The Last Letter from Your Lover

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 what my mother said and, frankly, it still stands. I’ll buy myself a new dress or two, but canapés and seating plans? Ugh.’
    Jennifer wrestled the neckline into shape and stared at herself in the mirror, turning to the left, then the right. She held out her arm. The scar was raised and still angrily pink. ‘Do you think I should wear long sleeves?’
    Yvonne sat up and peered at her. ‘Does it hurt?’
    ‘My whole arm aches, and the doctor gave me some pills. I just wondered whether the scar would be a bit . . .’
    ‘Distracting?’ Yvonne’s nose wrinkled. ‘You probably would do better in long sleeves, darling. Just until it fades a little. And it’s so cold.’
    Jennifer was startled by her friend’s blunt assessment but not offended. It was the first straightforward thing anyone had said to her since she had come home.
    She stepped out of the dress, went to her wardrobe and rifled through it until she found a sheath dress in raw silk. She pulled it off the rail and gazed at it. It was so flashy. Since she had been at home she had wanted to hide in tweed, subtle greys and brown, yet these jewelled dresses kept leaping out at her. ‘Is this the kind of thing?’ she said.
    ‘What kind of thing?’
    Jennifer took a deep breath. ‘That I used to wear? Is this how I used to look?’ She held the dress against herself.
    Yvonne pulled a cigarette from her bag and lit it, studying Jennifer’s face. ‘Are you telling me you really don’t remember anything?’
    Jennifer sat on the stool in front of her dressing-table. ‘Pretty much,’ she admitted. ‘I know I know you. Just like I know him. I can feel it here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘But it’s . . . there are huge gaps. I don’t remember how I felt about my life. I don’t know how I’m meant to behave with anyone. I don’t . . .’ She chewed the side of her lip. ‘I don’t know who I am.’ Unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears. She pulled open one drawer, then another, searching for a handkerchief.
    Yvonne waited a moment. Then she stood up, walked over and set down with her on the narrow stool. ‘All right, darling, I’ll fill you in. You’re lovely and funny and full of joie de vivre . You have the perfect life, the rich, handsome husband, who adores you, and a wardrobe any woman would die for. Your hair is always perfect. Your waist is the span of a man’s hand. You’re always the centre of any social gathering, and all our husbands are secretly in love with you.’
    ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
    ‘I’m not. Francis adores you. Whenever he sees your minxy little smile, those blonde tresses of yours, I can see him wondering why on earth he married this lanky, cranky old Jewess. As for Bill . . .’
    ‘Bill?’
    ‘Violet’s husband. Before you were married he virtually followed you around like a lapdog. It’s a good job he’s so terrified of your husband or he would have made off with you under his arm years