The Last Letter from Your Lover

had never been filled with fine whisky from the decanter that stood beside them. The walls were lined with photographs of Laurence shaking hands with fellow businessmen, visiting dignitaries, the South African trade minister, the Duke of Edinburgh. It was a place for other people to see, yet another reason for the men to admire him. Laurence Stirling, lucky bugger .
    Jennifer stood in the doorway beside the caddy of expensive golf clubs, the shooting-stick in the corner. A knot, tight and hard, had formed in her chest, just at the point of her windpipe where air was meant to expand her lungs. She realised she could not breathe. She picked up a golf club and walked into the centre of the room. A small sound escaped her, like the gasp of someone ending a long race. She lifted the club above her head, as if to imitate a perfect swing, and let it go so that the full force met the decanter. Glass splintered across the room, and then she swung again, at the walls, the photographs shattering in their frames, the dented trophies knocked from their stands. She swung at the leather bound books, the heavy glass ashtrays. She hit fiercely, methodically, her slim frame fuelled by an anger that even now continued to build in her.
    She beat the books from their cases, sent the frames flying from the mantelpiece. She brought the club down like an axe, splintering the heavy Georgian desk, then sent it whistling sideways. She swung until her arms ached and her whole body was beaded with sweat, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. Finally, when there was nothing left to break, she stood in the centre of the room, her shoes crunching on broken glass, wiping a sweaty frond of hair off her forehead as she surveyed what she had done. Lovely Mrs Stirling, sweet-tempered Mrs Stirling. Even, calm, tamped down. Her fire extinguished.
    Jennifer Stirling dropped the bent club at her feet. Then she wiped her hands on her skirt, picked out a small shard of glass, which she dropped neatly on the floor, and left the room, closing the door behind her.
    Mrs Cordoza was sitting in the kitchen with Esmé when Jennifer announced that they were going out again. ‘Does the child not want her tea? She’ll will be hungry.’
    ‘I don’t want to go out,’ Esmé chimed in.
    ‘We won’t be long, darling,’ she said coolly. ‘Mrs Cordoza, you can take the rest of the day off.’
    ‘But I—’
    ‘Really. It’s for the best.’
    She scooped up her daughter, the suitcase she had just packed, the sweets in the brown-paper bag, ignoring the housekeeper’s perplexity. Then she was outside, down the steps and hailing a taxi.
    She saw him even as she opened the double doors, standing outside his office, talking to a young woman at his desk. She heard a greeting, heard her own measured response, and was dimly surprised that she could be responsible for such a normal exchange.
    ‘Hasn’t she grown!’
    Jennifer looked down at her daughter, who was stroking her string of pearls, then at the woman who had spoken. ‘Sandra, isn’t it?’ she said.
    ‘Yes, Mrs Stirling.’
    ‘Would you mind terribly letting Esmé have a little play on your typewriter while I nip in to see my husband?’
    Esmé was delighted to be let loose on the keyboard, cooed and fussed over by the women who immediately surrounded her, delighted by a legitimate diversion from work. Then Jennifer pushed her hair off her face, and went to his office. She walked into the secretary’s area, where he was standing.
    ‘Jennifer.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
    ‘A word?’ she said.
    ‘I have to go out at five.’
    ‘It won’t take long.’
    He shepherded her into his own office, closing the door behind him, and motioned her towards the chair. He seemed mildly irritated when she declined to sit and sank heavily into his own leather chair. ‘Well?’
    ‘What did I do to make you hate me so much?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I know about the letter.’
    ‘What letter?’
    ‘The one you intercepted at the post office four years ago.’
    ‘Oh, that,’ he said dismissively. He wore the expression of someone who had been reminded that he had forgotten to pick up some item from the grocer.
    ‘You knew, and you let me think he was dead. You let me think I was responsible .’
    ‘I thought he probably was. And this is all history. I can’t see the point of dragging it up again.’ He leant forward and pulled a cigar from the silver box on his desk.
    She thought