Read The Last Letter from Your Lover for Free Online Page A

wasn’t sure you would have had time for lunch after the car manufacturers’ meeting, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you some sandwiches. I hope that’s acceptable.’
    ‘Very kind, Moira. Thank you.’
    ‘Would you like them now? With your tea?’
    He nodded and smiled at her briefly. She did her best not to colour. She knew the other secretaries mocked her for what they considered her over-attentive manner with her boss, not to mention her prim clothes and slightly stiff way of doing things. But he was a man who liked things done properly, and she had always understood that. Those silly girls, with their heads always stuck in a magazine, their endless gossiping in the ladies’ cloakroom, they didn’t understand the inherent pleasure in a job well done. They didn’t understand the satisfaction of being indispensable .
    She hesitated briefly, then pulled the last letter from her folder. ‘The second post has arrived. I thought you should probably see this. It’s another of those letters about the men at Rochdale.’
    His eyebrows lowered, which killed the small smile that had illuminated his face. He read the letter twice. ‘Has anyone else seen this?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘File it with the others.’ He thrust it at her. ‘It’s all trouble-making stuff. The unions are behind it. I won’t have any truck with them.’
    She took it wordlessly. She made as if to leave, then turned back. ‘And may I ask . . . how is your wife? Glad to be back at home, I should say.’
    ‘She’s fine, thank you. Much – much more her old self,’ he said. ‘It’s been a great help for her to be at home.’
    She swallowed. ‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’
    His attention was already elsewhere – he was flicking through the sales figures she had left for him. Her smile still painted on her face, Moira Parker clasped her paperwork to her chest and marched back out to her desk.
    Old friends, he had said. Nothing too challenging. Two of those friends were familiar now, having visited Jennifer in hospital and again once she had returned home. Yvonne Moncrieff, an elongated, dark-haired woman in her early thirties, had been her friend since they had become close neighbours in Medway Square. She had a dry, sardonic manner, which stood in direct contrast to that of the other friend, Violet, whom Yvonne had known at school and seemed to accept the other’s cutting humour and droll put-downs as her due.
    Jennifer had struggled initially to catch the shared references, to gauge any significance from the names they bandied between them, but she had felt at ease in their company. She was learning to trust her gut reactions to people: memories could be lodged in places other than the mind.
    ‘I wish I could lose my memory,’ Yvonne had said, when Jennifer had confessed how strange she had felt on waking up in hospital. ‘I’d walk off into the sunset. Forget I ever married Francis in the first place.’ She had popped over to reassure Jennifer that all was in order. It was to be a ‘quiet’ dinner party, but as the afternoon had worn on, Jennifer had become almost paralysed with nerves.
    ‘I don’t know why you’re flapping, darling. Your parties are legendary.’ She perched on the bed, as Jennifer wriggled in and out of a succession of dresses.
    ‘Yes. But for what?’ She tried to rearrange her bust inside a dress. She seemed to have lost a little weight in hospital and the front puckered unattractively.
    Yvonne laughed. ‘Oh, relax. You don’t have to do a thing, Jenny. The marvellous Mrs C will have done you proud. The house looks beautiful. You look stunning. Or, at least, you will if you put some damned clothes on.’ She kicked off her shoes and lifted her long, elegant legs on to the bed. ‘I’ve never understood your enthusiasm for entertaining. Don’t get me wrong, I do love going to parties, but all that organising .’ She was examining her nails. ‘Parties are for going to, not for having. That’s