Page 96 of The Love Letter
‘Fine, although I’m working in the afternoon, so come early and I’ll make brunch.’
‘Okay. Yours at elevenish then?’
‘Great. See you then.’
Simon put the receiver down, thinking how sad it was that there was a cool breeze blowing through their relationship. Ever since, he admitted to himself, he’d failed to return the letter to her. There was no doubt that Joanna was suspicious of him, especially now she knew he wasn’t a simple civil-service bod. And that it was his fault. He’d compromised both her trust and their friendship for the sake of his job. Simon stood up, took a beer from the fridge and took a large gulp, wanting to knock off the edges of his betrayal . . .
Like Ian.
He had not yet killed a man – or a woman – but he wondered how he would feel after he had. Surely, once he’d done that, taken another human’s life, all bets were off? Beyond that, nothing felt morally relevant.
Is it worth it . . . ?
Simon walked to the sink and poured the rest of the beer down the plughole, telling himself it hadn’t happened yet. He loved his job, his life, but the situation with Joanna had brought things into sharp focus.
And he knew that one day, he would have to choose.
The front doorbell rang. Simon groaned then went to the intercom.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me.’
Talk of the devil . . .
‘Hi, Ian. I was just hitting the sack.’
‘Can I come up. Please?’
Reluctantly, Simon pressed the buzzer. He studied Ian as he stumbled through the door. He looked ghastly. His face was red and bloated, his eyes bloodshot pinpricks. Always known for his collection of Paul Smith and Armani suits, tonight Ian resembled a vagrant with his dirty mac and plastic carrier bag, from which he retrieved a half-empty bottle of whisky.
‘’Lo, Simon.’ He slumped in a chair.
‘What’s up?’
‘The bastards have put me oncompassionateleave. For a month. I have to go and see the quack twice a week, like I’m some kind of loony basket case . . .’
‘What happened?’ Simon perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘Oh, I blew a job last week. Went to the pub for a few jars, lost track of time, lost the target.’
‘I see.’
‘You know, it’s not exactly a fun job, this, is it? Why do I always have to do the nasty stuff?’
‘Because they trust you.’
‘Didtrust me.’ Ian burped, then swallowed more whisky straight from the bottle.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a paid holiday. I’d enjoy it if I were you.’
‘You think I’ll be allowed back? No way. It’s over, Simon, all those years, all that work . . .’ And then he began to cry.
‘Buck up, Ian, you don’t know that. They won’t want to lose you. You’ve always been one of the best. If you get your act together, prove that this was a blip, I’m sure you’ll get another chance.’
Ian hung his head. ‘No, Si. It’s parking tickets for me, if I’m lucky. I’m scared, I really am. I’m a risk, aren’t I? Drunk in charge of all those secrets. What if they . . . ?’ Ian’s voice trailed off and fear filled his eyes.
‘’Course they won’t.’ Simon hoped he sounded convincing. ‘They’ll look after you. Help you get better.’
