The Last Letter from Your Lover

it, really. Lena’s going to keep her job, and I’ll look after the baby at home. You know, provided everything happens as it should and . . .’
    Ellie tries to keep her voice neutral. ‘And that’s what you want?’
    ‘Yeah. I don’t like my job anyway. Haven’t done for years. She earns a fortune. I think it’ll be quite nice pottering round with a kid all day.’
    ‘Parenthood’s a bit more than pottering round—’ she begins.
    ‘I know that. Mind out . . . on the pavement.’ Gently he steers her round the mess. ‘But I’m ready for it. I don’t need to be out every night in the pub. I want the next stage. That’s not to say I don’t like coming out with you guys, but sometimes I do wonder whether we shouldn’t all be . . . you know . . . growing up a bit.’
    ‘Oh, no!’ Ellie clasps his arm. ‘You’ve crossed over to the dark side.’
    ‘Well, I don’t feel the same way about my job as you do. For you it’s everything, right?’
    ‘Almost everything,’ she concedes.
    They walk on in silence for a couple of streets, listening to the distant sirens, the slammed car doors and muffled arguments of the city. Ellie loves this part of the evening, buoyed by friendship, temporarily free of the uncertainties that surround the rest of her life. She’s had a good night at the pub, is headed home to her cosy flat. She’s healthy. She has a credit card with plenty of unused capacity, plans for the weekend, and she’s the only one of her friends not yet to have found a single grey hair. Life is good.
    ‘Do you ever think about her?’ Douglas asks.
    ‘Who?’
    ‘John’s wife. Do you think she knows?’
    The mention of her dissipates Ellie’s happiness. ‘I don’t know.’ And when Douglas says nothing, she adds, ‘I’m sure I would, if I were her. He says she’s more interested in the children than him. Sometimes I tell myself there might even be some little part of her that’s glad she’s not having to worry about him. You know, about keeping him happy.’
    ‘Now that is wishful thinking.’
    ‘Maybe. But if I’m really honest, the answer’s no. I don’t think about her and I don’t feel guilty. Because I don’t think it wouldn’t have happened if they’d been happy or . . . you know . . . connected.’
    ‘You women have such a misguided view of men.’
    ‘You think he’s happy with her?’ She studies his face.
    ‘I have no idea if he is or not. I just don’t think he needs to be unhappy with his wife to be sleeping with you.’
    The mood has shifted slightly, and perhaps in recognition of this, she lets go of his arm, adjusting her scarf around her neck. ‘You think I’m a bad person. Or he’s a bad person.’
    It’s out there. The fact that it has come from Douglas, the least judgemental of her friends, stings.
    ‘I don’t think anyone’s a bad person. I just think of Lena, and what it would mean for her to carry my child, and the idea of dicking around on her just because she chose to give my baby the attention I felt was mine . . .’
    ‘So you do think he’s a bad person.’
    Douglas shakes his head. ‘I just . . .’ He stops, looks up into the night sky before framing his answer. ‘I think you should be careful, Ellie. All this trying to decipher what he means, what he wants, it’s just bullshit. You’re wasting your time. In my book things are generally pretty simple. Someone likes you, you like them, you hook up, and that’s pretty much it.’
    ‘Nice universe you live in, Doug. Shame it doesn’t resemble the real one.’
    ‘Okay, let’s change the subject. Bad one to bring up on a few drinks.’
    ‘No.’ Her voice sharpens. ‘ In vino veritas and all that. It’s fine. At least I know how you feel. I’ll be fine from here. Say hi to Lena for me.’ She runs the last two streets to her house, not turning back to view the old friend behind her.
    The Nation is being packed up, box by box, for transfer to its new glass-fronted home on a gleaming, reclaimed quay to the east of the city. The office, week by week, has been thinning: where once there were towers of press releases, files and archived cuttings, now empty desks, unexpected shiny lengths of laminated surface, are exposed to the harsh glare of the strip lighting. Souvenirs of past stories have been unearthed, like prizes from an archaeologist’s dig, flags from royal jubilees, dented metal helmets from distant wars and framed certificates for