The Last Letter from Your Lover

tell you what a dishonest scoundrel my rival at the town hall is . . . at the right price, of course.’
    A ripple of laughter passed around the table. Mariette’s foot was pressing against Anthony’s under the table. On his other side, Jennifer Stirling was quietly instructing staff to clear the plates. The Moncrieffs were engaged in conversation on each side of Monsieur Demarcier.
    Jesus, he thought. What am I doing with these people? This is not my world. Laurence Stirling was talking emphatically to his neighbour. A fool, thought Anthony, aware even as he said it that he, with his lost family, his disappearing career, his lack of riches, might more accurately fit that description. The reference to his son, Jennifer Stirling’s humiliation and the drink had conspired to darken his mood. There was only one thing for it: he motioned to the waiter for more wine.
    The Demarciers left shortly after eleven, the Lafayettes a few minutes later – council business in the morning, the mayor explained. ‘We start earlier than you English.’ He shook hands around the huge veranda to which they had retreated for coffee and brandy. ‘I will be very interested to read your article, Monsieur O’Hare. It has been a pleasure.’
    ‘All mine. Believe me,’ Anthony swayed as he stood. ‘I have never been more fascinated by council politics.’ He was now very drunk. The words emerged from his mouth almost before he knew what he wanted to say, and he blinked hard, conscious that he had little control over how they might be received. He had almost no idea of what he had discussed over the past hour. The mayor’s eyes met Anthony’s for a moment. Then he relinquished his hand and turned away.
    ‘Papa, I will stay, if you don’t mind. I’m sure one of these kind gentlemen will walk me home in a little while.’ Mariette stared meaningfully at Anthony, who gave an exaggerated nod.
    ‘I may need your help, Mademoiselle. I haven’t the faintest idea where I am,’ he said.
    Jennifer Stirling was kissing the Lafayettes. ‘I’ll make sure she returns home safely,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for coming.’ Then she said something in French that he didn’t catch.
    The night had grown chilly, but Anthony hardly felt it. He was aware of the waves lapping the shore far below, the clink of glasses, snatches of conversation as Moncrieff and Stirling discussed stock markets and investment opportunities abroad, but paid little attention as he downed the excellent cognac that someone had placed in his hand. He was used to being alone in a strange land, comfortable with his own company, but tonight he felt unbalanced, irritable.
    He glanced at the three women, the two brunettes and the blonde. Jennifer Stirling was holding out a hand, perhaps to show off some new piece of jewellery. The other two were murmuring, their laughter breaking into the conversation. Periodically Mariette would glance at him, and smile. Was there a hint of conspiracy in it? Seventeen, he warned himself. Too young.
    He heard crickets, the women’s laughter, some jazz music from deep within the house. He closed his eyes, then opened them and checked his watch. Somehow an hour had passed. He had the disturbing feeling that he might have nodded off. Either way, it was time to go. ‘I think,’ he said, to the men, as he hauled himself out of his chair, ‘I should probably get back to my hotel.’
    Laurence Stirling rose to his feet. He was smoking an oversized cigar. ‘Let me call my driver.’ He turned to the house.
    ‘No, no,’ Anthony protested. ‘The fresh air will do me good. Thank you very much for a . . . a very interesting evening.’
    ‘Telephone my office in the morning if you need any further information. I’ll be there until lunchtime. Then I leave for Africa. Unless you’d like to come and see the mines at first hand? We can always do with an old Africa hand . . .’
    ‘Some other time,’ Anthony said.
    Stirling shook his hand, a brief, firm handshake. Moncrieff followed suit, then tipped a finger to his head in mute salute.
    Anthony turned away and headed for the garden gate. The pathway was lit by small lanterns placed in the flowerbeds. Ahead, he could see the lights of vessels in the black nothingness of the sea. The lowered voices carried towards him on the breeze from the veranda.
    ‘Interesting fellow,’ Moncrieff was saying, in the kind of voice that suggested he thought the opposite.
    ‘Better than a