The Last Letter from Your Lover

feared giving a truthful response. But she couldn’t stop now. ‘Please. There’s no right or wrong answer, I assure you. I’ve just . . . Things have been a little strange since . . . I’d like to get a better idea of how things were.’
    The woman’s hands were clasped tightly in front of her. ‘Perhaps you’re quieter. A little less . . . sociable.’
    ‘Would you say I was happier beforehand?’
    ‘Madam, please . . .’ The older woman fiddled with her necklace. ‘I don’t – I really should go. I might leave the linen until tomorrow, if you wouldn’t mind.’
    Before Jennifer could speak again, the housekeeper had disappeared.
    The Beachcomber restaurant at the Mayfair Hotel was one of the hottest tables around. When Jennifer walked in, her husband close behind her, she could see why: only yards from the chilly London street, she found herself in a beach paradise. The circular bar was clad in bamboo, as was the ceiling. The floor was sea grass, while fishing nets and buoys hung from the rafters. Hula music wafted from speakers set into fake stone cliffs, only just audible above the noise of a crowded Friday night. A mural of blue skies and endless white sands took up most of one wall, and the oversized bust of a woman, taken from the prow of a ship, jutted into the bar area. It was there, attempting to hang his hat upon one of her carved breasts, that they spotted Bill.
    ‘Ah, Jennifer . . . Yvonne . . . have you met Ethel Merman here?’ He picked up his hat and waved it at them.
    ‘Watch out,’ Yvonne muttered, as she stood up to greet them. ‘Violet’s stuck at home, and Bill’s already three sheets to the wind.’
    Laurence released Jennifer’s arm as they were shown to their seats. Yvonne sat opposite her, then waved an elegant hand, beckoning Anne and Dominic, who had just arrived. Bill, at the other end of the table, had snatched Jennifer’s hand and kissed it as she passed him.
    ‘Oh, you are a creep, Bill, really.’ Francis shook his head. ‘I’ll send a car for Violet if you’re not careful.’
    ‘Why is Violet at home?’ Jennifer let the waiter pull out the chair for her.
    ‘One of the children is ill, and she didn’t feel able to let the nanny cope alone.’ Yvonne managed to convey everything she thought about that decision in one beautifully arched eyebrow.
    ‘Because the children must 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 whisky.’
    ‘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 on to the dance-floor and the tables competed in volume to be heard. The lights dimmed, a swirling red and gold glow emanating from the coloured-glass table lamps. She let her gaze wander around her friends. Bill’s 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 multicoloured 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 was in a glass bubble, distanced from those around her – and homesick, she realised, 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