Page 97 of The Love Letter

‘Bullshit. You really think there’s a special rest home for burnt-out intelligence officers?’ Ian started to laugh. ‘It was James Bond that made me want to go into the service in the first place. I used to look at those gorgeous women and think, if they’re a free perk, then that’s the job for me.’

Simon remained silent, knowing there was little he could say.

‘This is it,’ Ian sighed, ‘the end. And what do I have to show for my years of faithful service? A bedsit in Clapham and a clapped-out liver.’ He smirked at his own sad summary.

‘Come on, mate. I know things look bleak now, but I’m sure if you stay off the juice for a while, things’ll get better.’

‘The booze is the only way I can make it through. Anyway –’ Ian’s eyes lit up suddenly, whether with anger or remorse Simon couldn’t tell – ‘at least I’ve got some money saved. And the last little “sideline” has netted me a serious windfall. You know –’ Ian swayed as he walked towards Simon – ‘I was actually feeling a bit guilty about it. You said she’s a nice person, apparently, and it was a shit thing to do to someone nice.’ He hiccupped. ‘Now, I’m glad I did it.’

‘Who are you talking about, Ian?’

‘Nothing. Nothing . . .’ Ian stood up. ‘Sorry to disturb you. Got to go. I wouldn’t want to see you tainted by association.’ He staggered towards the door, then wagged his finger at Simon. ‘You’re going to go far, old chap. But just watch your back, and tell that journo girlie of yours to get the hell out of Marcus Harrison’s bed. It’s dangerous, and besides, from what I’ve heard through the headphones, he’s a crap lover.’ Ian managed a ghost of a smile, then disappeared out of the front door.

On Sunday morning, after a quiet Saturday watching the rugby and reading, Simon woke from his first restful sleep in days. He saw that his clock read eight thirty-two – far past his usual infallible seven a.m. inner alarm clock. Switching on Radio Four and leaving the coffee to brew, he was just about to go downstairs to collect his usual heap of Sunday papers when the telephone rang.

‘Yes?’

‘There’s trouble. You’re to report immediately to Welbeck Street. We’ll be calling you with further instructions.’

‘I see. Why the change?’

‘Read theMorning Mail. You’ll find out. Goodbye.’

Swearing, he ran downstairs to the main entrance of the building and picked up theMorning Mailfrom the pile on the mat. Reading the headline, he groaned.

‘Jesus! Poor Zoe.’ Anger and worry twisting in his stomach, he raced back upstairs and hastily pulled on his suit.Bloody Joanna, he thought,this is how she gets back at me, betraying Zoe to make a quick buck . . .

He was just about to leave when his doorbell rang. He realised he’d invited Joanna round for brunch. Trying to control his anger, Simon pressed the button that would allow her entry.Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, he reminded himself as he donned his jacket.

‘Hello,’ she said breezily as she walked in, kissed him on the cheek and handed him a pint of milk. ‘I know you’re always out of milk, just thought I’d—’

He handed the paper to her. ‘Seen this?’

‘No, I knew you’d have the Sundays, so I didn’t bother buying them. I . . .’ Joanna’s eyes fell on the headline. ‘Oh, damn. Poor Zoe.’

‘Yes, poor Zoe,’ he mimicked.

Joanna studied the photograph of the Duke of York, his arm looped around Zoe’s shoulders, and another of him kissing her on top of her head. They could have been any pair of attractive young lovers taking a stroll in the countryside.

‘“Prince Arthur and his new love, Zoe Harrison, enjoying a weekend together at the house of the Hon. Richard Bartlett and his wife, Cliona,”’ Joanna read out. ‘Didn’t you drive them down there?’

‘Yes. I dropped them off on Friday. And I have to go now.’

‘Oh, so brunch is off?’

‘Yes, it’s off.’ He glared at her. ‘Joanna?’

‘Yes?’

‘Have you seen which newspaper is covering the story?’

‘Of course I have. It’s ours.’

‘Yes,yours.’

The penny dropped as she studied Simon’s angry expression.

‘I hope you’re not thinking what Ithinkyou’re thinking.’