The Last Letter from Your Lover

can pinpoint them – regularly and from memory – with forensic accuracy?’
    ‘Your wife sounds terribly cruel. I rather like the sound of her.’
    ‘Actually, she’s an immensely clever woman.’ He watched Jennifer Stirling pop a prawn into her mouth.
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Yes. Clever enough to have left me years ago.’
    She passed him the mayonnaise. Then, when he didn’t take it from her, she spooned a dollop on to the side of his plate. ‘Does this mean you were not very marvellous, Mr O’Hare?’
    ‘At being married? No. I don’t suppose I was. In all other respects, I am, of course, peerless. And please call me Anthony.’ It was as if he had picked up their mannerisms, their carelessly arrogant way of speaking.
    ‘Then, Anthony, I’m sure you and my husband will get along terribly well. I believe he has a similar view of himself.’ Her eyes settled on Stirling, then returned to him, and lingered just long enough for him to decide she might not be as wearisome as he’d thought.
    During the main course – rolled beef, with cream and wild mushrooms – he discovered that Jennifer Stirling, née Verrinder, had been married for four years. She lived mostly in London, and her husband made numerous trips abroad to his mines. They came to the Riviera for the winter months, part of the summer and odd holidays when London society proved dull. It was tight crowd here, she said, eyeing the mayor’s wife opposite. You wouldn’t want to live here full-time, in the goldfish bowl.
    These were the things she told him, things that should have marked her out as just another rich man’s overindulged wife. But he observed other things too: that Jennifer Stirling was probably a little neglected, more clever than her position required her to be, and that she had not realised what the combination might do to her within a year or two. For now, only the hint of sadness in her eyes suggested such self-awareness. She was caught up in a never-ending but meaningless social whirl.
    There were no children. ‘I’ve heard it said that two people must be in the same country for while to have one.’ As she said this, he wondered if she was sending him a message. But she appeared guileless, amused by her situation rather than disappointed. ‘Do you have children, Anthony?’ she enquired.
    ‘I – I seem to have mislaid one. He lives with my ex-wife, who does her best to make sure that I don’t corrupt him.’ He knew as soon as he’d said it that he was drunk. Sober, he would never have mentioned Phillip.
    This time he saw something serious behind her smile, as if she was wondering whether to commiserate. Don’t , he willed her silently. To hide his embarrassment, he poured himself another glass of wine. ‘It’s fine. He—’
    ‘In what way might you be considered a corrupting influence, Mr O’Hare?’ Mariette, the mayor’s daughter, asked from across the table.
    ‘I suspect, Mademoiselle, that I’m more likely to be corrupted,’ he said. ‘Had I not already decided to write a most flattering profile of Mr Stirling, I should imagine I would be won over by the food and company at his table.’ He paused. ‘What would it take to corrupt you, Mrs Moncrieff?’ he asked – she seemed the safest person to whom he could direct this question.
    ‘Oh, I’d be as cheap as anything. Nobody ever tried hard enough,’ she said.
    ‘What rot,’ said her husband, fondly. ‘It took me months to corrupt you.’
    ‘Well, you had to buy me, darling. Unlike Mr O’Hare here, you were entirely lacking in looks and charm.’ She blew him a kiss. ‘Whereas Jenny is entirely incorruptible. Don’t you think she gives off the most terrifying air of goodness?’
    ‘No soul on earth is incorruptible if the price is right,’ said Moncrieff. ‘Even sweet Jenny.’
    ‘No, Francis. Monsieur Lafayette is our true beacon of integrity,’ said Jennifer, her lips twitching mischievously at the corners. She had begun to look a little giddy. ‘After all, there’s no such thing as corruption in French politics.’
    ‘Darling, I don’t think you’re equipped to discuss French politics,’ Laurence Stirling interjected.
    Anthony saw the faint colour that rose to her cheeks.
    ‘I was just saying—’
    ‘Well, don’t,’ he said lightly. She blinked and gazed at her plate.
    There was a brief hush.
    ‘I believe you are right, Madame,’ Monsieur Lafayette said gallantly to Jennifer, as he put down his glass. ‘However, I can