The Last Letter From Your Lover by Jojo Moyes Read Free Book Online Page A

icy.
    “It’s hard to believe that the conditions for many Africans could become any worse.”
    “Then you and I must differ,” Stirling retorted. “I think that there are people for whom freedom can be a dangerous gift.”
    The room fell silent. In the distance, a motorbike whined up a hillside. Madame Lafayette reached up anxiously to smooth her hair.
    “Well, I can’t say I know anything about it,” Jennifer Stirling observed, laying her napkin neatly on her lap.
    “Too depressing,” Yvonne Moncrieff agreed. “I simply can’t look at the newspapers some mornings. Francis reads the sport and City pages, and I stick to my magazines. Often the news goes completely unread.”
    “My wife considers anything not in the pages of Vogue to not be proper news at all,” Moncrieff said.
    The tension eased. Conversation flowed again, and the waiters refilled the glasses. The men discussed the stock market and developments on the Riviera—the influx of campers, which led the elderly couple to complain of a “lowering in tone,” and which awful newcomers had joined the British Bridge Club.
    “I shouldn’t worry too much,” said Moncrieff. “The beach huts at Monte Carlo cost fifty pounds a week this year. I shouldn’t think too many Butlins types are going to pay that.”
    “I heard that Elsa Maxwell proposed covering the pebbles with foam rubber so the beach wouldn’t be uncomfortable for one’s feet.”
    “Terrible hardships one faces in this place,” Anthony remarked quietly. He wanted to leave, but that was impossible at this stage of the meal. He felt too far from where he had been—as if he had been dropped into a parallel universe. How could they be so inured to the mess, the horror, of Africa, when their lives were so plainly built upon it?
    He hesitated for a moment, then motioned to a waiter for some wine. Nobody at the table seemed to notice.
    “So . . . you’re going to write marvelous things about my husband, are you?” Mrs. Stirling was peering at his cuff. The second course, a platter of fresh seafood, had been laid in front of him, and she had turned toward him.
    He adjusted his napkin. “I don’t know. Should I? Is he marvelous?”
    “He’s a beacon of sound commercial practice, according to our dear friend Mr. Moncrieff. His factories are built to the highest standards. His turnover increases year after year.”
    “That’s not what I asked you.”
    “No?”
    “I asked you if he was marvelous.” He knew he was being spiky, but the alcohol had woken him up, made his skin prickle.
    “I don’t think you should ask me, Mr. O’Hare. A wife can hardly be impartial in such matters.”
    “Oh, in my experience there is no one more brutally impartial than a wife.”
    “Do go on.”
    “Who else knows all her husband’s faults within weeks of marrying him, and can pinpoint them—regularly and from memory—with forensic accuracy?”
    “Your wife sounds terribly cruel. I rather like the sound of her.”
    “Actually, she’s an immensely clever woman.” He watched Jennifer Stirling pop a prawn into her mouth.
    “Really?”
    “Yes. Clever enough to have left me years ago.”
    She passed him the mayonnaise. Then, when he didn’t take it from her, she spooned a dollop onto the side of his plate. “Does this mean you were not very marvelous, Mr. O’Hare?”
    “At being married? No. I don’t suppose I was. In all other respects, I am, of course, peerless. And please call me Anthony.” It was as if he had picked up their mannerisms, their carelessly arrogant way of speaking.
    “Then, Anthony, I’m sure you and my husband will get along terribly well. I believe he has a similar view of himself.” Her eyes settled on Stirling, then returned to him, and lingered just long enough for him to decide she might not be as wearisome as he’d thought.
    During the main course—rolled beef, with cream and wild mushrooms—he discovered that Jennifer Stirling, née Verrinder, had been married