Page 112 of The Love Letter

‘You’re right. I didn’t tell you because I thought I might lose you. I’m not lying when I say I love you, Joanna, and I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.’

‘Goodbye.’ She closed the door without another word, before he could see the tears in her own eyes. It was tiredness, emotion and tension, that was all, she reassured herself as she headed for bed. Marcus was a newly acquired habit she could easily break. She lay there, desperate for sleep, turning to what Alec had said earlier to stop her thoughts of Marcus. Her brain was like a newborn hare, springing from one fresh fact to the next, and eventually she gave up, climbed out of bed and switched on the kettle. After making herself a hot, strong cup of tea, then sitting on the bed cross-legged, Joanna took her ‘Rose’ information folder from her rucksack. She studied the facts, then drew a precise diagram that collated all the information she had gathered so far.

Should she give it one more try? Ireland was meant to be extremely beautiful and the flights and accommodation had all been booked. At the very least, she could use the trip as a much-needed break from London and all that had happened since Christmas.

‘Sod it!’ she breathed. She owed it to herself to take one step further down the line. Otherwise she’d spend the rest of her life wondering. And she really had nothing left to lose . . .

‘Except my life,’ she muttered darkly.

Three days later, having checked in for the flight to Cork, Joanna took out her mobile as she walked towards the departure gate.

‘Hello?’

‘Alec?’

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s me. Can you tell the Ed I’ve got the most dreadful flu. So bad, in fact, I might not be feeling better until the middle of next week.’

‘Bye, Jo. Good luck. And watch your back. You know where I am.’

‘Thanks, Alec. Bye.’

It was only once she was up in the air and on the way to her destination across the Irish Sea that she gave a sigh of relief.

26

As Joanna was touching down at Cork airport, Marcus lay in bed. It was already midday, but he couldn’t see much point in getting up. This had been pretty much the pattern since he’d been booted out of Joanna’s flat. He was utterly devastated, both by the loss of her and the fact that he had no one to blame but himself.

He hauled himself out of bed and wandered into the sitting room, deciding to put his feelings for her down on paper. Picking up an unfamilar gold pen from the side table, his heart twisting as he realised it must be Joanna’s, he then began to write her a letter. As he closed his eyes, he saw her appear in front of him, as she had a hundred times since he’d woken up that morning. He’d fallen in love properly for the first time in his life. It wasn’t lust, or obsession, or any of the peripheral feelings he’d had for women before. This went way deeper, down into his gut. His head and heart ached for her like he had an illness – he could think of nothing else. He even hated his precious film project – the reason he had taken the money from that idiot Ian in the first place . . .

Later that evening, he took a bus up to Crouch End and walked to Joanna’s flat. Seeing it was in darkness, he posted the letter to Joanna through the letter box, praying that she would read it and contact him. Then he went home and back to bed, cradling a bottle of whisky.

Just before midnight, the doorbell rang.

Marcus jumped out of bed, like a rabbit free of a trap, his hopes high that Joanna had responded to his heartfelt letter. He opened the door expecting to see her. Instead, he recognised the tall, burly frame of Ian Simpson.

‘What do you want this time of night?’ Marcus asked him.

Ian stepped inside without asking. ‘Where’s Joanna Haslam?’ he demanded, his eyes darting around the living room.

‘Not here, that’s for sure.’

‘Then where?’ Ian walked towards him, his height imposing.

‘I really don’t know. I only wish I did.’

Ian stood so close to him that Marcus could hear his uneven breathing and smell the alcohol fumes coming off him. Or perhaps it was his own stench of whisky, he thought, pushing down an urge to be sick.

‘We were paying you to keep tabs on her, remember? Then her mate Simon tipped her off.’

‘Si . . . what . . . ?’

‘Simon, you idiot! Your sister’s bodyguard.’

Marcus took a step back and passed a hand over his bleary eyes. ‘Look, I did my best to find you that letter, but Joanna’s left me high and dry, and—’

Ian grabbed Marcus by the collar of his shirt. ‘You know where she is, don’t you, you lying shit!’