Page 2 of The Love Letter
‘Heaven help us all,’ she whispered, fear flooding through her old veins. Perhaps it was simply coincidence, but she knew the legend’s meaning all too well . . .
1
London, 5th January 1996
Joanna Haslam ran full pelt through Covent Garden, her breathing heavy and her lungs rattling with the effort. Dodging past tourists and groups of school children, she narrowly missed knocking over a busker, her rucksack flying to one side behind her. She emerged onto Bedford Street just as a limousine drew up outside the wrought-iron gates that led to St Paul’s Church. Photographers surrounded the car as a chauffeur stepped out to open the back door.
Damn! Damn!
With her last iota of strength, Joanna sprinted the final few yards to the gates then into the paved courtyard beyond, the clock on the red-brick face of the church confirming she was late. As she neared the entrance, she cast her gaze over the huddle of paparazzi and saw that Steve, her photographer, was in prime position, perched on the steps. She waved at him and he gave her a thumbs-up sign as she squeezed through the crush of photographers who were crowding round the celebrity who had emerged from the limousine. Once inside the church itself, she could see the pews were packed, lit by the soft glow from the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The organ was playing sombre music in the background.
After flashing her press card at the usher and digging for breath, she slipped into the back pew and sat down gratefully. Her shoulders rose and fell with each gasp as she fumbled in her rucksack for her notepad and pen.
Although the church was frosty cold, Joanna could feel beads of sweat on her forehead; the roll-neck of the black lambswool sweater she’d thrown on in her panic was now sticking uncomfortably to her skin. She took out a tissue and blew her streaming nose. Then, sweeping a hand through her tangled mass of long dark hair, she leant back against the pew and closed her eyes to catch her breath.
Just a few days into a new year that had begun with so much promise, Joanna felt as if she’d been not so much as chucked, but hurled off the top of the Empire State Building. At speed. Without warning.
Matthew . . .the love of her life – or rather, as of yesterday, the ex-love of her life – was the cause.
Joanna bit her bottom lip hard, willing herself not to start crying again, and craned her neck towards the pews at the front near the altar, noting with relief that the family members everyone was waiting for had not yet arrived. Glancing back through the main doors, she could see the paparazzi lighting up cigarettes and fiddling with their camera lenses outside. The mourners in front of her were beginning to shuffle on the uncomfortable wooden pews, whispering to their neighbours. She hastily scanned the crowd and picked out the most noteworthy celebrities to mention in her article, struggling to distinguish them from the backs of their heads, which were mostly grey or white. Scribbling the names down in her notepad, images of yesterday invaded her mind again . . .
Matthew had turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep of her Crouch End flat in the afternoon. After the heavy shared revelry of Christmas and New Year, the two of them had agreed to adjourn to their separate flats and have a quiet few days before work began again. Unfortunately, Joanna had spent that time nursing the nastiest cold she’d had in years. She’d opened the door to Matthew clutching her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle, clad in ancient thermal pyjamas and a pair of stripy bed socks.
She’d known immediately that there was something wrong as he’d hovered near the door, refusing to take his coat off, his eyes darting here and there, looking at anything buther . . .
He had then informed her that he had been ‘thinking’. That he couldn’t see their relationship going anywhere. And perhaps it was time to call it a day.
‘We’ve been together for six years now, since the end of uni,’ he’d said, fidgeting with the gloves she’d given him for Christmas. ‘I don’t know, I always thought that, with time, I’d want to marry you – you know, tie our lives together officially. But that moment hasn’t happened . . .’ He’d shrugged limply at her. ‘And if I don’t feel that way now, I can’t see that I ever will.’
Joanna’s hands had clenched around her hot-water bottle as she had regarded his guilty, guarded expression. Digging in her pyjama pocket, she’d found a damp tissue and blown her nose hard. Then she’d looked him straight in the eye.
‘Who is she?’
The blush had spread right across his face and neck. ‘I didn’t mean for it to happen,’ he’d mumbled, ‘but it has and I can’t go on pretending any longer.’
Joanna remembered the New Year’s Eve they’d shared four nights ago. And decided that he’d done a bloody good job of pretending.
She was called Samantha, apparently. Worked at the same advertising agency as he did. An account director, no less. It had begun the night Joanna had been doorstepping a Tory MP on a sleaze story and hadn’t made it in time to Matthew’s agency’s Christmas party. The word ‘cliché’ still whirled round her head. But then she checked herself; where did clichés originate, if not from the common denominators of human behaviour?
‘I promise you, I’ve tried so hard to stop thinking about Sam,’ Matthew had continued. ‘I really did try all throughout Christmas. It was so great to be with your family up in Yorkshire. But then I met her again last week, just for a quick drink and . . .’
Joanna was out. Samantha was in. It was as simple as that.
She could only stare at him, her eyes burning with shock, anger and fear, as he’d continued.
‘At first I thought it was just an infatuation. But it’s obvious that if I feel like this about another woman now, I simply can’t commit to you. So, I’m only doing what’s right.’ He’d looked at her, almost beseeching her to thank him for being so noble.
‘What’s right . . .’ she’d repeated, her voice hollow. Then she’d burst into floods of coldy, fever-induced tears. From somewhere far away, she could hear his voice mumbling more excuses. Forcing open her swollen, tear-drenched eyes, she’d regarded him as he’d sunk down, small and ashamed, into her worn leather armchair.
‘Get out,’ she’d finally croaked. ‘You evil, low-down, lying, double-crossing bloody cheat! Get out!Just get out!’
In retrospect, what had really mortified Joanna was that he’d taken no further persuading. He’d stood up, muttering stuff about various possessions that he’d left at her flat, and getting together for a chat once the dust had settled, then he’d virtually charged for the front door.
Joanna had spent the rest of yesterday evening crying down the phone to her mother, her best friend Simon’s voicemail and into the increasingly soggy fur of her Winnie the Pooh hot-water bottle.
Eventually, thanks to copious amounts of Night Nurse and brandy, she’d passed out, only grateful that she had the next couple of days off work in lieu of overtime she’d put in on the news desk before Christmas.
Then her mobile had rung at nine this morning. Joanna had raised herself from her drug-induced slumber and reached for it, praying it might be a devastated, repentant Matthew, realising the enormity of what he’d just done.
