The Last Letter from Your Lover by Jojo Moyes Page A

belt, a triangle of pale, pelted skin. He leant back in his chair, and tilted his glasses to the top of his head. ‘It’s the editor’s “must”, O’Hare. He wants a four-page spread on the wonder mineral for the advertising.’
    ‘What the hell do I know about mines and factories? I’m a foreign correspondent, for Christ’s sake.’
    ‘You were,’ Don corrected. ‘We can’t send you out again, Anthony, you know that, and I need someone who can do a nice job. You can’t just sit around here making the place look untidy.’
    Anthony slumped in the chair on the other side of the desk and drew out a cigarette.
    Behind the news editor, who was just visible through the glass wall of his office, Phipps, the junior reporter, ripped three sheets of paper from his typewriter and, face screwed up in frustration, replaced them, with two sheets of carbon between.
    ‘I’ve seen you do this stuff. You can turn on the charm.’
    ‘So, not even a profile. A puff piece. Glorified advertising.’
    ‘He’s part based in Congo. You know about the country.’
    ‘I know about the kind of man who owns mines in Congo.’
    Don held out his hand for a cigarette. Anthony gave him one and lit it. ‘It’s not all bad.’
    ‘No?’
    ‘You get to interview this guy at his summer residence in the South of France. The Riviera. A few days in the sun, a lobster or two on expenses, maybe a glimpse of Bridget Bardot . . . You should be thanking me.’
    ‘Send Peterson. He loves all that stuff.’
    ‘Peterson’s covering the Norwich child-killer.’
    ‘Murfett. He’s a crawler.’
    ‘Murfett’s off to Ghana to cover the trouble in Ashanti.’
    ‘Him?’ Anthony was incredulous. ‘He couldn’t cover two schoolboys fighting in a telephone box. How the hell is he doing Ghana?’ He lowered his voice. ‘Send me back, Don.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I could be half insane, alcoholic and in a ruddy asylum but I’d still do a better job than Murfett and you know it.’
    ‘Your problem, O’Hare, is that you don’t know when you’re well off.’ Don leant forwards and dropped his voice. ‘Listen – just stop crabbing and listen. When you came back from Africa, there was a lot of talk upstairs’ – he motioned to the editor’s suite – ‘about whether you should be let go. The whole incident . . . They were worried about you, man. Anyway, God only knows how but you’ve made a lot of friends here, and some fairly important ones. They took everything you’ve been through into account and kept you on the payroll. Even while you were in . . .’ he gestured awkwardly behind him ‘. . .  you know.’
    Anthony’s gaze was level.
    ‘Anyhow. They don’t want you doing anything too . . . pressured. So get a grip on yourself, get over to France and be grateful that you’ve got the kind of job that occasionally involves dining in the foothills at ruddy Monte Carlo. Who knows? You might bag a starlet while you’re there.’
    A long silence followed.
    When Anthony failed to look suitably impressed, Don stubbed out his cigarette. ‘You really don’t want to do it.’
    ‘No, Don. You know I don’t. I start doing this stuff, it’s just a few small steps to births, marriages and deaths.’
    ‘Jesus. You’re a contrary bugger, O’Hare.’ He reached for a piece of typewritten paper that he ripped from the spike on his desk. ‘Okay, then, take this. Vivien Leigh is headed across the Atlantic. She’s going to be camping outside the theatre where Olivier’s playing. Apparently he won’t talk to her, and she’s telling the gossip columnists she doesn’t know why. How about you find out whether they’re going to divorce? Maybe get a nice description of what she’s wearing while you’re there.’
    There was another lengthy pause. Outside the room, Phipps ripped out another three pages, smacked his forehead and mouthed expletives.
    Anthony stubbed out his cigarette and shot his boss a black look. ‘I’ll go and pack,’