Page 40 of The Love Letter

‘That’s fine,’ she said quickly. ‘If they want Zoe, they can always use a still from her file.’ She reached to turn the tape recorder off, but Marcus stopped her by putting his hand around her forearm. A burst of electricity shot across her skin at his touch. Marcus put his mouth close to the tiny microphone and whispered something into it.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. ‘You can turn it off now. Brandy for you maybe?’

Joanna glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to get back to the office.’

‘Okay.’ Marcus looked deflated as he signalled for the bill.

‘The picture desk will be in touch about the photographs, and really, thanks for lunch.’ Standing up, she stuck out her hand expecting him to shake it. Instead, he gently lifted it to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

‘Goodbye, Miss Haslam. It’s been a pleasure.’

‘Bye.’ She left the restaurant on wobbly legs and returned to the office in a haze of wine and lust.

She sat down at her desk, rewound the tape recorder a little, then pressed play.

‘Joanna Haslam. You are gorgeous. I want to take you out to dinner. Please ring me on 0171 932 4841 to arrange this as a matter of urgency.’

She giggled. Alice, the reporter who sat at the next desk, glanced over at her.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You went to lunch with old “Hands-on Harrison”, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. So what?’ Joanna knew she was blushing.

‘Leave well alone, Jo. I had a friend who dated him for a bit. He’s a total cad without an ounce of moral fibre in his body.’

‘But he’s—’

‘Handsome, charismatic . . . yeah, tell me about it.’ Alice took a bite of her egg sandwich. ‘My mate spent a year getting over him.’

‘I have no intention of getting involved with Marcus. I’ll probably never see him again.’

‘Oh? So he didn’t ask you out to dinner then? Or give you his telephone number?’

Despite herself, Joanna’s blush became deeper.

‘Of course he did!’ Alice smirked. ‘Just watch yourself, Jo. You’ve had enough heartbreak recently.’

‘Thanks for reminding me. Excuse me, I’ve got to get this typed up.’ Irritated both by Alice’s patronising manner and her probably accurate assessment of Marcus – despite his ethical streak – she stuck on her headphones, plugged them into her tape recorder and began the transcription of the interview.

Five minutes later, the colour had drained from Joanna’s face. She sat staring at the screen, her fingers pressing rewind on the tape recorder and returning repeatedly to the same words Marcus had spoken.

She’d been so busy drooling over him that she’d missed the moment he’d said it.Siam. . . Apparently it was Sir James Harrison’s nickname. Joanna took off her headphones and drew the by-now creased photocopy of the love letter out of her rucksack. She studied the name on the letter. Could it be . . . ?

She needed a magnifying glass. She left her chair and wandered round the office in search of one. Having eventually purloined one from Archie, the sports reporter, Joanna returned to her seat and trained the glass on the first line.

My darling Sam . . .

She searched the space between the top right-hand corner of the ‘S’, and the left-hand corner of the ‘A’.Yes!Joanna studied the dot again, aware it could be ink or a mark of some kind from the photocopier. No. There was absolutely, definitely, a small dot between the ‘S’ and the ‘A’. Joanna took a pen and copied, as exactly as she could, the flowing writing of the word. And then she was sure: there was an unnecessary upward stroke after the capital ‘S’ and before the ‘A’. Putting a dot directly above the stroke, the word instantly changed:Siam.

Joanna gulped, a tingle of excitement running up her spine. She knew now who the love letter had been written to.

11

Joanna had decided to strike while the iron was hot and utilise Alec’s sympathy and current good humour to her advantage. That afternoon, she went up to Alec’s desk, which was piled high with every edition of their rival dailies – as well as not one but three overflowing ashtrays – perched atop stacks of copy. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the perennial Rothman’s hanging out of a corner of his mouth, sweat on his brow as he cursed the computer screen in front of him.