But his lips moved, and Gemma’s eyes caught their every movement. There was no mistaking it. She kissed him hard, and moaned into his mouth, ‘I love you, too.’ .. Summer had faded into autumn in what had felt like a blink of an eye, and it wasn’t long until Ryan found himself pacing up and down on the pavement outside a French restaurant in Hampstead one evening in mid November. He called Gemma’s phone again. ‘This is the Vodafone voicemail service for Oh-Seven-Seven-Three…’ He redialed. ‘This is the Vodafone voicemail service for Oh-Sev…’ And again. ‘This is the…’ His brow furrowed. The rain poured relentlessly, and the wind was blowing so hard that his umbrella was rendered useless. He sighed, and tried her number again. The familiar voicemail greeting played. This time, he left a message: the sixth of the night. ‘Babe, it’s me. I’m worried. Are you okay?’ ‘Mr Lewis, I’m sorry, but it is restaurant policy not to hold a table for more than forty minutes. Would you like to start. ‘A telegram came for you,’ said Bill, looking in from the room’s doorway, laughing at his friend’s plight. ‘It would seem to be a matter of some urgency since the boy is waiting for an answer.’ ‘A telegram?’ he asked in surprise. ‘Who would send…?’ He wondered if it were from some angry father demanding the righting of some perceived wrong upon his daughter. God, he thought, it’s 1925! Things were different, now, the War had seen to that. If some wonderful young girl wants to bestow her favors upon him, who was he to complain? Making an effort to conceal his concern, he took the telegram and opened the light yellow envelope. If it were about some girl, wouldn’t it have made more sense for the angry father to arrive in person? A single glance at the telegram was enough to relieve Jack’s apprehension. It was from someone named G. Lincoln, whoever that was, about his uncle whom he had not seen in more than ten years. ‘This comes from someone working for my uncle. It seems he’s quite ill.
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