The Last Letter from Your Lover(13)
Author: Jojo Moyes

The housekeeper hovered. “If you’re sure. I’ll be going to the shops after I’ve finished. I’ve put some cold cuts in the refrigerator. You did say you didn’t want anything too heavy for lunch.”

“That will be quite sufficient. Thank you.”

And then she was alone again, the dull roar of the vacuum cleaner receding down the corridor. Jennifer straightened her back and lifted the lid from another box of shoes. She had been doing this for days, spring cleaning in the depths of winter, the other rooms with Mrs. Cordoza’s help. She had pulled out the contents of shelves and cupboards, examining, restacking, tidying with a fearsome efficiency, stamping herself on her belongings, imprinting her way of doing things on a house that still resolutely refused to feel like her own.

It had started as a distraction, a way of not thinking too much about how she felt: that she was fulfilling a role everyone else seemed to have assigned to her. Now it had become a way of anchoring herself to this home, a way of finding out who she was, who she had been. She had uncovered letters, photographs, scrapbooks from her childhood that showed her as a scowling, pigtailed child on a fat white pony. She deciphered the careful scrawl of her school days, the flippant jokes of her correspondence, and realized with relief that she could recall whole chunks of it. She had begun to calculate the gulf between what she had been, a buoyant, adored, perhaps even spoiled creature, and the woman she now inhabited.

She knew almost everything it was possible to know about herself, but that didn’t ameliorate her ever-present sense of dislocation, of having been dropped into the wrong life.

“Oh, darling, everyone feels like that.” Yvonne had patted her shoulder sympathetically when Jennifer had broached this, after two martinis, the previous evening. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve woken up, gazed at the unadulterated loveliness that is my snoring, stinking, hung-over husband, and thought, How on earth did I end up here?”

Jennifer had tried to laugh. No one wanted to hear her prattling on. She had no alternative but to get on with it. The day after the dinner party, anxious and upset, she had traveled alone to the hospital and asked to speak to Dr. Hargreaves. He had ushered her into his office immediately—a sign less of conscientiousness, she suspected, than of professional courtesy to the wife of an extremely wealthy customer. His response, while less flippant than Yvonne’s, had essentially told her the same thing. “A bump on the head can affect you in all sorts of ways,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette. “Some people find it difficult to concentrate, others are tearful at inappropriate moments or find they’re angry for a long time. I’ve had gentlemen patients who became uncharacteristically violent. Depression is not an unusual reaction to what you’ve been through.”

“It’s more than that, though, Dr. Hargreaves. I really thought I’d feel more . . . myself by now.”

“And you don’t feel yourself?”

“Everything seems wrong. Misplaced.” She gave a short, diffident laugh. “Sometimes I’ve thought I was going mad.”

He nodded, as if he had heard this many times before. “Time really is a great healer, Jennifer. I know it’s a terrible cliché, but it’s true. Don’t fret about conforming to some correct way of feeling. With head injuries there really are no precedents. You may well feel odd—dislocated, as you put it—for a time. In the meantime I’ll give you some tablets that will help. Do try not to dwell on matters.”

He was already scribbling. She waited for a moment, accepted the prescription, then stood up to leave. Do try not to dwell on matters.

An hour after she returned home, she had begun to sort out the house. She possessed a dressing room full of clothes. She had a walnut jewelry box that contained four good rings with gemstones and a secondary box that contained a large amount of costume jewelry. She owned twelve hats, nine pairs of gloves, and eighteen pairs of shoes, she noted, as she stacked the last box. She had written a short description at each end—pumps, claret, and evening, green silk. She had held each shoe, trying to leach from it some memory of a previous occasion. A couple of times a fleeting image had passed through her mind: her feet, clad in the green silk, descending from a taxi—to a theater?—but they were frustratingly ephemeral, gone before she could fix them.

Do try not to dwell on matters.

She was just placing the last pair of shoes back in their box when she spied the paperback. It was a cheap historical romance, tucked between the tissue paper and the side of the box. She gazed at the cover, wondering why she couldn’t recall the plot when she had been able to do so with many of the books on her shelves.

Perhaps I bought it and decided against it, she thought, flicking through the first few pages. It looked rather lurid. She’d skim a little tonight and perhaps give it to Mrs. Cordoza, if it wasn’t her cup of tea. She placed it on her bedside table and dusted off her skirt. Now she had more pressing matters to attend to, such as tidying this mess away and working out what on earth she was going to wear this evening.

There were two in the second post. They were almost carbon copies of each other, Moira thought, as she read them, the same symptoms, the same complaints. They were from the same factory, where each man had started work almost two decades before. Perhaps it was something to do with the unions, as her boss had said, but it was a little unnerving that the faint trickle of such correspondence several years ago had become a regular drip, drip, drip.

Glancing up, she saw him returning from lunch and wondered what to tell him. He was shaking hands with Mr. Welford, their faces wreathed in the satisfied smiles that told of a successful meeting. After the briefest hesitation, she swept both letters from the table and into her top drawer. She would put them with the others. There was no point in worrying him. She knew, after all, what he would say.

She let her gaze rest on him for a moment, as he saw Mr. Welford out of the boardroom toward the lifts, recalling their conversation of that morning. It had been just the two of them in the office. The other secretaries rarely turned up before nine, but she regularly arrived an hour earlier to start the coffee machine, lay out his papers, check for overnight telegrams, and make sure his office was running smoothly by the time he stepped into it. That was her job. Besides, she preferred eating her breakfast at her desk: it was less lonely somehow than it was at home, now that Mother was gone.

He had motioned her into his office, standing and half raising one hand. He knew she would catch the gesture: she always had an eye half open in case he needed something. She had straightened her skirt and walked in briskly, expecting a piece of dictation, a request for figures, but instead he had crossed the room and closed the door quietly after her. She had tried to suppress a shiver of excitement. He had never closed the door behind her before, not in five years. Her hand had reached unconsciously to her hair.