Page 158 of The Love Letter

‘Have you found her?’ Simon asked into his mobile, pacing across his bedroom floor.

‘No, but we have located where she used to live. She moved several years ago when her husband died. There have been three owners since and the present ones don’t have a forwarding address. However, I reckon we’ll have tracked her down by tomorrow. Then we might be getting somewhere. I’ll want you to fly across to France, Warburton. I’ll be in touch as soon as we’ve pinpointed her whereabouts.’

‘Right, sir.’

‘I’ll call you in the morning. Goodnight.’

‘Get your backside over to the South Bank. It’s the launch of the James Harrison memorial fund in the foyer of the National.’

‘I know, Alec. I was going anyway, to support Zoe,’ Joanna replied tensely.

‘We’re running the interview you did with Marcus Harrison tomorrow, as a follow-up to his obituary. As you wrote the piece, you can cover the launch while you’re there.’

‘Alec, please . . . I’d really prefer just to go as a friend. Of . . . both of them.’

‘Come on, Jo.’

‘Anyway, I thought my interview with Marcus had been canned. Why put it in now?’

‘Because, sweetheart, the Harrison family has suddenly become newsworthy again. A shot of Zoe speaking in her dead brother’s place at the launch’ll look good on the front pages.’

‘Jesus, Alec! Have you no heart?’ Joanna shook her head in despair.

‘Sorry, Jo, I know you’re grieving.’ Alec softened his tone. ‘Surely you wouldn’t want anyone who didn’t know him to write this up, would you? Steve’ll come with you for the piccies. See you later.’

The foyer of the National Theatre was jam-packed with journalists and photographers, plus the odd television camera. It was a huge turnout for an event that would normally have warranted a handful of barely interested cub reporters.

Joanna grabbed a glass of Buck’s Fizz from a passing waiter and took a gulp. After her month in Yorkshire, she was unused to this mass of loud, effusive people. She saw Simon across the foyer. He gave her a small nod of acknowledgement.

‘Thank God you’re here,’ a voice breathed in her ear.

She turned, startled. It was Zoe, looking elegant in a turquoise dress.

‘I didn’t realise this was going to be such a big thing,’ Joanna said, after giving Zoe a hug.

‘Me neither, and I don’t think any of them are here in Marcus’s or James’s memory – but rather hoping that you-know-who will show up.’ Zoe wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘Anyway,I’mdoing it for my brother and grandfather.’

‘Course you are, and at least I can write a lovely piece on Marcus and his passion for the memorial fund.’

‘Thanks, Jo. That would be great. Wait for me and we can grab a drink afterwards.’

As Zoe spoke to other members of the press, Joanna studied the photographs of Sir James Harrison that had been blown up and placed on boards around the foyer. There he was as Lear, in dramatic pose, hands reaching to the heavens, a heavy gold crown placed on his head.

Art imitating life, or life imitating art?she mused.

Amidst the photographs hung a print of Marcus, Sir James and Zoe standing together, at what must have been a movie premiere. Joanna fought the urge to trace her fingers over Marcus’s carefree expression, his gaze aimed confidently at the camera. She turned and saw an attractive woman of similar age to her standing no more than a few feet away from her. As their eyes met, the woman smiled at her, then moved away.

It was two o’clock before the last journalist left Zoe alone. Joanna was sitting quietly in a corner of the empty foyer scribbling notes on the launch taken from Zoe’s short and emotional speech, and the press statement she’d been issued with.

‘Was I okay? I was holding back the tears all the way through that speech.’ Zoe sank down beside her on one of the purple seats.

‘You were perfect. I reckon you and the memorial fund will get blanket coverage tomorrow.’

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘All for a good cause at least.’

As they left the theatre, Joanna noticed the woman she had seen earlier reading a pamphlet on forthcoming productions.

‘Who is she?’ Joanna asked as they strolled into the warm sunlight of a spring afternoon on the South Bank, the Thames sparkling beneath them.