The Last Letter from Your Lover

He dipped his head to study her face.
    ‘No. No, I’m fine.’ She gazed around her at the house, wishing she could disguise her dismay that she might as well never have seen it before.
    ‘I must go back to the office now. Will you be all right with Mrs Cordoza?’
    Cordoza . It wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. She felt a little surge of gratitude. Mrs Cordoza . ‘I’ll be quite all right, thank you. Please don’t worry about me.’
    ‘I’ll be back at seven . . . if you’re sure you’re fine . . .’ He was clearly keen to leave. He stooped, kissed her cheek and, after a brief hesitation, was gone.
    She stood in the hallway, hearing his footsteps fade down the steps outside, the soft hum of the engine as his great car pulled away. The house seemed suddenly cavernous.
    She touched the silk-lined wallpaper, took in the polished parquet flooring, the vertiginously high ceilings. She removed her gloves, with precise, deliberate motion. Then she leant forward for a closer look at the photographs on the hall table. The largest was a wedding picture, framed in ornate, highly polished silver. And there she was, wearing a fitted white dress, her face half masked by a white lace veil, her husband smiling broadly at her side. I really did marry him, she thought. And then: I look so happy.
    She jumped. Mrs Cordoza had come up behind her and was standing there, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘I was wondering if you would like me to bring you some tea. I thought you might like to take it in the drawing room. I’ve laid a fire in there for you.’
    ‘That would be . . .’ Jennifer peer down the hallway at the various doors. Then she looked back at the photograph. A moment passed before she spoke again. ‘Mrs Cordoza . . . would you mind letting me take your arm? Just till I sit down. I’m feeling a little unsteady on my feet.’
    Afterwards she wasn’t sure why she didn’t want the woman to know quite how little she remembered about the layout of her own house. It just seemed to her that if she could pretend, and everyone else believed it, what was an act might end up being true.
    The housekeeper had prepared supper: a casserole, with potatoes and fine French beans. She had left it in the bottom oven, she told Jennifer. Jennifer had had to wait for her husband to return before she could put anything on the table: her right arm was still weak, and she was afraid of dropping the heavy cast-iron pot.
    She had spent the hour when she was alone walking around the vast house, familiarising herself with it, opening drawers and studying photographs. My house , she told herself over and over. My things. My husband. Once or twice she let her mind go blank and her feet carry her to where she thought a bathroom or study might be, and was gratified to discover that some part of her still knew this place. She gazed at the books in the drawing room, noting, with a kind of mild satisfaction, that while so much was strange she could mentally recite the plots of many.
    She lingered longest in her bedroom. Mrs Cordoza had unpacked her suitcase and put everything away. Two built-in cupboards opened to reveal great quantities of immaculately stored clothes. Everything fitted her perfectly, even the most well-worn shoes. Her hairbrush, perfumes and powders were lined up on a dressing-table. The scents met her skin with a pleasant familiarity. The colours of the cosmetics suited her: Coty, Chanel, Elizabeth Arden, Dorothy Gray – her mirror was surrounded by a small battalion of expensive creams and unguents.
    She pulled open a drawer, held up layers of chiffon, brassières and other foundation garments made of silk and lace. I’m a woman to whom appearances matter, she observed. She sat and stared at herself in the three-sided mirror, then began to brush her hair with long, steady strokes. This is what I do, she said to herself, several times.
    In the few moments when she felt overwhelmed by strangeness, she busied herself with small tasks: rearranging the towels in the downstairs cloakroom, putting out plates and glasses.
    He arrived back shortly before seven. She was waiting for him in the hall, her makeup fresh and a light spray of scent over her neck and shoulders. She could see it pleased him, this semblance of normality. She took his coat, hung it in the cupboard and asked if he would like a drink.
    ‘That would be lovely. Thank you,’ he said.
    She hesitated, one hand poised on a decanter.
    Turning, he saw her