Free The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes

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