The Last Letter From Your Lover (7 page)

The housekeeper blinked, a little taken aback. “What do I do?”

“I mean, where do you go?”

“I go home,” she said.

“To . . . your family?”
I spend so much time with this woman,
she thought.
And I know nothing about her.

“My family are in South Africa. My daughters are grown up. I have two grandchildren.”

“Of course. Please forgive me, but I still can’t remember things as well as I might. I don’t remember you mentioning your husband.”

The woman looked at her feet. “He passed away almost eight years ago, madam.” When Jennifer didn’t speak, she added, “He was a manager at the mine in the Transvaal. Your husband gave me this job so I could continue to support my family.”

Jennifer felt as if she had been caught snooping. “I’m so sorry. As I said, my memory is a little unreliable at the moment. Please don’t think it reflects . . .”

Mrs. Cordoza shook her head.

Jennifer had flushed a deep red. “I’m sure in normal circumstances I would have—”

“Please, madam. I can see . . . ,” the housekeeper said carefully, “that you are not quite yourself yet.”

They stood there, facing each other, the older woman apparently mortified by her overfamiliarity.

But Jennifer didn’t see it that way. “Mrs. Cordoza,” she said, “do you find me much changed since my accident?” She saw the woman’s eyes search her face briefly before she answered. “Mrs. Cordoza?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Can you tell me in what way?”

The housekeeper looked awkward, and Jennifer saw that she feared giving a truthful response. But she couldn’t stop now. “Please. There’s no right or wrong answer, I assure you. I’ve just . . . Things have been a little strange since . . . I’d like to get a better idea of how things were.”

The woman’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her. “Perhaps you’re quieter. A little less . . . sociable.”

“Would you say I was happier beforehand?”

“Madam, please . . .” The older woman fiddled with her necklace. “I don’t—I really should go. I might leave the linen until tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Before Jennifer could speak again, the housekeeper had disappeared.

The Beachcomber restaurant at the Mayfair Hotel was one of the hottest tables around. When Jennifer walked in, her husband close behind her, she could see why: only yards from the chilly London street, she found herself in a beach paradise. The circular bar was clad in bamboo, as was the ceiling. The floor was sea grass, while fishing nets and buoys hung from the rafters. Hula music wafted from speakers set into fake stone cliffs, only just audible above the noise of a crowded Friday night. A mural of blue skies and endless white sands took up most of one wall, and the oversize bust of a woman, taken from the prow of a ship, jutted into the bar area. It was there, attempting to hang his hat upon one of her carved breasts, that they spotted Bill.

“Ah, Jennifer . . . Yvonne . . . have you met Ethel Merman here?” He picked up his hat and waved it at them.

“Watch out,” Yvonne muttered as she stood up to greet them. “Violet’s stuck at home, and Bill’s already three sheets to the wind.”

Laurence released Jennifer’s arm as they were shown to their seats. Yvonne sat opposite her, then waved an elegant hand, beckoning Anne and Dominic, who had just arrived. Bill, at the other end of the table, had snatched Jennifer’s hand and kissed it as she passed him.

“Oh, you are a creep, Bill, really.” Francis shook his head. “I’ll send a car for Violet if you’re not careful.”

“Why is Violet at home?” Jennifer let the waiter pull out the chair for her.

“One of the children is ill, and she didn’t feel able to let the nanny cope alone.” Yvonne managed to convey everything she thought about that decision in one beautifully arched eyebrow.

“Because the children must always come first,” Bill intoned. He winked at Jennifer. “Best to stay as you are, ladies. We men need a surprising amount of looking after.”

“Shall we get a jug of something? What do they do that’s good?”

“I’ll have a mai tai,” said Anne.

“I’ll have a Royal Pineapple,” said Yvonne, gazing at the menu, which bore a picture of a woman in a hula skirt and was marked “Grog List.”

“What’ll you have, Larry? Let me guess. A Bali Hai Scorpion. Something with a sting in its tail?” Bill had grabbed the drinks menu.

“Sounds disgusting. I’ll have a whiskey.”

“Then let me choose for the lovely Jennifer. Jenny darling, how about a Hidden Pearl? Or a Hula Girl’s Downfall? Fancy that?”

Jennifer laughed. “If you say so, Bill.”

“And I’ll have a Suffering Bastard because I am one,” he said cheerfully. “Right. When do we start dancing?”

Several drinks in, the food arrived: Polynesian pork, shrimp almond, and peppered steak. Jennifer, made swiftly tipsy by the strength of the cocktails, found she could barely pick at hers. Around her the room had grown noisier; a band struck up in the corner, couples moved onto the dance floor, and the tables competed in volume to be heard. The lights dimmed, a swirling red and gold glow emanating from the colored-glass table lamps. She let her gaze wander around her friends. Bill kept shooting her looks, as if he was keen for her approval. Yvonne’s arm was draped over Francis’s shoulder as she told some story. Anne broke off from sucking her multicolored drink through a straw to laugh uproariously. The feeling was creeping in again, as relentless as a tide: that she should be somewhere else. She felt as if she were in a glass bubble, distanced from those around her—and homesick, she realized, with a start.
I’ve drunk too much,
she scolded herself.
Stupid girl.
She met her husband’s eye and smiled at him, hoping she didn’t look as uncomfortable as she felt. He didn’t smile back. I’m too transparent, she thought mournfully.

“So what is this?” Laurence said, turning to Francis. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

“Do we need a reason to enjoy ourselves?” Bill said. He was now drinking from Yvonne’s pineapple through a long striped straw. She didn’t appear to notice.

“We have some news, don’t we, darling?” Francis said.

Yvonne leaned back in her chair, reached into her handbag, and lit a cigarette. “We certainly do.”

“We wanted to gather you—our best friends—here tonight to let you know before anyone else that”—Francis glanced at his wife—“in about six months from now we’re going to have a little Moncrieff.”

There was a short silence. Anne’s eyes widened. “You’re having a baby?”

“Well, we’re certainly not buying one.” Yvonne’s heavily lipsticked mouth twitched with amusement. Anne was already out of her seat, moving round the table to hug her friend. “Oh, that’s wonderful news. You clever thing.”

Francis laughed. “Trust me. It was nothing.”

“Certainly felt like nothing,” Yvonne said, and he nudged her.

Jennifer felt herself getting up, making her way around the table, as if propelled by some automatic impulse. She stooped to kiss Yvonne. “That’s absolutely wonderful news,” she said, unsure why she felt suddenly even more unbalanced. “Congratulations.”

“I would have told you before”—Yvonne’s hand was on hers—“but I thought I should wait until you felt a little more . . .”

“Myself. Yes.” Jennifer straightened up. “But it really is marvelous. I’m so happy for you.”

“Your turn next.” Bill pointed with exaggerated deliberation at Laurence and her. His collar was undone, his tie loosened. “You two will be the only ones left. Come on, Larry, chop chop. Mustn’t let the side down.”

Jennifer, returning to her seat, felt the color rise to her face, and hoped that in the lighting it wouldn’t show.

“All in good time, Bill,” Francis cut in smoothly. “It took us years to get round to it. Best to get all your fun out of the way first.”

“What? That was meant to be fun?” queried Yvonne.

There was a burst of laughter.

“Quite. There’s no hurry.”

Jennifer watched her husband pull a cigar from his inside pocket and slice off the end with careful deliberation. “No hurry at all,” she echoed.

They were in a taxi, heading for home. On the icy pavement Yvonne was waving, Francis’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Dominic and Anne had left a few minutes before, and Bill appeared to be serenading some passersby.

“Yvonne’s news is rather wonderful, isn’t it?” she said.

“You think so?”

“Why, yes. Don’t you?”

He was gazing out of the window. The city streets were near black, apart from the occasional streetlamp. “Yes,” he said. “A baby is wonderful news.”

“Bill was terribly drunk, wasn’t he?” She pulled her compact from her handbag and checked her face. It had finally ceased to surprise her.

“Bill,” her husband said, still staring out at the street, “is a fool.”

Some distant alarm bell was ringing. She closed her bag and folded her hands in her lap, struggling to work out what else she might say. “Did you . . . What did you think when you heard?”

He turned to her. One side of his face was illuminated by the sodium light, the other in darkness.

“About Yvonne, I mean. You didn’t say much. In the restaurant.”

“I thought,” he said, and she detected infinite sadness in his voice, “what a lucky bastard Francis Moncrieff was.”

They said nothing else on the short journey home. When they arrived, he paid off the taxi driver while she made her way carefully up the gritted stone steps. The lights were on, casting a pale yellow glow over the snow-covered paving. It was the only house still aglow in the silent square. He was drunk, she realized, watching the heavy, uneven fall of his feet on the steps. She tried, briefly, to remember how many whiskeys he had consumed and couldn’t. She had been locked in her own thoughts, wondering how she appeared to everyone else. Her brain had seemed to fizz with the effort of seeming normal.

“Would you like me to fetch you a drink?” she said, as she let them in. The hall echoed to their footfall. “I could make some tea, if you’d like.”

“No,” he said, dropping his overcoat onto the hall chair. “I’d like to go to bed.”

“Well, I think I’ll—”

“And I’d like you to come with me.”

So that was how it was. She hung her coat neatly in the hall cupboard and followed him up the stairs to their bedroom. She wished, suddenly, that she had drunk more. She would have liked them to be carefree, like Dominic and Anne, collapsing onto each other with giggles in the street. But her husband, she knew now, was not the giggling kind.

The alarm clock said it was a quarter to two. He peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He looked suddenly, desperately tired, she thought, and the faint hope dawned within her that he might simply fall asleep. She kicked off her shoes and realized she wouldn’t be able to undo the button at the collar of her dress.

“Laurence?”

“What?”

“Would you mind undoing . . . ?” She turned her back to him, and tried not to wince as his fingers clumsily ripped at the fabric. His breath was sharp with whiskey and the bitter tang of cigar smoke. He pulled, several times catching hairs at the back of her neck, causing her to flinch. “Bugger,” he said, eventually. “I’ve torn it.”

She peeled it from her shoulders, and he put the silk-covered button into her palm. “That’s all right,” she said, trying not to mind. “I’m sure Mrs. Cordoza will be able to mend it.”

She was about to hang the dress up when he caught her arm. “Leave that,” he said. He was gazing at her, his head nodding slightly, his lids at half-mast over shadowed eyes. He lowered his face, took hers between his hands, and began to kiss her. She closed her eyes as his hands wandered down her neck, her shoulders, both of them stumbling as he lost his balance. Then he pulled her onto the bed, his large hands covering her breasts, his weight already shifting onto her. She met his kisses politely, trying not to acknowledge her revulsion at his breath. “Jenny,” he was murmuring, breathing faster now, “Jenny . . .” At least it might not take too long.

She became aware that he had stopped. She opened her eyes to find him gazing at her. “What’s the matter?” he said thickly.

“Nothing.”

“You look as if I’m doing something distasteful to you. Is that how you feel?”