Page 8 of The Love Letter
Joanna closed the door behind him and drifted back into the sitting room feeling brighter. Simon always knew how to cheer her up. They’d been friends for all of their lives. He’d lived on the neighbouring farm to hers up in Yorkshire with his family and even though he was a couple of years older than her, living in such an isolated environment meant they had spent much of their childhood together. As an only child and a tomboy by nature, Joanna had been thrilled to have Simon’s company. He’d taught her to climb trees and play football and cricket. During the long summer holidays, the two of them had taken their ponies up onto the moors and played lengthy games of cowboys and Indians. It was the only time they’d ever fought, as Simon always and most unfairly demanded that he live and she die.
‘It’s my game, we play by my rules,’ he’d insist bossily, a large cowboy hat swamping his head. And after chasing each other across the coarse moorland grass, inevitably he would catch her up, tackling her from behind.
‘Bang bang, you’re dead!’ he’d shout, pointing his toy gun at her, and she would stagger, then fall onto the grass, rolling around in pretend agony until she eventually gave in and died.
When he was thirteen, Simon had gone to boarding school and they’d seen less of each other. The old closeness had still remained during the holidays, but both had naturally made new friends as they grew up. They’d celebrated with a bottle of champagne up on the moors when Simon had won a place at Trinity College, Cambridge, Joanna going to university two years later at Durham to read English.
Then their lives had separated almost completely; Simon had met Sarah at Cambridge, and in her final year at Durham, Joanna had found Matthew. It wasn’t until they’d both reconnected in London – coincidentally living only ten minutes apart – that their friendship had blossomed once more.
Joanna knew Matthew had never really taken to Simon. Apart from towering over him physically, Simon had been offered some kind of high-flying job in the civil service when he’d left Cambridge. He always said modestly that he was just an office bod at Whitehall, but that was Simon all over. Very quickly, he’d been able to afford to buy a small car and a lovely one-bedroom flat on Highgate Hill. Matthew, meanwhile, had gophered at an ad agency before being offered a junior position a couple of years ago, which still only afforded him a damp bedsit in Stratford.
Maybe, Joanna thought suddenly,Matthew was hoping Samantha’s superior position at the agency would boost hisowncareer. . .
Joanna shook her head. She refused to think about him any more tonight. Setting her jaw, she put Alanis Morissette on her CD player and turned the volume up.Sod the neighbours, she thought as she went into the bathroom to run a hot bath. Singing ‘You Learn’ at the top of her croaky voice, the water pouring out of the taps, Joanna did not hear the footsteps along the short path that led to the front door, or see the face peering into the windows of her ground-floor sitting room. She emerged from the bathroom as the footsteps receded back down the path.
Feeling cleaner and calmer, Joanna made herself a cheese sandwich, drew the curtains closed in the sitting room and sat in front of the fire, toasting her toes. And suddenly felt a faint flicker of optimism for the future. Some of the things she’d said to Simon in the kitchen earlier had sounded flippant, but they were actually true. In retrospect, she and Matthew had very little in common. Now, she was a free agent with no one to please but herself and there would be no more putting her own feelings second. This was her call,herlife, and she was damned if she was going to let Matthew ruin her future.
Before her positive mood left her and depression descended once more, Joanna took a couple of paracetamol and headed for bed.
3
‘Bye bye, darling.’ She hugged him to her, breathing in his familiar smell.
‘Bye, Mumma.’ He snuggled into her coat for a few more seconds, then pulled away, watching her face for signs of unwelcome emotion.
Zoe Harrison cleared her throat and blinked back tears. This moment became no easier, no matter how many times she went through it. But it wasn’t done to cry in front of Jamie or his friends, so she put on a brave smile. ‘I’ll be down to take you out to lunch three weeks on Sunday. Bring Hugo if he’d like to come.’
‘Sure.’ Jamie stood awkwardly by the car, and Zoe knew it was her moment to leave. She couldn’t resist reaching out to brush a strand of his fine blond hair back from his face. He rolled his eyes, and for a second, he looked more like the little boy she remembered, and not the serious young man he was becoming. Seeing him in his navy school uniform, his tie done up neatly just like James had taught him, Zoe felt immensely proud of him.
‘Okay, darling, I’ll be off now. Ring me if you need anything. Or even if you just want to have a chat.’
‘I will, Mumma.’
Zoe slid behind the wheel of her car, closed the door and started the engine. She wound down the window.
‘I love you, sweetheart. You take care now, and remember to wear your vest anddon’tleave your wet rugby socks on for any longer than you have to.’
Jamie’s face reddened. ‘Yes, Mumma. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
Zoe pulled out of the drive, watching Jamie waving cheerfully in her rear-view mirror. She turned a bend and her son was lost from sight. Driving through the gates and onto the main road, Zoe brushed the tears away harshly and ferreted for a tissue in her coat pocket. And told herself for the hundredth time that she suffered more on these occasions than Jamie did. Especially today, with James gone.
Following signs for the motorway that would take her on the hour’s drive back to London, she wondered once more whether she was misguided to confine a ten-year-old boy to a boarding school – especially after suffering the tragic bereavement of his great-grandfather only a few weeks before. Yet Jamie loved his prep school, his friends, hisroutine– all the things she couldn’t give him at home. He seemed to be thriving at the school, growing up, becoming ever more independent.
Even her father, Charles, had commented on it when she had dropped him off at Heathrow yesterday evening. The pall of his father’s death hung on him visibly, and she’d noticed that his handsome, tanned face was finally bearing signs of age.
‘You’ve done so well, my darling, you should be proud of yourself. And your son,’ he’d said in her ear as he’d hugged her goodbye. ‘Bring Jamie out to stay with me in LA during the holidays. We don’t spend enough time together. I miss you.’
‘I miss you too, Dad,’ Zoe had said, then stood there, vaguely stunned, as she’d watched him walk through the security gate. It was rare for her father to praise her.Orher son.
She remembered when she had found herself pregnant at eighteen, and nearly died of shock and devastation. Just out of boarding school and with a place at university, it had seemed ridiculous to even contemplate having a baby. And yet, throughout the barrage of anger and judgement from her father and her friends, coupled with pressure from a completely different source, Zoe had known, somewhere in her heart, that the baby inside her had to be born. Jamie was the product of love: a special, magical gift. A love from which, after more than ten years, she had still not fully recovered.
Zoe joined the other cars streaking towards London on the motorway, as her father’s words from all those years ago rang in her ears.
‘Is he going to marry you, this man who’s knocked you up? I can tell you now, you’re on your own, Zoe. It’s your mistake, you fix it!’
Not that there was ever any chance of marriage to him, she thought ruefully.
