The Last Letter from Your Lover

Laurence’s party. It’ll probably be deathly dull, but I’m sure you can liven it up a bit. Both of you. There’ll be lots to drink,’ she added.
    Reggie looked delighted. ‘Count us in,’ he said.
    ‘Do I get a say in this?’ Maureen’s displeasure was written across her face.
    ‘Come on, Mo. It’ll be fun. Otherwise it’ll just be you and me in some dreary restaurant.’
    Maureen’s despair showed in her eyes, and Jennifer felt a twinge of guilt, but hardened herself against it. She had to know . ‘Laurence?’ she called. ‘Laurence, darling? Reggie and Maureen are going to come with us. Won’t that be fun?’
    Laurence hesitated on the top step, his keys in his hand, his gaze flicking between them. ‘Marvellous,’ he said, walked steadily down the steps and opened the rear door of the big black car.
    Jennifer appeared to have undersold the potential for riotous behaviour at the Christmas celebrations of Acme Mineral and Mining. Perhaps it had been the decorations, or the copious amounts of food and drink, or even the prolonged absence of the boss, but when they arrived the office party was in full swing. Someone had brought a portable gramophone, the lights were dimmed and the desks had been moved to the side to create a dance-floor upon which a throng of people squealed and shimmied to Connie Francis.
    ‘Larry! You never told us your staff were such hep cats!’ Reggie exclaimed.
    Jennifer left him standing in the doorway, gazing at the scene before him, as she joined the cluster of dancers. His feelings were written on his face: his place of work, his domain, his haven, was unrecognisable to him, his staff no longer under his control, and he hated it. She saw his secretary rise from her chair, where she might have sat all evening, and say something to him. He nodded, attempting to smile.
    ‘Drinks!’ Jennifer called, wanting to get as far from him as possible. ‘Fight your way through, Reggie! Let’s get sloshed.’
    She was dimly aware of a few looks of surprise as she passed her husband’s staff, many of whom had loosened their ties, their faces flushed with drink and dancing. Their eyes went from her to Laurence.
    ‘Hello, Mrs Stirling.’
    She recognised the accountant who had spoken to her in the office a couple of weeks previously and smiled at him. His face was shiny with sweat and he had an arm around a giggling girl in a party hat. ‘Why, hello! You couldn’t show us where the drinks are, could you?’
    ‘Over there. By the typing-pool.’
    A huge vat of punch had been made. Paper cups were being filled and handed over people’s heads. Reggie handed her one and she drank the contents in one, laughing when its unexpected potency made her cough and splutter. Then she was dancing, lost in a sea of bodies, dimly aware of Reggie’s smile, his hand occasionally touching her waist. She saw Laurence watching her impassively from the wall, then, apparently reluctantly, engaged in conversation with one of the older, more sober, men. She didn’t want to be anywhere near him. She wished he would go home and leave her there to dance. She didn’t see Maureen again. It was possible the girl had left. Things blurred, time stretched, became elastic. She was having fun. She felt hot, raised her arms above her head, let herself ride the music, ignoring the other women’s curiosity. Reggie spun her around and she laughed uproariously. God, but she was alive! This was where she belonged. It was the first time she hadn’t felt alien in a world that everyone insisted was hers.
    Reggie’s hand touched hers, shocking and electric. His glances at her had become meaningful, his smile knowing. Bear. He was mouthing something at her.
    ‘What?’ She pushed a sweaty lock of hair off her face.
    ‘It’s hot. I need another drink.’
    His hand felt radioactive on her waist. She followed close behind him, camouflaged by the bodies around them. When she glanced behind her for Laurence, he had vanished. Probably to his office, she thought. In it, the light was on. Laurence would hate this. He hated fun of any kind, her husband. Sometimes, these last weeks, she had wondered if he even hated her.
    Reggie was thrusting another paper cup into her hand. ‘Air,’ he shouted. ‘I need some air.’
    And then they were out in the main hallway, just the two of them, where it was cool and silent. The sounds of the party faded as the door closed behind them.
    ‘Here,’ he said, steering her past the lift