Page 180 of The Love Letter
He glanced around but the only female in the place was a tall blonde with the lithe-limbed, golden-brown body of a Californian. He watched as she slipped off her stool at the bar.
‘Anyone sitting with you?’ she asked in an American accent as she strolled across to him.
‘No, but I’m waiting for someone.’
She sat down, and in a broad Yorkshire accent said, ‘Yes, Simon, you dozy git. You’re waiting for me!’
Simon was stunned by her transformation. He, who had known her since she was a toddler, would not have recognised her in a million years. The only things left of her past self were her hazel eyes.
They left the café soon after, then walked down to the beach and sat on the sand. She wanted to know everything – as she always had done – in minute detail.
‘Was my funeral good?’
‘Extremely moving, yes. Everyone was in floods of tears. Including me.’
‘I’m glad to know they cared,’ she joked. ‘To be honest, I have to laugh, or else I’d cry.’
‘They did care, promise.’
‘How were my mum and dad?’
‘Honestly?’
‘Of course.’
‘Distraught.’
‘Oh God, Simon, I . . .’ Her voice cracked and she kicked off her sandals and ground her toes into the sand. ‘I wish . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I wish I could tell them.’
‘Joanna, it was the only way.’
‘I know.’
The two of them sat in silence and stared out at the sea. ‘How are you . . . surviving?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I’m managing, just, though it’s pretty hard being a nameless person. I did as you asked and ditched Monica Burrows’ passport and credit cards the minute I arrived in Washington, then made my way down to California and paid that contact you gave me a shedload of money to drive me across the border. I’ve been working in a bar near here for the last couple of weeks, but I’m fast running out of money.’
‘Well, at least it got you out of the UK alive.’
‘Yes, though part of me has begun to wonder if I’d be better off dead. Christ, this is hard, Simon. I’m trying not to give up, but . . .’
‘Come here.’ Simon pulled her into his arms and she sobbed out all the anguish she felt. He stroked her hair gently, knowing he’d give anything for it not to have turned out the way it had.
‘Sorry, I . . .’ Joanna sat up and wiped her eyes roughly with her knuckles. ‘It’s seeing you that’s done it. I’ll be okay now, promise.’
‘God, don’t apologise, Jo. You’ve been incredible, really. I have something for you.’ Simon dug in his pocket and produced an envelope. ‘As promised.’
‘Thanks.’ Joanna took it and pulled out an American birth certificate, a United States passport and a card with a number on it. ‘Margaret Jane Cunningham,’ Joanna read. ‘Born, Michigan 1967 . . . Hey, Simon! You’ve made me a year older! Charmed, I’m sure.’
‘Sorry. It was the closest I could come on an “off the shelf” identity-kit basis. You have a social security number there, so that should sort out your work problems.’
‘Are you positive it’s all kosher?’
‘Joanna, trust me, it’s kosher, but you’ll have to add a photo. I left the plastic open so you could. I’m glad I did, as you now resemble something out ofBaywatch. I rather fancy you like that.’
‘Well, it remains to be seen if blondes have more fun,’ Joanna snorted. ‘Talking of blondes, how’s Zoe?’
‘Happily ensconced with Jamie in a very comfortable villa in Bel Air. Courtesy of Paramount.’
