The Last Letter from Your Lover

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 leant 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 marvellous 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 colour rise to her face, and hoped that the lighting meant it wouldn’t show.
    ‘All in good time, Bill,’ Francis cut in smoothly. ‘It took us years to get round to it. Best to get all your fun out of the way first.’
    ‘What? That was meant to be fun ?’ queried Yvonne.
    There was a burst of laughter.
    ‘Quite. There’s no hurry.’
    Jennifer watched her husband pull a cigar from his inside pocket and slice off the end with careful deliberation. ‘No hurry at all,’ she echoed.
    They were in a taxi, heading for home. On the icy pavement Yvonne was waving, Francis’s arm protectively around her shoulders. Dominic and Anne had left a few minutes before, and Bill appeared to be serenading some passers-by.
    ‘Yvonne’s news is rather wonderful, isn’t it?’ she said.
    ‘You think so?’
    ‘Why, yes. Don’t you?’
    He was gazing out of the window. The city streets were near black, apart from the occasional streetlamp. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A baby is wonderful news.’
    ‘Bill was terribly drunk, wasn’t he?’ She pulled her powder compact from her handbag and checked her face. It had finally ceased to surprise her.
    ‘Bill,’ her husband said, still staring out at the street, ‘is a fool.’
    Some distant alarm bell was ringing. She closed her bag and folded her hands in her lap, struggling to work out what else she might say. ‘Did you . . . What did you think when you heard?’
    He turned to her. One side of his face was illuminated by the sodium light, the other in darkness.
    ‘About Yvonne, I mean. You didn’t say much. In the restaurant.’
    ‘I thought,’ he said, and she detected infinite sadness in his voice, ‘what a lucky bastard Francis Moncrieff was.’
    They said nothing else on the short journey home. When they arrived, he paid off the taxi driver while she made her way carefully up the gritted stone steps. The lights were on, casting a pale yellow light over the snow-covered paving. It was the only house still aglow in the silent square. He was drunk, she realised, watching the heavy, uneven fall of his feet on the steps. She tried, briefly, to remember how many whiskies he had consumed and couldn’t. She had been locked in her own thoughts, wondering how she appeared to everyone else. Her brain had seemed to fizz with the effort of seeming normal .
    ‘Would you like me to fetch you a drink?’ she said, as she let them in. The hall echoed to their footfall. ‘I could make some tea, if you’d like.’
    ‘No,’ he said, dropping his overcoat on to the hall chair. ‘I’d like to go to bed.’
    ‘Well, I think I’ll—’
    ‘And I’d like you to come with