And, most incomprehensible of all: Who was this lover?
She had gone over the three letters forensically, searching for clues. She could think of no one she knew whose name began with B, save Bill, or her husband's accountant, whose name was Bernard. She knew without a shadow of doubt that she had never been in love with him. Had B seen her at the hospital, in the days when her mind had not been her own, when everyone had been indistinct around her? Was he watching at a distance now? Waiting for her to get in touch? He existed somewhere. He held the key to everything.
Day after day, she tried to imagine her way back into her former self: this woman of secrets. Where would the Jennifer of old have hidden letters? Where were the clues to her other, secret existence? Two of the letters she had uncovered in books, another folded neatly in a balled-up stocking. All were in places her husband would never have thought of looking. I was clever, she thought. And then, a little more uncomfortably: I was duplicitous.
"Mother," she said, one lunchtime, over a sandwich on the top floor of John Lewis, "who was driving when I had my accident?"
Her mother had glanced up sharply. The restaurant around them was packed with customers, laden with shopping bags and heavy coats, the dining room thick with chatter and the clatter of crockery.
She glanced around before she turned back to Jennifer, as if the question was almost subversive. "Darling, do we really need to revisit that?"
Jennifer sipped her tea. "I know so little about what happened. It might help if I could put the pieces together."
"You nearly died. I really don't want to think about it."
"But what happened? Was I driving?"
Her mother inspected her plate. "I don't recall."
"And if it wasn't me, what happened to the driver? If I was hurt, he must have been, too."
"I don't know. How would I? Laurence always looks after his staff, doesn't he? I assume he wasn't badly hurt. If he needed treatment, I dare say Laurence would have paid for it."
Jennifer thought of the driver who had picked them up when she left the hospital: a tired-looking man in his sixties with a neat mustache and a balding head. He had not looked as if he had suffered any great trauma--or as if he might have been her lover.
Her mother pushed away the remains of her sandwich. "Why don't you ask him?"
"I will." But she knew she wouldn't. "He doesn't want me to dwell on things."
"Well, I'm sure he's quite right, darling. Perhaps you should heed his advice."
"Do you know where I was going?"
The older woman was flustered now, a little exasperated by this line of questioning. "I've no idea. Shopping, probably. Look, it happened somewhere near Marylebone Road. I believe you hit a bus. Or a bus hit you. It was all so awful, Jenny darling, we could only think about you getting better." Her mouth closed in a thin line, which told Jennifer that the conversation was at an end.
In a corner of the canteen, a woman wrapped in a dark green coat was gazing into the eyes of a man who traced her profile with a finger. As Jennifer watched, she took his fingertip between her teeth. The casual intimacy of the gesture sent a little electric shock through her. No one else seemed to have noticed the pair.
Mrs. Verrinder wiped her mouth with her napkin. "What does it really matter, dear? Car accidents happen. The more cars there are, the more dangerous it seems to be. I don't think half of the people on the roads can drive. Not like your father could. Now, he was a careful driver."
Jennifer wasn't listening.
"Anyway, you're all fixed up now, aren't you? All better?"
"I'm fine." Jennifer turned a bright smile on her mother. "Just fine."
When she and Laurence went out in the evenings now, to dinner or for drinks, she found herself looking at their wider circle of friends and acquaintances with new eyes. When a man's focus lingered on her a little longer than it should have, she found herself unable to tear her gaze away. Was it him? Was there some meaning behind his pleasant greeting? Was that a knowing smile?
There were three possible men, if B was in fact a nickname. There was Jack Amory, the head of a motor-spares company, who was unmarried and kissed her hand ostentatiously whenever they met. But he did it almost with a wink to Laurence, and she couldn't work out if this was a double bluff.
There was Reggie Carpenter, Yvonne's cousin, who sometimes made up the numbers at dinner. Dark-haired, with tired, humorous eyes, he was younger than she imagined her letter-writer to be, but he was charming, and funny, and seemed always to ensure that he was sitting at her side when Laurence wasn't there.
And then there was Bill, of course. Bill, who told jokes as if they were only for her approval, who laughingly declared he adored her, even in front of Violet. He definitely had feelings for her. But could she have had feelings for him?
She began to pay more attention to her appearance. She made regular visits to the hairdresser, bought some new dresses, became chattier, "more your old self," as Yvonne said approvingly. In the weeks after the accident she had hidden behind her girlfriends, but now she asked questions, quizzed them politely, but with some determination, seeking the chink in the armor that might lead to some answers. Occasionally she dropped clues into conversations, inquiring whether anyone might like a whiskey, then scanning the men's faces for a spark of recognition. But Laurence was never far away, and she suspected that even if they had picked up on her clues, they could have conveyed little to her in response.
If her husband noticed a particular intensity in her conversations with their friends, he didn't remark on it. He didn't remark on much. He hadn't approached her once, physically, since the night they had argued. He was polite but distant. She knew she should feel worse about it than she did, but increasingly she wanted the freedom to retreat into her private parallel world, where she could retrace her mythical, passionate romance, see herself through the eyes of the man who adored her.
Somewhere, she told herself, B was still out there. Waiting.
"These are to sign, and on the filing cabinet there are several gifts that arrived this morning. There's a case of champagne from Citroen, a hamper from the cement people in Peterborough, and a box of chocolates from your accountants. I know you don't like soft centers, so I was wondering if you'd like me to hand them round the office. I know Elsie Machzynski is particularly partial to fondants."
He barely looked up. "That will be fine." Moira observed that Mr. Stirling's thoughts were far from Christmas gifts.
"And I hope you don't mind, but I've gone ahead and organized the bits and pieces for the Christmas party. You decided it would be better held here than in a restaurant, now that the company is so much larger, so I've asked caterers to lay on a small buffet."
"Good. When is it?"
"The twenty-third. After we finish for the day. That's the Friday before we break up."
"Yes."
Why should he seem so preoccupied? So miserable? Business had never been better. Their products were in demand. Even with the credit squeeze predicted by the newspapers, Acme Mineral and Mining had one of the healthiest balance sheets in the country. There had been no more of the troublemaking letters, and those she had received the previous month still lingered, unseen by her boss, in her top drawer.
"I also thought you might like to--"
He glanced up suddenly at a sound outside, and Moira turned, startled, to see what he was looking at. There she was, walking through the office, her hair set in immaculate waves, a little red pillbox hat perched on her head, the exact shade of her shoes. What was she doing here? Mrs. Stirling gazed around her, as if she was looking for someone, and then Mr. Stevens, from Accounts, walked up to her, holding out his hand. She took it, and they chatted briefly before they looked across the office toward where she and Mr. Stirling were standing. Mrs. Stirling raised a hand in greeting.
Moira's hand was reaching for her hair. Some women managed always to look as if they had stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine, and Jennifer Stirling
was one of them. Moira didn't mind: she had always preferred to focus her energies on work, on more substantial achievements. But it was hard when the woman walked into the office, her skin glowing from the cold outside, two fiery diamond studs glinting in her ears, not to feel the tiniest bit dull in comparison. She was like a perfectly wrapped Christmas parcel, a glittering bauble.
"Mrs. Stirling," Moira said politely.
"Hello," she said.
"This is an unexpected pleasure." Mr. Stirling stood to greet her, looking rather awkward but perhaps secretly pleased. Like an unloved student who had been approached by the school sweetheart.
"Would you like me to leave?" Moira felt ill at ease, standing between them. "I've got some filing I could be--"
"Oh, no, not on my account. I'll only be a minute." She turned back to her husband. "I was passing and I thought I'd check whether you were likely to be late this evening. If you are, I might pop over to the Harrisons'. They're doing mulled wine."
"I . . . Yes, you do that. I can meet you there if I finish early."
"That would be nice," she said.
She gave off a faint scent of Nina Ricci. Moira had tried it the previous week in D. H. Evans, but had thought it a little pricey. Now she regretted not having bought it.
"I'll try not to be too late."
Mrs. Stirling didn't seem in any hurry to leave. She stood in front of her husband, but she seemed more interested in looking at the office, the men at their desks. She surveyed it all with some concentration. It was as if she had never seen the place before.
"It's been a while since you were here," he said.
"Yes," she said. "I suppose it has."
There was a short silence.
"Oh," she said abruptly. "What are your drivers' names?"
He frowned. "My drivers?"
She gave a little shrug. "I thought you might like me to organize a Christmas gift for each of them."
He seemed nonplussed. "A Christmas gift? Well, Eric's been with me the longest. I usually buy him a bottle of brandy. Have done for the last twenty years, I think. Simon fills in on the odd occasion. He's a teetotaler, so I put a little extra in his last pay packet. I don't think it's anything you need to worry about."
Mrs. Stirling seemed oddly disappointed. "Well, I'd like to help. I'll buy the brandy," she said finally, clutching her bag in front of her.
"That's very . . . thoughtful of you," he said.
She let her gaze wander across the office, then returned it to them. "Anyway, I imagine you must be terribly busy. As I said, I just thought I'd call in. Nice to see you . . . er . . ." Her smile wavered.
Moira was stung by the woman's casual dismissal. How many times had they met over the last five years? And she couldn't even be bothered to remember her name.
"Moira," Mr. Stirling prompted, when the silence became uncomfortable.
"Yes. Moira. Of course. Nice to see you again."
"I'll be right back." Moira watched as Mr. Stirling steered his wife to the door. They exchanged a few more remarks, and then, with a little wave of her gloved hand, Mrs. Stirling was gone.
The secretary took a deep breath, trying not to mind. Mr. Stirling stood immobile as his wife left the building.
Almost before she knew what she was doing, Moira walked out of the office and swiftly to her desk. She pulled a key from her pocket and opened the locked drawer, hunting through the various pieces of correspondence until she found it. She was back in Mr. Stirling's office before he was.
He closed the door behind him, glancing through the glass wall, as if he was half expecting his wife to come back. He seemed softened, a little more at ease. "So," he said, sitting down, "you were mentioning the office party. You'd been planning something." A small smile played about his lips.
Her breath was tight in her chest. She had to swallow before she could speak normally. "Actually, Mr. Stirling, there's something else."
He had pulled out a letter, ready to sign. "Right-oh. What is it?"
"This arrived two days ago." She handed him the handwritten envelope. "At the PO box you mentioned." When he said nothing, she added, "I've been keeping an eye on it, as you asked."
He stared at the envelope, then looked up at her, the color draining from his face so rapidly that she thought he might pass out. "Are you sure? This can't be right."
"But it--"
"You must have got the wrong number."
"I can assure you I got the right PO box. Number thirteen. I used Mrs. Stirling's name, as you . . . suggested."
He ripped it open, then stooped forward over the desk as he read the few lines. She stood on the other side, not wanting to appear curious, aware that the atmosphere in the room had become charged. She was already afraid of what she had done.
When he looked up, he seemed to have aged several years. He cleared his throat, then crumpled up the sheet of paper with one hand and threw it with some force into the bin beneath his desk. His expression was fierce. "It must have been lost in the postal system. Nobody must know about this. Do you understand?"
She took a step backward. "Yes, Mr. Stirling. Of course."
"Close the PO box down."
"Now? I still have the audit report to--"
"This afternoon. Do whatever you need to do. Just close it down. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Stirling." She tucked her file under her arm and let herself out of his office. She gathered up her handbag and coat and prepared to go to the post office.
Jennifer had planned to go home. She was tired, the trip to the office had been fruitless, and it had begun to rain, sending pedestrians hurrying along the pavement, collars up and heads down. But standing on the steps of her husband's workplace, she had known she couldn't go back to that silent house.
She stepped off the curb and hailed a cab, waving until she saw the yellow light swerve toward her. She climbed in, brushing raindrops from her red coat. "Do you know a place called Alberto's?" she said, as the driver leaned back toward the dividing window.
"Which part of London is it in?" he said.
"I'm sorry, I have no idea. I thought you might know."
He frowned. "There's an Alberto's club in Mayfair. I can take you there, but I'm not sure it'll be open."
"Fine," she said, and settled back in the seat.
It took only fifteen minutes to get there. The taxi drew up, and the driver pointed across the road. "That's the only Alberto's I know," he said. "Not sure if it's your kind of place, ma'am."
She wiped the window with her sleeve and peered out. Metal railings surrounded a basement entrance, the steps disappearing out of view. A weary sign bore the name, and two bedraggled yew trees stood in large pots at each side of the door. "That's it?"
"You think it's the right place?"
She managed a smile. "Well, I'll soon find out."
She paid him, and was left standing, in the thin rain, on the pavement. The door was half open, propped by a dustbin. As she entered, she was bombarded by the smell of alcohol, stale cigarette smoke, sweat, and perfume. She let her eyes adjust to the dim light. To her left a cloakroom was empty and unattended, a beer bottle and a set of keys on its counter. She walked along the narrow hall and pushed open double doors to find herself in a huge empty room, chairs stacked up on round tables in front of a small stage. Weaving in and out of them, an old woman dragged a vacuum cleaner, muttering to herself occasionally in apparent disapproval. A bar ran along one wall. Behind it a woman was smoking and talking to a man stacking the illuminated shelves with bottles. "Hold up," the woman said, catching sight of her. "Can I help you, love?"
Jennifer felt the woman's assessing gaze on her. It was not entirely friendly. "Are you open?"
"Do we look open?"
She held her bag to her stomach, suddenly self-conscious. "I'm sorry. I'll come back another time."
"Who d'you want, lady?" said the man, straightening up. He had dark, slicked-back hair and the kind of pale, puffy skin that told of too much alcohol an
d too little fresh air.
She stared at him, trying to work out if what she felt was a glimmer of recognition. "Have you . . . have you seen me in here before?" she asked.
He looked mildly amused. "Not if you say I haven't."
The woman cocked her head. "We have a very bad memory for faces in this place."
Jennifer walked a few steps toward the bar. "Do you know someone called Felipe?"
"Who are you?" the woman demanded.
"I--it doesn't matter."
"Why do you want Felipe?"
Their faces had hardened. "We have a mutual friend," she explained.
"Then your friend should have told you that Felipe would be a bit difficult to get hold of."
She bit her lip, wondering how much she could reasonably explain. "It's not someone I'm in touch with very--"
"He's dead, lady."
"What?"
"Felipe. Is dead. The place is under new management. We've had all sorts down here saying he owed them this and that, and I might as well tell you that you'll get nothing from me."
"I didn't come here for--"
"Unless you can show me Felipe's signature on an IOU, you're getting nothing." Now the woman was looking closely at her clothes, her jewelry, smirking, as if she had decided why Jennifer might be there. "His family gets his estate. What's left of it. That would include his wife," she said nastily.
"I had nothing to do with Mr. Felipe personally. I'm sorry for your loss," Jennifer said primly. As quickly as she could, she walked out of the club and back up the stairs into the gray daylight.
Moira rummaged through the boxes of decorations until she had found what she wanted, then sorted and laid out what was within. She pinned two pieces of tinsel around each door. She sat at her desk for almost half an hour and restuck the paper chains that had come apart during the year, then taped them in garlands above the desks. To the wall she pinned several pieces of string, and hung on them the greetings cards that had been sent by commercial partners. Above the light fittings she draped shimmering strands of foil, making sure that they were not so close to the bulbs as to be a fire risk.
Outside, the skies had darkened, the sodium lights coming on down the length of the street. Gradually, in much the same order that they always did, the staff of Acme Mineral and Mining's London office left the building. First Phyllis and Elsie, the typists, who always left at five on the dot, even though they seemed to carry no such sense of rigorous punctuality when it came to clocking in. Then David Moreton, in Accounts, and shortly after him, Stevens, who would retreat to the pub on the corner for several bracing shots of whiskey before he made his way home. The rest left in small groups, wrapping themselves in scarves and coats, the men picking up theirs from the stands in the corner, a few waving good-bye to her as they passed Mr. Stirling's office. Felicity Harewood, in charge of the payroll, lived only one stop away from Moira in Streatham, but never once suggested they catch the same bus. When Felicity had first been hired, in May, Moira had thought it might be rather nice to have someone to chat to on the way home, a woman with whom she could exchange recipes or pass a few comments on the day's events in the fuggy confines of the 159. But Felicity left each evening without even a backward look. On the one occasion Moira and she had been on the same bus, she had kept her head stuck in a paperback novel for most of the journey, even though Moira was almost certain she knew that she was only two seats behind.