by Jojo Moyes
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 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 grays and brown, yet these jeweled 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 sat 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 center 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 blond 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 husband, the state of the economy, the awful size of your account in Harvey Nichols. In the meantime, enjoy your innocence while it lasts."
"I suppose you're right."
"And having said that, I think you should wear the rose pink thing. You have a quartz necklace that goes fabulously with it. The emerald doesn't do you any favors. It makes your bust look like two deflated balloons."
"Oh, you are a friend!" Jennifer said, and the two began to laugh.
The door had slammed, and he had dropped his briefcase on the hall floor, the chill air of outside on his overcoat and skin. He took off his scarf, kissed Yvonne, and apologized for his lateness. "Accountants' meeting. You know how these money men go on."
"Oh, you should see them when they get together, Larry. Bores me to tears. We've been married five years, and I still couldn't tell you the difference between a debit and a credit." Yvonne checked her watch. "He should be here soon. No doubt some unmissable column of figures to wave his magic wand over."
He faced his wife. "You look very fetching, Jenny."
"Doesn't she? Your wife always scrubs up rather well."
"Yes. Yes, indeed. Right." He ran a hand across his jawline. "If you'll both excuse me, I'll go and freshen up before our other guests arrive." I don't suppose one of you ladies could pour me a whiskey? Two fingers, no ice?
"We'll have a drink waiting for you," Yvonne called.
By the time the door opened a second time, Jennifer's nerves had been dulled by a potent cocktail. It will be fine, she kept telling herself. Yvonne would step in with prompts if she was about to make a fool of herself. These were her friends. They wouldn't be waiting for her to trip up. They were another step to bringing her back to herself.
"Jenny. Thank you so much for asking us." Violet Fairclough gave her a hug, her plump face almost submerged in a turban. She unpinned it from her head and handed it over with her coat. She was wearing a scoop-necked silk dress, which strained like a wind-filled parachute around her ample contours. Violet's waist, as Yvonne would later remark, would require the hands of a small infantry company to span it.
"Jennifer. A picture of loveliness, as always." A tall, redheaded man stooped to kiss her.
Jennifer was astonished by the unlikeliness of this coupling. She didn't remember the man at all, and found it almost funny that he should be little Violet's husband. "Do come through," she said, tearing her eyes off him and recovering her composure. "My husband will be down in a few minutes. Let me get you a drink in the meantime."
" 'My husband,' eh? Are we terribly formal this evening?" Bill laughed.
"Well . . ." Jennifer faltered. ". . . as it's been so long since I've seen you all . . ."
"Beast. You've got to be kind to Jenny." Yvonne kissed him. "She's still terribly fragile. She should be reclining upstairs consumptively while we select one man at a time to peel her a grape. But she would insist on martinis."
"Now that's the Jenny we know and love." Bill's smile of appreciation was so lingering that Jennifer glanced twice at Violet to make sure she wasn't offended. She didn't seem to mind: she was rummaging in her handbag. "I've left your number with the new nanny, Jenny," she said, glancing up. "I hope you don't mind. She really is the most useless woman. I fully expect her to be calling here at any minute to say she can't get Frederick's pajama bottoms on or some such."
Jennifer caught Bill rolling his eyes and, with a flash of dismay, realized that the gesture was familiar to her.
There were eight around the table, her husband and Francis at either end. Yvonne, Dominic, who was quite high up in the Horse Guards, and Jennifer sat along the window side, with Violet, Bill, and Anne, Dominic's wife, opposite. Anne was a cheerful sort, guffawing at the men's jokes with a benign twinkle in her eye that spoke of a woman comfortable in her skin.
Jennifer found herself watching them as they ate, analyzing and examining with forensic detail the things they said to each other, seeking out the clues to their past life. Bill, she noted, rarely looked at his wife, let alone addressed her. Violet seemed oblivious to this, and Jennifer wondered whether she was unaware of his indifference or just stoic in hiding her embarrassment.
Yvonne, for all her joking complaints about Francis, watched him constantly. She delivered her jokes at his expense while directing at him a smile of challenge. This is how they are together, Jennifer thought. She won't show him how much he means to her.
&nb
sp; "I wish I'd put my money in refrigerators," Francis was saying. "The newspaper said this morning that there should be a million of the things sold in Britain this year. A million! Five years ago that was . . . a hundred and seventy thousand."
"In America it must be ten times that. I hear people exchange them every couple of years." Violet speared a piece of fish. "And they're huge--double the size of ours. Can you imagine?"
"Everything in America is bigger. Or so they love to tell us."
"Including the egos, judging by the ones I've come up against." Dominic's voice lifted. "You have not met an insufferable know-all until you've met a Yank general."
Anne was laughing. "Poor old Dom was a bit put out when one tried to tell him how to drive his own car."
" 'Say, your quarters are pretty small. These vehicles are pretty small. Your rations are pretty small . . .' " Dominic mimicked. "They should have seen what it was like with rationing. Of course, they have no idea--"
"Dom thought he'd have some fun with him and borrowed my mother's Morris Minor. Picked him up in it. You should have seen his face."
" 'Standard issue over here, chum,' I told him. 'For visiting dignitaries we use the Vauxhall Velox. Gives you that extra three inches of leg room.' He virtually had to fold himself in two to fit inside."
"I was howling with laughter," said Anne. "I don't know how Dom didn't end up in the most awful trouble."
"How's business, Larry? I hear you're off to Africa again in a week or so."
Jennifer watched her husband settle back in his seat.
"Good. Very good, in fact. I've just signed a deal with a certain motor company to manufacture brake linings." He placed his knife and fork together on his plate.
"What exactly is it you do? I'm never quite sure what this newfangled mineral you're using is."
"Don't pretend to be interested, Violet," Bill said, from the other side of the table. "Violet's rarely interested in anything that isn't pink or blue or starts a sentence with 'Mama.' "
"Perhaps, Bill, darling, that simply means there isn't enough stimulation for her at home," Yvonne parried, and the men whistled exuberantly.
Laurence Stirling had turned toward Violet. "It's not actually a new mineral at all," he was saying. "It's been around since the days of the Romans. Did you study the Romans at school?"
"I certainly did. I can't remember anything about them now, of course." Her laugh was shrill.
Laurence's voice dropped, and the table hushed, the better to hear him. "Well, Pliny the Elder wrote about how he had seen a piece of cloth thrown into a banqueting-hall fire and brought out again minutes later without a scrap of damage. Some people thought it was witchcraft, but he knew this was something extraordinary." He pulled a pen from his pocket, leaned forward, and scribbled on his damask napkin. He pushed it round for her to see better. "The name chrysotile, the most common form, is derived from the Greek words chrysos, which means 'gold,' and tilos, 'fiber.' Even then they knew it had terrific value. All I do--my company, I mean--is mine it and mold it into a variety of uses."
"You put out fires."
"Yes." He looked thoughtfully at his hands. "Or I make sure they don't start in the first place." In the brief silence that followed, an atmosphere fell over the table. He glanced at Jennifer, then away.
"So where's the big money, old chap? Not flameproof tablecloths."
"Car parts." He sat back in his chair, and the room seemed to relax with him. "They say that within ten years most households in Britain will have a car. That's an awful lot of brake linings. And we're in talks with the railways and the airlines. But the uses of white asbestos are pretty limitless. We've branched out into guttering, farm buildings, sheeting, insulation. Soon it'll be everywhere."
"The wonder mineral indeed."
He was at ease as he discussed his business with his friends in a way that he had not been when the two of them were alone, Jennifer thought. It must have been strange for him, too, to have her so badly injured, and even now not quite herself. She thought of Yvonne's description of her that afternoon: gorgeous, poised, minxy. Was he missing that woman? Perhaps conscious that she was watching him, he turned his head and caught her eye. She smiled, and after a moment, he smiled back.
"I saw that. C'mon, Larry. You're not allowed to moon at your wife." Bill began to refill their glasses.
"He certainly is allowed to moon at his wife," Francis protested, "after everything that happened to her. How are you feeling now, Jenny? You look wonderful."
"I'm fine. Thank you."
"I should think she's doing terribly well holding a dinner party not--what?--not a week after getting out of hospital."
"If Jenny wasn't giving a dinner party I should think there was something terribly wrong--and not just with her but the whole damned world." Bill took a long swig of his wine.
"Awful business. It's lovely to see you looking like your old self."
"We were terribly worried. I hope you got my flowers," Anne put in.
Dominic laid his napkin on the table. "Do you remember anything about the accident itself, Jenny?"
"She'd probably prefer not to dwell on it, if you don't mind." Laurence stood up to fetch another bottle of wine from the sideboard.
"Of course not." Dominic lifted a hand in apology. "Thoughtless of me."
Jennifer began to collect the plates. "I'm fine. Really. It's just that there isn't much I could tell you. I don't remember very much at all."
"Just as well," Dominic observed.
Yvonne was lighting a cigarette. "Well, the sooner you're responsible for everyone's brake linings, Larry darling, the safer we'll all be."
"And the richer he'll be." Francis laughed.
"Oh, Francis, darling, must we really bring every single conversation back to money?"
"Yes," he and Bill answered in unison.
Jennifer heard them laughing as she picked up the pile of dirty china and headed toward the kitchen.
"Well, that went well, didn't it?"
She was seated at her dressing table, carefully removing her earrings. She saw his reflection in the mirror as he came into the bedroom, loosening his tie. He kicked off his shoes and went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. "Yes," she said. "I think it did."
"The food was wonderful."
"Oh, I can't take any credit for that," she said. "Mrs. Cordoza organized it all."
"But you planned the menu."
It was easier not to disagree with him. She placed the earrings carefully inside their box. She could hear the washbasin filling with water. "I'm glad you liked it." She stood up and wrestled herself out of her dress, hung it up, and began to peel off her stockings.
She had removed one when she looked up to see him standing in the doorway. He was gazing at her legs. "You looked very beautiful tonight," he said quietly.
She blinked hard, rolling off the second stocking. She reached behind her to undo her girdle, now acutely self-conscious. Her left arm was still useless--too weak to reach round to her back. She kept her head down, hearing him moving toward her. He was bare-chested now, but still in his suit trousers. He stood behind her, moved her hands away, and took over. He was so close that she could feel his breath on her back as he parted each hook from its eye.
"Very beautiful," he repeated.
She closed her eyes. This is my husband, she told herself. He adores me. Everyone says so. We're happy. She felt his fingers running lightly along her right shoulder, the touch of his lips at the back of her neck. "Are you very tired?" he murmured.
She knew this was her chance. He was a gentleman. If she said she was, he would step back, leave her alone. But they were married. Married . She had to face this some time. And who knew? Perhaps if he seemed less alien, she would find that a little more of herself was restored to her.
She turned in his arms. She couldn't look at his face, couldn't kiss him. "Not if . . . not if you're not," she whispered into his chest.
She felt his skin against hers
and clamped her eyes shut, waiting to feel a sense of familiarity, perhaps even desire. Four years, they had been married. How many times must they have done this? And since her return he had been so patient.
She felt his hands moving over her, bolder now, unclipping her brassiere. She kept her eyes closed, conscious of her appearance. "May we turn out the light?" she said. "I don't want . . . to be thinking about my arm. How it looks."
"Of course. I should have thought."
She heard the click of the bedroom light. But it wasn't her arm that bothered her: she didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to be so exposed, vulnerable, under his gaze. And then they were on the bed, and he was kissing her neck, his hands, his breath, urgent. He lay on top of her, pinning her down, and she linked her arms around his neck, unsure what she should be doing in the absence of any feelings she might have expected. What has happened to me? she thought. What did I used to do?
"Are you all right?" he murmured into her ear. "I'm not hurting you?"
"No," she said, "no, not at all."
He kissed her breasts, a low moan of pleasure escaping him. "Take them off," he said, pulling at her knickers. He shifted his weight off her so that she could tug them down to her knees, then kick them away. And she was exposed. Perhaps if we . . . , she wanted to say, but he was already nudging her legs apart, trying clumsily to guide himself into her. I'm not ready--but she couldn't say that: it would be wrong now. He was lost somewhere else, desperate, wanting.
She grimaced, drawing up her knees, trying not to tense. And then he was inside her, and she was biting her cheek in the dark, trying to ignore the pain and that she felt nothing except a desperate desire for it to be over and him out of her. His movements built in speed and urgency, his weight squashing her, his face hot and damp against her shoulder. And then, with a little cry, a hint of vulnerability he did not show in any other part of his life, it was over, and the thing was gone, replaced by a sticky wetness between her thighs.
She had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard that she could taste blood.
He rolled off her, still breathing hard. "Thank you," he said, into the darkness.
She was glad he couldn't see her lying there, gazing at nothing, the covers pulled up to her chin. "That's quite all right," she said quietly.