Page 3 of The Love Letter
‘It’s me,’ a harsh Glaswegian voice had barked.
Joanna had sworn silently at the ceiling. ‘’Lo, Alec,’ she’d snuffled. ‘What do you want? I’m off today.’
‘Sorry, but you’re not. Alice, Richie and Bill have all called in sick. You’ll have to take your days in lieu another time.’
‘They can join the club.’ Joanna had given a loud, exaggerated cough down the line. ‘Sorry, Alec, but I’m dying too.’
‘Look at it this way: work today, then when you’re fit you’ll be able to enjoy the time off owing to you.’
‘No, I really can’t. I’ve got a temperature. I can hardly stand.’
‘Then you’ll be fine. It’s a sitting-down job, at the Actors’ Church in Covent Garden. There’s a memorial service for Sir James Harrison at ten o’clock.’
‘You can’t do this to me, Alec,please. The last thing I need is to sit in a draughty church. I’ve already caught my death. You’ll end up at a memorial service forme.’
‘Sorry, Jo, no choice. I’ll pay for a cab there and back, though. You can go straight home afterwards and email me the piece. Try and talk to Zoe Harrison, will you? I’ve sent Steve to do shots. Should make the front page if she’s all dolled up. Right, speak later.’
‘Damn!’ Joanna had thrown her aching head back onto the pillow in despair. Then she’d rung a local taxi company, and staggered to her wardrobe to find a suitable black outfit.
Most of the time she loved her job,livedfor it, as Matthew had often remarked, but this morning she seriously wondered why. After stints on a couple of regional papers, she’d been taken on as a junior reporter a year ago by theMorning Mail, based in London, and one of the top-selling national dailies in the country. However, her hard-won but lowly spot at the bottom of the pile meant she was hardly in a position to refuse. As Alec, the news-desk editor, never ceased to remind her, there were a thousand hungry young journalists right behind her. Her six weeks in the newsroom had been the hardest posting so far. The hours were unremitting and Alec – by turn a slave-driver and a true dedicated professional – expected nothing less than he was prepared to give himself.
‘Give me the lifestyle pages any day,’ she’d snuffled as she’d pulled on a not-terribly-clean black sweater, a thick pair of woolly tights and a black skirt in deference to the sombre occasion.
The cab had arrived ten minutes late, then had got stuck in a monumental traffic jam on Charing Cross Road. ‘Sorry, love, nothing doing,’ the driver had said. Joanna had looked at her watch, chucked a ten-pound note at him and jumped out of the cab. As she’d hared through the streets towards Covent Garden, her chest labouring and her nose streaming, she’d wondered whether life could get any worse.
Joanna was snapped out of her reverie as the congregation suddenly ceased their chatter. She opened her eyes and turned round as Sir James Harrison’s family members began to file into the church.
Leading the party was Charles Harrison, Sir James’s only child, now well into his sixties. He lived in Los Angeles, and was an acclaimed director of big-budget action films filled with special effects. She vaguely remembered that he had won an Oscar some time ago, but his films weren’t the kind she usually went to see.
By Charles Harrison’s side was Zoe Harrison, his daughter. As Alec had hoped, Zoe looked stunning in a fitted black suit with a short skirt that showed off her long legs, and her hair was pulled back in a sleek chignon that set off her classic English-rose beauty to perfection. She was an actress, whose film career was on the rise, and Matthew had been mad about her. He always said Zoe reminded him of Grace Kelly – his dream woman, apparently – leading Joanna to wonder why Matthew was going out with a dark-eyed, gangly brunette such as herself. She swallowed a lump in her throat, betting her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle that this ‘Samantha’ was a petite blonde.
Holding Zoe Harrison’s hand was a young boy of around nine or ten, looking uncomfortable in a black suit and tie: Zoe’s son, Jamie Harrison, named after his great-grandfather. Zoe had given birth to Jamie when she was only nineteen and still refused to name the father. Sir James had loyally defended his granddaughter and her decisions to both have the baby and to remain silent about Jamie’s paternity.
Joanna thought how alike Jamie and his mother were: the same fine features, a milk and rose complexion, and huge blue eyes. Zoe Harrison kept him away from the cameras as much as possible – if Steve had got a shot of mother and son together, it would probably make the front page tomorrow morning.
Behind them came Marcus Harrison, Zoe’s brother. Joanna watched him as he drew level with her pew. Even with her thoughts still on Matthew, she had to admit Marcus Harrison was a serious ‘hottie’, as her fellow reporter Alice would say. Joanna recognised him from the gossip columns – most recently squiring a blonde British socialite with a triple-barrelled surname. As dark as his sister was fair, but sharing the same blue eyes, Marcus carried himself with louche confidence. His hair almost touched his shoulders and, wearing a crumpled black jacket and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, he oozed charisma. Joanna dragged her gaze away from him.Next time, she thought firmly,I’m going for a middle-aged man who likes bird watching and stamp collecting.She struggled to recall what Marcus Harrison did for a living – a fledgling film producer, she thought. Well, he certainly looked the part.
‘Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.’ The vicar spoke from the pulpit, a large picture of Sir James Harrison in front of him, surrounded by wreaths of white roses. ‘Sir James’s family welcomes you all here and thanks you for coming to pay tribute to a friend, a colleague, a father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and perhaps the finest actor of this century. For those of us who had the good fortune to know him well, it will not come as a surprise that Sir James was adamant that this was not to be a sombre occasion, but a celebration. Both his family and I have honoured his wishes. Therefore, we start with Sir James’s favourite hymn, “I Vow to Thee My Country”. Please stand.’
Joanna pushed her aching legs into action, glad that the organ began playing just as her chest heaved and she coughed loudly. Reaching for the order-of-service sheet on the ledge in front of her, a tiny, spidery hand, the translucent skin revealing blue veins beneath it, got there before her.
For the first time, Joanna looked to her left and studied the owner of the hand. Bent double with age, the woman only came up to her ribs. Resting on the ledge to support herself, the hand in which she held the service sheet shook violently. It was the only part of her body that was visible. The rest of her was shrouded in a black coat that touched her ankles, with a black net veil shielding her face.
Unable to read the sheet due to the continued shaking of the hand that held it, Joanna bent down to speak to the woman. ‘May I share with you?’
The hand offered her the sheet. Joanna took it and placed it low so the old lady could see it too. She croaked her way through the hymn, and as it ended, the woman struggled to sit down. Joanna silently offered her arm, but the help was ignored.
‘Our first reading today is Sir James’s favourite sonnet: Dunbar’s “Sweet Rose of Virtue”, read by Sir Laurence Sullivan, a close friend.’
The congregation sat patiently as the old actor made his way to the front of the church. Then the famous, rich voice, that had once held thousands spellbound in theatres across the globe, filled the church.
‘“Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily . . .”’
Joanna was distracted by a creak behind her and saw the doors at the back of the church open, letting in a blast of freezing air. An usher pushed a wheelchair through them and placed it at the end of the pew opposite Joanna’s. As the usher walked away, she became aware of a rattling noise that made her own chest problems seem inconsequential. The old lady next to her was having what sounded like an asthma attack. She was staring past Joanna, her gaze through her veil apparently locked on the figure in the wheelchair.
‘Are you okay?’ Joanna whispered rhetorically, as the woman put her hand to her chest, her focus still not leaving the wheelchair as the vicar announced the next hymn and the congregation stood again. Suddenly, the old lady grasped at Joanna’s arm and indicated the door behind them.
Helping the woman to her feet, then holding her upright by her waist, Joanna virtually carried her to the end of the pew. The old lady pressed into Joanna’s coat like a child wanting protection as they came adjacent to the man in the wheelchair. A pair of icy steel-grey eyes looked up and swept over them both. Joanna shuddered involuntarily, broke her gaze away from his and helped the old lady the few paces to the entrance, where an usher stood to one side.
