She had handed it over at Reception, telling herself as she did so that once it was gone, it was gone. She mustn’t think about its progress, mustn’t imagine over the next days or weeks where it lay. She had done what she could, and now it was time to focus on building a new life, ready for when one of the many messages reached him.
The estate agent was grinning again. It seemed a reflexive, rictus thing, and she tried to ignore it. It was the eleventh day.
“If you could just put your signature there”—Mr. Grosvenor pointed with a beautifully manicured finger—“and there. Then, of course, we’ll need your husband’s signature here.” He smiled again, his lips wavering a little.
“Oh, you’ll need to send them to him directly,” she said. Around them, the tearoom of the Regent Hotel was filled with women, retired gentlemen, anyone diverted from shopping by a wet Wednesday afternoon.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I no longer live with my husband. We communicate by letter.”
That floored him. The grin disappeared, and he snatched at the papers on his lap, as if he was trying to regroup his thoughts.
“I believe I have already given you his home address. There.” She pointed to one of the letters in the folder. “And we’ll be able to move in next Monday, will we? My daughter and I are wearying of hotel living.”
Outside, somewhere, Mrs. Cordoza was taking Esmé to the swings. She came daily now, during the hours that Laurence was at his office: “There’s so little to do in that house without you,” she had said. Jennifer had seen the older woman’s face light up when she held Esmé, and sensed that she far preferred being with them in the hotel than in the empty house on the square.
Mr. Grosvenor’s brow knitted. “Ah, Mrs. Stirling, may I just establish . . . Are you saying you will not be living in the property with Mr. Stirling? It’s just that the landlord is a respectable gentleman. He was under the impression that he would be letting to a family.”
“He is letting to a family.”
“But you just said—”
“Mr. Grosvenor, we will be paying twenty-four pounds a week for this short let. I am a married woman. I’m sure a gentleman like you would agree that how often, and indeed whether, my husband resides there with me is nobody’s business but our own.”
His raised palm was conciliatory, a flush staining the skin around his collar. He began to stutter an apology: “It’s just—”
He was interrupted by a woman calling her name urgently. Jennifer shifted in her chair to see Yvonne Moncrieff stalking across the crowded tearoom, her wet umbrella already thrust at an unsuspecting waiter. “So you’re here!”
“Yvonne, I—”
“Where have you been? I’ve had absolutely no idea what was going on. I got out of hospital last week, and your ruddy housekeeper wouldn’t tell me a damned thing. And then Francis says—” She stopped, having realized how far her voice had carried. The tearoom had hushed, and the faces around them were agog.
“Will you excuse us, Mr. Grosvenor? I do believe we’ve finished,” Jennifer said.
He was already standing, had gathered his briefcase, and now snapped it shut emphatically. “I’ll get those papers to Mr. Stirling this afternoon. And I’ll be in touch.” He made his way toward the lobby.
When he had gone, Jennifer put a hand on her friend’s arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “There’s an awful lot to explain. Have you got time to come upstairs?”
Yvonne Moncrieff had spent four weeks in hospital: two weeks before and two weeks after the birth of baby Alice. She had been so poleaxed by exhaustion when she’d returned home that it had taken her a further week to work out how long it had been since she had seen Jennifer. She had called twice next door, to be told only that Mrs. Stirling was not there at present. A week later she had decided to find out what was going on. “Your housekeeper just kept shaking her head at me, telling me I had to speak to Larry.”
“I suppose he’ll have told her not to say anything.”
“About what?” Yvonne threw her coat onto the bed, and sat down on one of the upholstered chairs. “Why on earth are you staying here? Have you and Larry had a row?”
There were mauve shadows under Yvonne’s eyes, but her hair was immaculate still. She already seemed strangely distant, a relic from another life, Jennifer thought. “I’ve left him,” she said.
Yvonne’s large eyes traveled over her face. “Larry got drunk at ours the night before last. Very drunk. I assumed it was business and went up to bed with the baby, leaving the men to it. When Francis came up I was half asleep, but I heard him say that Larry had told him you have a lover, and that you’d taken leave of your senses. I thought I must have dreamed it.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “part of that is true.”
Yvonne’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Lord.”
Jennifer shook her head, raised a smile. “Yvonne, I’ve missed you awfully. I so wanted to talk to you . . .” She told her friend the story, bypassing some of the details but allowing most of the truth to come out. It was Yvonne, after all. The simple words, echoing in the still room, seemed to belie the enormity of what she had gone through over the past weeks. Everything had changed; everything. She finished with a flourish: “I’ll find him again. I know I will. I just have to explain.”
Yvonne had been listening intently, and Jennifer was struck by how much she had missed her acerbic, straight-talking presence.
Finally Yvonne smiled tentatively. “I’m sure he’d forgive you,” she said.
“What?”
“Larry. I’m sure he’d forgive you.”
“Larry?” Jennifer sat back.
“Yes.”
“But I don’t want to be forgiven.”
“You can’t do this, Jenny.”
“He has a mistress.”
“Oh, you can get rid of her! She’s just his secretary, for goodness’ sake. Tell him you want to make a fresh start. Tell him that’s what he has to do, too.”
Jennifer almost stumbled over the words. “But I don’t want him, Yvonne. I don’t want to be married to him.”
“You’d rather wait for some penniless playboy reporter who might not even come back?”
“Yes. I would.”
Yvonne reached into her handbag, lit a cigarette, and blew a long plume of smoke into the center of the room.