Free The Last Letter from Your Lover by Jojo Moyes Page A

a little way in silence; Anthony hearing the shuffle of his shoes on the ground, the odd gasp escaping him as he tripped on tufts of wild lavender. Despite the balmy evening and the girl on his arm, he felt homesick for something he could not articulate.
    ‘You’re very quiet, Mr O’Hare. Are you sure you’re not falling asleep again?’
    A burst of laughter carried to them from the house.
    ‘Tell me something,’ he said. ‘Do you enjoy evenings like that?’
    She shrugged. ‘It’s a nice house.’
    ‘ A nice house. That’s your principal criterion for a pleasant evening, is it, Mademoiselle?’
    She raised an eyebrow, apparently untroubled by the edge in his voice. ‘Mariette. Please. Do I take it you didn’t enjoy yourself?’
    ‘People like that,’ he pronounced, aware that he sounded drunk and belligerent, ‘make me want to stick a revolver in my mouth and pull the trigger.’
    She giggled and, a little gratified by her apparent complicity, he warmed to his theme: ‘The men talk about nothing but who has what. The women can’t see beyond their bloody jewellery. They have the money, the opportunity, to do anything, see anything, yet nobody has an opinion on anything outside their own narrow little world.’ He stumbled again, and Mariette’s hand tightened on his arm.
    ‘I’d rather have spent the night chatting to the paupers outside the Hôtel Cap. Except, no doubt, people like Stirling would have them tidied up and put somewhere less offensive . . .’
    ‘I thought you’d like Madame Stirling,’ she chided. ‘Half the men in the Riviera are in love with her. Apparently.’
    ‘Spoilt little tai-tai . You find them in any city, Mademois – Mariette. Pretty as a peach, and not an original thought in her head.’
    He had continued his tirade for some time before he became aware that the girl had stopped. Sensing some change in the atmosphere, he glanced behind him and, as his gaze steadied, he saw Jennifer Stirling a few feet back up the path. She was clutching his linen jacket, her blond hair silver in the moonlight.
    ‘You left this,’ she said, thrusting out her hand. Her jaw was rigid, her eyes glittering in the blue light.
    He moved forward and took it.
    Her voice cut through the still air: ‘I’m sorry we were such a disappointment to you, Mr O’Hare, that how we live caused such offence. Perhaps we would have met with your approval if we had been dark-skinned and impoverished.’
    ‘Christ,’ he said, and swallowed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m – I’m very drunk.’
    ‘Evidently. Perhaps I could just ask that, whatever your personal views of me and my spoilt life, you don’t attack Laurence in print.’ She began to walk back up the hill.
    As he winced and swore silently, her parting line caught on the breeze: ‘Perhaps the next time you face the prospect of having to endure the company of such bores, you might find it easier just to say “No, thank you.”’

You wouldn’t let me hold your hand, not even your little finger, my little peach plant.
    Male to Female, via letter

4
    ‘I’m going to start on the vacuuming, madam, if it won’t disturb you.’
    She had heard the footsteps coming across the landing and sat back on her heels.
    Mrs Cordoza, vacuum-cleaner in hand, stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh! All your things . . . I didn’t know you were sorting out this room. Would you like me to help?’
    Jennifer wiped her forehead, surveying the contents of her wardrobe, which were strewn across the bedroom floor around her. ‘No, thank you, Mrs Cordoza. You get along. I’m just rearranging my things so that I can find them.’
    The housekeeper hovered. ‘If you’re sure. I’ll be going to the shops after I’ve finished. I’ve put some cold cuts in the refrigerator. You did say you didn’t want anything too heavy for lunch.’
    ‘That will be quite sufficient. Thank you.’
    And then she was alone again, the dull roar of the vacuum-cleaner receding down the corridor.