Free The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes Page B

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?”
    He was drunk, but there was something else in his expression, some bitterness she could not account for.
    “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to give you that impression.” She pushed herself up onto her elbows. “I’m just tired, I suppose.” She reached out a hand to him.
    “Ah. Tired.”
    They sat up beside each other. He ran a hand through his hair, disappointment oozing from him. She was overwhelmed with guilt, and also, to her shame, relief. When the silence became unbearable, she took his hand. “Laurence . . . do you think I’m all right?”
    “All right? What’s that supposed to mean?”
    She felt a lump rise in the back of her throat. He was her husband: surely she should be able to confide in him. She thought briefly of Yvonne draped over Francis, the constant looks that passed between them and spoke of a hundred other conversations to which no one else was party. She thought of Dominic and Anne, laughing their way into their taxi. “Laurence . . .”
    “Larry!” he exploded. “You call me Larry. I don’t see why you can’t remember that.”
    Her hands flew to her face. “Larry, I’m sorry. It’s just I . . . I still feel so strange.”
    “Strange?”
    She winced. “As if something’s missing. I feel as if there’s some puzzle to which I don’t hold all the pieces. Does that sound terribly silly?” Please reassure me, she begged him silently. Put your arms around me. Tell me I am being silly, that it will all come back to me. Tell me that Hargreaves was right, and this awful feeling will go. Love me a little. Keep me close, until I can feel like it is the right thing for you to do. Just understand me.
    But when she looked up, his eyes were on his shoes, which lay a few feet away from him on the carpet. His silence, she grasped gradually, was not a questioning one. It didn’t speak of things that he was trying to work out. His terrible stillness spoke of something darker: barely suppressed anger.
    His voice was quiet and icily deliberate when he said, “What do you think is missing from your life, Jennifer?”
    “Nothing,” she said hurriedly. “Nothing at all. I’m perfectly happy. I—” She got up and made for the bathroom. “It’s nothing. As Dr. Hargreaves said, it will soon pass. I’ll soon be completely myself again.”

    When she woke, he had already gone, and Mrs. Cordoza was knocking softly on her door. She opened her eyes, feeling an ominous ache as she moved her head.
    “Madam? Would you like me to bring you a cup of coffee?”
    “That would be very kind. Thank you,” she croaked.
    She pushed herself up slowly, squinting into the bright light. It was a quarter to ten. Outside, she could hear a car engine, the dull scrape of someone clearing snow from the pavement, and sparrows squabbling in the trees. The clothes that had been strewn across the bedroom the previous evening had somehow been tidied away. She lay flat against the pillows, letting the night’s events pierce her consciousness.
    He had turned away from her when she had returned to the bed, his broad, strong back an unbridgeable barrier. She had felt relief, but something more perplexing, too. Now a melancholic weariness stole over her. I’ll have to do better, she thought. I’ll stop