Page 44 of The Love Letter
‘Super. I really am grateful.’ Joanna packed her tape recorder into her rucksack and stood up.
‘You’re not going, are you? What about the food?’
‘It’s really sweet of you to offer,’ she said as she walked towards the door, ‘but really, if I don’t get some sleep tonight, I’ll be fit for nothing tomorrow.’
‘Okay,’ sighed Marcus. ‘Spurn me and my spaghetti. I don’t care.’
Joanna handed him a card. ‘There’s my number at work. Would you call me tomorrow and let me know what Zoe said?’ She pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it. Bye.’
Marcus watched her as she left the flat. There really was something about Joanna that set his heart pumping. And itwasn’tjust lust. He reallylikedher lack of guile, her openness and honesty, which were such refreshing traits after the string of pretty but self-obsessed actresses he usually went for.
As he went into the kitchen to cook some pasta for one, Marcus topped up his glass, put it to his lips, then paused. And with effort, threw the liquid down the sink.
‘Enough,’ he said.
He wanted to be a better man for Joanna.
As Joanna walked through the frosty night towards Holland Park tube station, she finally accepted that, whatever reputation he may rightly have, she was deeply attracted to Marcus. His flattery had boosted her flattened, bruised ego, and his obvious desire for her made her feel sexy again. It had been years since she’d even glanced at another man and the feelings Marcus had stirred in her were exciting yet troubling. She was determined not to be another notch on his bedpost. A quick fling might be physically satisfying, but wouldn’t fill the emptiness that Matthew had left behind.
Despite this, a flush of pleasure went through her as she got onto the tube and thought about the weekend: being with Marcus and, at the same time, maybe – just maybe – discovering further clues to the mystery. And Alec – cynic that he was – thinking there might be something in it had given her the confidence to take this story seriously.
As she passed through the turnstile at Archway tube station, she pulled her scarf up against the draught that rushed through the station from the exit. As she emerged into the darkness of Highgate Hill, almost deserted this time of night, her boots echoed dully on the frozen pavement, and she looked forward to curling up in her makeshift bed at Simon’s.
Perhaps it was the cold air inching steadily down her neck, but her steps slowed as she began to sense that someone was following her. Turning slightly, she tried to see if it was the shadow of a person or simply of the swaying tree branches that was playing off the ground. Finally, she came to a halt and listened.
In the distance, she heard shouts of laughter flying out into the night air from the pub down the road, the steady rumble of cars and buses shaking up the leaves and litter in whirls. Making up her mind, she dashed across the street and into a corner shop, where she bought a packet of chewing gum. Standing at the entrance, her head darted left and right, but the only figure she could see was a man in an overcoat at the bus stop opposite, smoking casually.
Walking along at a deliberately calm pace, she glanced behind at the bus stop. The man had disappeared, even though no bus had arrived. Her heart thumped against her chest and, on instinct, she flagged down a passing black cab and slipped inside, managing to gasp out Simon’s address. The cabbie looked irritated as it was only a three-minute drive away.
Arriving at Simon’s building, she pounded up the stairs as fast as she could. Wishing he was home, she bolted the door shut, before wedging a chair under the handle. Then she grabbed his cricket bat from the hallway cupboard and put that on the sofa bed.
Much later, she fell into a troubled sleep, her grasp barely loosening on the bat.
12
Zoe had spent most of her first week in Norfolk kicking her heels with too much time to think. A lot of the outside location filming had been curtailed by the presence of a thick blanket of snow. Although pretty and atmospheric, it made the film’s continuity impossible. Instead, they’d done what they could in the old cottage the company had rented for the shoot. William Fielding, the actor playing Zoe’s character’s father, John Durbeyfield, was currently in a pantomime in Birmingham and would not join the set until next week. She’d contemplated going back to London, but given that Art had arranged for her to be picked up from here at the weekend anyway, it seemed a pointless journey.
On Friday morning, Zoe woke suddenly, dripping in sweat, with a gut-wrenching fear gnawing at her. Gone were the rose-coloured glasses, the sense of wonder that fate, after all this time, had drawn the two of them back together. She only felt utter disbelief that she had even allowed herself to consider the possibility of a new liaison with him.
‘Oh God,’ she muttered, panic gripping her. ‘What about Jamie?’
Zoe stumbled out of bed, pulled on her jeans and wellies and went for a walk around the snow-covered village. She was so deep in her thoughts that its picturesque beauty was completely wasted on her. It was all very well declaring herself at last independent, free of the shackles that had previously bound her, but shehadto be realistic. What she was about to do could affect the rest of Jamie’s life. How could she keep the secret from Art? Surely, once they talked, got to know each other better, he’d realise – if he hadn’t already. And then where would that leave the three of them?
‘Damn! Damn!’ Zoe kicked hard at some icy slush in frustration. She’d lived with the secret for so long, but it was going to be one hell of a shock for others . . .
If she and Art began a relationship again, and the truth about Jamie leaked out, could shereallysubject her precious child to the furore that would surround him?
No.
Never.
What on earth was I thinking?
That afternoon, Zoe packed her bags into her car and drove back to London. When she arrived home, she turned off her mobile and let the answering machine take all her calls, whether welcome or not. Then she uncharacteristically drank an entire bottle of wine and fell asleep on the sofa in front of a film that did not in any way match up to the drama of her own life.
Marcus had rented a Volkswagen Golf on his long-suffering credit card for the drive down to Dorset. Now, with Joanna beside him as he drove along the M3, he decided it was well worth the red statement in a month’s time. She smelt divine, he thought, of freshly plucked apples. He only hoped the key to Haycroft House was where he remembered it had always been. He’d tried to reach Zoe several times yesterday to ask permission to stay at the house, leaving messages on both her mobile and her answering machine, but she hadn’t got back to him. In the end, he’d decided that she couldn’t say he hadn’t tried, and had gone ahead with the weekend as planned.
Joanna sat next to him quietly. She’d been genuinely surprised when Marcus had called yesterday to say they were all set for the weekend. She’d been convinced Zoe would refuse point-blank to let a reporter sift through her grandfather’s private life. She glanced at Marcus’s perfect profile and wondered whether Sir James had been as handsome when he had been younger.
