The Last Letter from Your Lover

me.’
    So that was how it was. She hung her coat neatly in the hall cupboard and followed him up the stairs to their bedroom. She wished, suddenly, that she had drunk more. She would have liked them to be carefree, like Dominic and Anne, collapsing on to each other with giggles in the street. But her husband, she knew now, was not the giggling kind.
    The alarm clock said it was a quarter to two. He peeled off his clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He looked suddenly, desperately tired, she thought, and the faint hope dawned within her that he might simply fall asleep. She kicked off her shoes, and realised she wouldn’t be able to undo the button at the collar of her dress.
    ‘Laurence?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Would you mind undoing . . . ?’ She turned her back him, and tried not to wince as his fingers clumsily ripped at the fabric. His breath was sharp with whisky and the bitter tang of cigar smoke. He pulled, several times catching hairs at the back of her neck, causing her to flinch. ‘Bugger,’ he said, eventually. ‘I’ve torn it.’
    She peeled it from her shoulders, and he put the silk-covered button into her palm. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, trying not to mind. ‘I’m sure Mrs Cordoza will be able to mend it.’
    She was about to hang the dress, when he caught her arm. ‘Leave that,’ he said. He was gazing at her, his head nodding slightly, his lids at half-mast over shadowed eyes. 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 on to the bed, his large hands covering her breasts, his weight already shifting on to 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 on to 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. 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 Mr Hargreaves said, it will soon pass. I’ll soon be completely myself again.’
    When