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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 ago.’
    Jennifer wiped at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘You’re being very kind.’
    ‘Not at all. If you weren’t so nice, I’d have to have you bumped off. But you’re lucky. I like you.’
    They sat together for a few minutes. Jennifer rubbed at a spot on the carpet with her toe. ‘Why don’t I have children?’
    Yvonne took a long drag on her cigarette. She glanced at Jennifer and arched her eyebrows. ‘The last time we spoke about it, you remarked that to have children it’s usually advisable for husband and wife to be on the same continent for a while. He’s away an awful lot, your husband.’ She smirked, exhaled a perfect smoke-ring. ‘It’s one of the other reasons I’ve always been horribly envious of you.’
    As Jennifer gave a reluctant chuckle, she continued, ‘Oh, you’ll be fine, darling. You should do what that ridiculously expensive doctor said and stop fretting. You’ll probably have some eureka moment in a couple of weeks and remember everything – disgusting snoring