was a cheap historical romance, tucked between the tissue paper and the side of the box. She gazed at the cover, wondering why she couldn’t recall the plot when she had been able to do so with many of the books on her shelves.
Perhaps I bought it and decided against it, she thought, flicking through the first few pages. It looked rather lurid. She’d skim a little tonight and perhaps give it to Mrs. Cordoza, if it wasn’t her cup of tea. She placed it on her bedside table and dusted off her skirt. Now she had more pressing matters to attend to, such as tidying this mess away and working out what on earth she was going to wear this evening.
There were two in the second post. They were almost carbon copies of each other, Moira thought, as she read them, the same symptoms, the same complaints. They were from the same factory, where each man had started work almost two decades before. Perhaps it was something to do with the unions, as her boss had said, but it was a little unnerving that the faint trickle of such correspondence several years ago had become a regular drip, drip, drip.
Glancing up, she saw him returning from lunch and wondered what to tell him. He was shaking hands with Mr. Welford, their faces wreathed in the satisfied smiles that told of a successful meeting. After the briefest hesitation, she swept both letters from the table and into her top drawer. She would put them with the others. There was no point in worrying him. She knew, after all, what he would say.
She let her gaze rest on him for a moment, as he saw Mr. Welford out of the boardroom toward the lifts, recalling their conversation of that morning. It had been just the two of them in the office. The other secretaries rarely turned up before nine, but she regularly arrived an hour earlier to start the coffee machine, lay out his papers, check for overnight telegrams, and make sure his office was running smoothly by the time he stepped into it. That was her job. Besides, she preferred eating her breakfast at her desk: it was less lonely somehow than it was at home, now that Mother was gone.
He had motioned her into his office, standing and half raising one hand. He knew she would catch the gesture: she always had an eye half open in case he needed something. She had straightened her skirt and walked in briskly, expecting a piece of dictation, a request for figures, but instead he had crossed the room and closed the door quietly after her. She had tried to suppress a shiver of excitement. He had never closed the door behind her before, not in five years. Her hand had reached unconsciously to her hair.
His voice dropped as he took a step toward her. “Moira, the matter we discussed some weeks ago.”
She had stared at him, stunned into paralysis by his proximity, the unexpected turn of events. She shook her head—a little foolishly, she suspected afterward.
“The matter we discussed”—his voice carried a hint of impatience—“after my wife’s accident. I thought I should check. There was never anything . . .”
She recovered, her hand fluttering at her collar. “Oh. Oh, no, sir. I went twice, as you asked. And no. There was nothing.” She waited a moment, then added, “Nothing at all. I’m quite sure.”
He nodded, as if reassured. Then he smiled at her, one of his rare, gentle smiles. “Thank you, Moira. You know how much I appreciate you, don’t you?”
She felt herself prickle with pleasure.
He walked toward the door and
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