The Last Letter from Your Lover(33)
Author: Jojo Moyes

“And what about what she’s putting me through? It’s humiliating. Everyone knows I’m with Reggie, and she’s got him wrapped around her little finger.”

“Jennifer had the most awful car crash. She’s not very long out of hospital. Like I said, she’s just letting her hair down a little.”

“And her knickers with it.”

“Mo . . .”

“She’s drunk. And she’s ancient. How old must she be? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? My Reggie’s at least three years younger than she is.”

Yvonne took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette, handed another to the girl, and pulled the double doors closed behind her. “Mo—”

“She’s a thief. She’s trying to steal him from me. I can see it, even if you can’t.”

Yvonne lowered her voice. “You have to understand, Mo, darling, that there’s flirting and then there’s flirting. Reggie and Jenny are having a high old time together out there, but neither of them would ever think of cheating. They’re flirting, yes, but they’re doing it in a roomful of people, not attempting to hide it. If there was the slightest seriousness in it, do you really think she’d be like that in front of Larry?” It sounded convincing, even to herself. “Darling girl, you will find, as you get older, that a bit of conversational parrying is part of life.” She popped a cashew into her mouth. “It’s one of the great consolations for having to be married to one man for years and years.”

The girl scowled, but deflated a little. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But I still don’t think it’s a nice way for a lady to behave.” She opened the doors and went back into the living room. Yvonne took a deep breath and followed her.

The cocktails slid down as the conversation grew louder and livelier. Francis returned to the dining room and made more Snowballs, while Yvonne deftly threaded cherries onto cocktail sticks to decorate them. She found now that she felt frankly dreadful if she had more than two proper drinks, so she had one made with blue curaçao, then limited herself to Jaffa Juice. The champagne was going down like no one’s business. Francis turned off the music in the hope that people might take the hint and leave, but Bill and Reggie turned it on again and tried to get everyone to dance. At one point both men had hold of Jennifer’s hands, while they danced around her. As Francis was busy with the drinks, Yvonne moved to where Laurence was sitting and planted herself next to him. She had sworn to herself that she would get a smile out of him.

He said nothing, but took a long swig of his drink, glanced at his wife, and looked away again. Dissatisfaction radiated from him. “She’s making a fool of herself,” he muttered, when the silence between them became too great.

She’s making a fool of you, Yvonne thought. “She’s just merry. It’s been a strange time for her, Larry. She’s . . . trying to enjoy herself.”

When she looked at him, he was gazing at her intently. Yvonne felt a little uncomfortable. “Didn’t you tell me the doctor said she might not be herself?” she added. He had told her this when Jennifer had been in the hospital—back when he still talked to people.

He took another swig of his drink, his eyes not leaving hers. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?”

His eyes strafed hers for clues.

“Knew what, Larry?”

Francis had put on a rhumba. Behind them Bill was entreating Jennifer to dance with him, and she was pleading with him to stop.

Laurence drained his glass. “Nothing.”

She leaned forward and put a hand on his. “It’s been tough on both of you. I’m sure you need a little time to—” She was interrupted by another peal of laughter from Jennifer. Reggie had put one of the cut flowers between his teeth and was engaging her in an impromptu tango.

Laurence shrugged her off delicately, just as Bill, breathless, flopped down beside them. “That Reggie character’s a bit much, isn’t he? Yvonne, shouldn’t you have a word?”

She dared not look at Laurence, but his voice, when it came, was steady. “Don’t worry, Yvonne,” he said, his eyes fixed somewhere in the far distance. “I’ll sort it out.”

She found Jennifer in the bathroom shortly before eight thirty. She was leaning across the marble washbasin, retouching her makeup. Her eyes slid to Yvonne as she entered, then returned to her reflection. She was flushed, Yvonne noted. Giddy, almost. “Would you like some coffee?” she said.

“Coffee?”

“Before you go on to Larry’s work do.”

“I think,” Jennifer said, outlining her lips with an unusually careful hand, “for that shindig I’m more likely to need another stiff drink.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m putting on my lipstick. What does it look like I’m—”

“With my cousin. You’re coming on awfully strong.” It had come out more sharply than she had intended. But Jennifer seemed not to have noticed.

“When did we last go out with Reggie?”

“What?”

“When did we last go out with him?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps when he came to France with us in the summer.”

“What does he drink when he’s not drinking cocktails?”

Yvonne took a deep, steadying breath. “Jenny, darling, don’t you think you should tone it down a little?”

“What?”

“This thing with Reggie. You’re upsetting Larry.”

“Oh, he doesn’t care a fig what I do,” she said dismissively. “What does Reggie drink? You must tell me. It’s terribly important.”

“I don’t know. Whiskey. Jenny, is everything all right at home? With you and Larry?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m probably talking out of turn, but Larry really does seem dreadfully unhappy.”

“Larry does?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t be too cavalier with his feelings, darling.”

Jenny turned to her. “His feelings? Do you think anyone gives a damn what I’ve been through?”

“Jenny, I—”

“No one could care less. I’m just supposed to get on with it, keep my mouth shut, and play the adoring wife. As long as Larry hasn’t got a long face.”

“But if you want my opinion—”

“No, I don’t. Just mind your own business, Yvonne. Really.”