The Last Letter from Your Lover(49)
Author: Jojo Moyes

Jennifer stood up and reached for her bag, which she had left on the back of the chair. “I almost forgot. Violet said she’d be here after tea.”

“Oh, Lord. More updates on little Frederick’s terrible poop problem.”

“I’ll come tomorrow if I can.”

“Have fun, darling. I’d give my eyeteeth to be at a cocktail party rather than stuck here listening to Violet drone on.” Yvonne sighed. “And pass me that copy of Queen before you go, would you? What do you think of Jean Shrimpton’s hair? It’s a little like how you wore yours to that disastrous supper at Maisie Barton-Hulme’s.”

Jennifer stepped into her bathroom and locked the door behind her, letting the dressing gown fall at her feet. She had laid out the clothes she would wear this evening: a raw silk shift dress with a scoop collar, the color of good claret, with a silk wrap. She would pin up her hair, and put on the ruby earrings Laurence had bought her for her thirtieth birthday. He complained that she rarely wore them. In his opinion, if he spent money on her, she should at least demonstrate the evidence of it.

That being settled, she would soak in her bath until she had to polish her fingernails. Then she would get dressed, and by the time Laurence returned home, she would be putting the finishing touches to her makeup. She turned off the taps and looked at her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet, wiping the glass when it became obscured by steam. She stared at herself until it had clouded again. Then she opened the cabinet and sorted through the brown bottles on the top shelf until she found what she wanted. She swallowed two Valium, washing them down with water from the tooth mug. She eyed the pentobarbital, but decided that would be too much if she wanted to drink. And she definitely did.

She climbed into the bath as she heard the slam of the front door, which announced that Mrs. Cordoza was back from the park, and slid down into the comforting water.

Laurence had rung to say he would be late again. She sat in the back of the car while Eric, the driver, negotiated the hot, dry streets, finally coming to a halt outside her husband’s offices. “Will you be waiting in the car, Mrs. Stirling?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She watched as the young man walked briskly up the steps and disappeared into the foyer. She no longer cared to go into her husband’s offices. She made the odd appearance at functions, and to wish the staff a happy Christmas, when he insisted, but the place made her uncomfortable. His secretary regarded her with a kind of curious disdain, as if Jennifer had wronged her. Perhaps she had. It was often hard to tell what she had done wrong, these days.

The door opened and Laurence walked out, followed by the driver, in his dark gray tweed. No matter that the temperature was in the low seventies, Laurence Stirling would wear what he considered appropriate. He found the new trends in men’s clothing incomprehensible.

“Ah. You’re here.” He slid into the backseat beside her, bringing with him a burst of warm air.

“Yes.”

“Everything all right at home?”

“Everything is fine.”

“Did the boy call to wash the steps?”

“Just after you left.”

“I wanted to be away by six—bloody transatlantic calls. They always come in later than they say they will.”

She nodded. She knew she wasn’t required to answer.

They pulled out into the evening traffic. Across Marylebone Road, she could picture the green mirage of Regent’s Park, and watched girls walking toward it in lazy, laughing groups on the shimmering pavements, pausing to exclaim to each other. Just lately she had started to feel old, matronly, faced with these girdle-free dolly birds in their short, blunt skirts and bold makeup. They seemed not to care what anyone thought of them. There were probably only ten years between them and herself, Jennifer thought, but she might as well be from her own mother’s generation.

“Oh. You wore that dress.” His voice was loaded with disapproval.

“I hadn’t realized you disliked it.”

“I don’t have any feelings about it one way or another. I just thought you might want to wear something that made you look less . . . bony.”

It never ended. Even though she’d thought she’d covered her heart with a permanent porcelain shell, he still found a way to chip at it.

She swallowed. “Bony. Thank you. I don’t suppose there’s a lot I can do about it now.”

“Don’t make a fuss. But you could think a little more carefully about how you present yourself.” He turned to her briefly. “And you might want to use some more of whatever you put on your face here.” He pointed under his eyes. “You look rather tired.” He leaned back in his seat and lit a cigar. “Right, Eric. Crack on—I want to be there by seven.”

With an obedient purr, the car surged forward. Jennifer stared out at the busy streets, and said nothing.

Gracious. Even-tempered. Calm. These were the words her friends, Laurence’s friends, and his business associates used to describe her. Mrs. Stirling, a paragon of female virtue, always perfectly put together, never prone to the excitement and shrill hysterics of other, lesser wives. Occasionally, if this was said in his earshot, Laurence would say, “Perfect wife? If only they knew, eh, darling?” The men in his presence would laugh obligingly, and she would smile, too. It was often those evenings that ended badly. Occasionally, when she caught the fleeting glances that traveled between Yvonne and Francis at one of Laurence’s sharper comments, or Bill’s blush, she suspected that their relationship might indeed have been the subject of private speculation. But no one pressed her. A man’s domestic life was private, after all. They were good friends, far too good to intrude.

“And here is the lovely Mrs. Stirling. Don’t you look gorgeous?” The South African attaché took her hands in his and kissed her cheeks.

“Not too bony?” she asked innocently.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled. “You look terribly well, Sebastian. Getting married has evidently been good for you.”

Laurence clapped the younger man on the back. “Despite all my warnings, eh?”

The two men laughed, and Sebastian Thorne, who still carried the glow of the genuinely well matched, beamed proudly. “Pauline’s over there, if you’d like to say hello, Jennifer. I know she’s looking forward to seeing you.”

“I’ll do that,” she said, filled with gratitude for such an early exit. “Do excuse me.”