He had begun to drift off when at last the front door opened. As he pushed himself upright, she stepped out. It was almost nine o’clock. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress, a little wrap over her shoulders, and walked down the steps carefully, as if she didn’t quite trust her feet. Then Stirling was behind her, saying something that Anthony couldn’t hear, and she nodded. Then they were climbing into a big black car. As it pulled out into the road, Anthony charged the ignition. He drove into the road, one car behind them, and followed.
They didn’t travel far. The driver paused at the door of a Mayfair casino to let them out. She straightened her dress, then walked inside, taking off her wrap as she went.
Anthony waited until he was sure Stirling had gone in, then pulled his Hillman into the spot behind the black car. “Park that for me, will you?” he called to the incredulous doorman, threw him the keys, and pressed a ten-shilling note into his hand.
“Sir? Can I see your membership card?” He was hastening through the lobby when a man in a casino uniform stopped him. “Sir? Your membership card?”
The Stirlings were about to step into the elevator. He could just see her through the crowd. “I need to speak to someone. I’ll be two minutes.”
“Sir, I’m afraid I can’t let you in without—”
Anthony reached into his pocket and pulled out everything in it—wallet, house keys, passport—and dumped it into the man’s open hands. “Take it—take it all. I promise I’ll only be two minutes.” And as the man stared, openmouthed, he pushed his way through the crowd and edged into the lift as the doors closed.
Stirling was to the right, so Anthony pulled the brim of his hat low over his face, moved past him, and, confident that the man hadn’t seen him, edged backward until his own back was pressed to the wall.
Everyone faced the doors. Stirling, in front of him, was talking to someone he seemed to know. Anthony heard him murmur something about markets, a crisis in credit, the other man’s muttered agreement. His own pulse was thumping in his ears, and sweat trickled down his back. She held her bag in front of her with two gloved hands, her face composed, only a stray blond strand of hair creeping down from her chignon to confirm that she was human, not some heavenly apparition.
“Second floor.”
The doors opened, allowing two people out and one man in. The remaining passengers shuffled obligingly, making space for the new arrival. Stirling was still talking, his voice low and sonorous. It was a warm evening, and in the close confines of the lift, Anthony was acutely aware of the bodies around him, the smells of perfume, setting lotion, and Brylcreem that hung in the sticky air, the faint breeze as the doors closed.
He lifted his head a little and stared at Jennifer. She was less than a foot away, so close that he could detect the spice of her scent and each tiny freckle on her shoulders. He kept staring, until she turned her head a little—and saw him. Her eyes widened, her cheeks colored. Her husband was still deep in conversation.
She looked at the floor, then her eyes slid back to Anthony’s, the rise and fall of her chest revealing how much he’d shocked her. Their eyes met, and in those few silent moments, he told her everything. He told her that she was the most astonishing thing he had ever encountered. He told her that she haunted his waking hours, and that every feeling, every experience he had had in his life up to that point was flat and unimportant compared to the enormity of this.
He told her he loved her.
“Third floor.”
She blinked, and they moved apart as a man at the back excused himself, walked between them, and stepped out of the lift. As the gap closed behind him, Anthony reached into his pocket and retrieved the letter. He took a step to his right, and held it out to her behind the evening jacket of a man who coughed, making them jump a little. Her husband was shaking his head at something his companion had said. Both men laughed humorlessly. For a moment, Anthony thought she wouldn’t take it from him, but then her gloved hand shot out surreptitiously, and as he stood there, the envelope disappeared into her bag.
“Fourth floor,” said the bellboy. “Restaurant.”
Everyone except Anthony moved forward. Stirling glanced to his right, apparently remembering his wife’s presence, and reached out a hand—not in affection, Anthony observed, but to propel her forward. The doors closed behind her, and he was alone as, with the bellboy’s cry of “Ground floor,” the lift began to descend.
Anthony had barely expected a response. He hadn’t even bothered to check his post until he left his house, late, and found two letters on the mat. He half walked, half ran along the baked, busy pavement, ducking in and out of the nurses and patients leaving the vast St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, his suitcase bashing against his legs. He was meant to be at Heathrow by half past two, was barely sure even now how he would make it in time. The sight of her handwriting had induced a kind of shock in him, followed by panic when he realized it was already ten to twelve, and he was at the wrong end of London.
Postman’s Park. Midday.
There had, of course, been no taxis. He had jumped on the Tube part of the way and run the rest. His shirt, neatly pressed, now stuck to his skin; his hair flopped over his sweaty forehead. “Excuse me,” he muttered, as a woman in high-heeled sandals tutted, forced to step out of his way. “Excuse me.” A bus stopped, belching purple fumes, and he heard the conductor ring the bell for it to move off again. He hesitated as the passengers poured across the pavement, trying to catch his wind, and checked his watch. It was a quarter past twelve. It was entirely possible she would already have given up on him.
What the hell was he doing? If he missed this flight, Don would personally see to it that he was on Golden Weddings and Other Anniversaries for the next ten years. They would view it as another example of his inability to cope, a reason to give the next good story to Murfett or Phipps.
He ducked down King Edward Street, gasping, and then he was in a tiny oasis of peace in the middle of the City. Postman’s Park was a small garden, created by a Victorian philanthropist to mark the lives of ordinary heroes. He walked, breathing hard, into the center.
It was blue, a gently moving swarm of blue. As his vision steadied, he saw postmen in their blue uniforms, some walking, some lying on the grass, a few lined up along the bench in front of the glazed Royal Doulton tablets that commemorated each act of bravery. The postmen of London, freed from their rounds and postbags, were enjoying the midday sun, in their shirtsleeves with their sandwich boxes, chatting, exchanging food, relaxing on the grass under the dappled shade of the trees.