Do you remember that first dinner? I was such a fool, and you knew it. And you were so utterly, utterly charming, darling J, even faced with my ungracious behavior.

I was so angry that night. Now I suspect I was in love with you even then, but we men are so thumpingly incapable of seeing what is before us. It was easier to pass off my discomfort as something else entirely.

She had now unearthed seven letters from their hiding places around her house; seven letters that laid out before her the kind of love she had known, the kind of person she had become as a result of it. In those handwritten words, she saw herself reflected in myriad ways: impulsive, passionate, quick to temper and to forgive.

He seemed her polar opposite. He challenged, proclaimed, promised. He was an acute observer; of her, of the things around him. He kept nothing hidden. She seemed to be the first woman he had ever truly loved. She wondered, when she read his words again, whether he was the first man she had truly loved in return.

When you looked at me with those limitless, deliquescent eyes of yours, I used to wonder what it was you could possibly see in me. Now I know that is a foolish view of love. You and I could no more not love each other than the earth could stop circling the sun.

Although the letters were not always dated, it was possible to place them in some kind of chronology: this one had come soon after they had first met, another after some kind of argument, a third after a passionate reunion. He had wanted her to leave Laurence. Several of them asked her to. She had apparently resisted. Why? She thought now of the cold man in the kitchen, the oppressive silence of her home. Why did I not go?

She read the seven letters obsessively, trawling for clues, trying to work out the man’s identity. The last was dated September, a matter of weeks before her accident. Why had he not made contact? They had plainly never telephoned each other, nor had any specific meeting place. When she observed that some of the letters shared a PO box, she had gone to the post office to find out if there were any more. But the box had been reallocated, and there were no letters for her.

She became convinced that he would make himself known to her. How could the man who had written these letters, the man whose emotions were suffused with urgency, just sit and wait? She no longer believed it might be Bill; it was not that she couldn’t believe she’d had feelings for him, but the idea of deceiving Violet seemed beyond her, if not him. Which left Jack Amory and Reggie Carpenter. And Jack Amory had just announced his engagement to a Miss Victoria Nelson of Camberley, Surrey.

Mrs. Cordoza entered the room as Jennifer was finishing her hair. “Could you make sure my midnight blue silk is pressed for this evening?” she said. She held a string of diamonds against her pale neck. He loved her neck:

I have never yet been able to look at it without wanting to kiss the back of it.

“I’ve laid it out on the bed there. And would you mind fetching me a drink?”

Mrs. Cordoza walked past her to pick it up. “I’ll do it now, Mrs. Stirling,” she said.

Reggie Carpenter was flirting. There was no other word for it. Yvonne’s cousin was leaning up against Jenny’s chair, his eyes fixed on her mouth, which was twitching mischievously as if they had shared a private joke.

Yvonne watched them as she handed Francis a drink where he sat, a few feet away. She stooped to murmur into her husband’s ear, “Can’t you get Reggie over with the men? He’s been virtually sitting in Jennifer’s lap since she got here.”

“I tried, darling, but short of physically hauling him away, there wasn’t a lot I could do.”

“Then grab Maureen. She looks as if she’s going to cry.”

From the moment she had opened the door to the Stirlings—Jennifer in a mink coat and apparently already loaded, he grim-faced—her skin had prickled, as if in anticipation of something awful. There was tension between them, and then Jennifer and Reggie had latched on to each other in a way that was frankly exasperating.

“I do wish people would confine their quarrels to home,” she muttered.

“I’ll give Larry a large whiskey. He’ll warm up eventually. Probably a bad day at the office.” Francis stood up, touched her elbow, and was gone.

The cocktail sausages had hardly been tried. With a sigh, Yvonne picked up a plate of small eats and prepared to hand it around.

“Have one, Maureen.”

Reggie’s twenty-one-year-old girlfriend barely registered that she had spoken. Immaculate in her rust-colored wool dress, she was seated stiffly on a dining chair, casting dark looks at the two people to her right, both of whom seemed oblivious to her. Jennifer was leaning back in the armchair, while Reggie perched neatly on the arm. He whispered something, and they burst into peals of laughter.

“Reggie?” Maureen said. “Didn’t you say we were going into town to meet the others?”

“Oh, they can wait,” he said dismissively.

“They were going to meet us in the Green Rooms, Bear. Half past seven, you said.”

“Bear?” Jenny, her laughter silenced, was staring at Reggie.

“His nickname,” said Yvonne, offering her the plate. “He was the most ridiculously hairy baby. My aunt said at first she thought she had given birth to one.”

“Bear,” Jenny repeated.

“Yup. I’m irresistible. Soft. And never happier than when I’m tucked into bed . . .” He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to her.

“Reggie, can I have a word?”

“Not when you wear that face, dear cousin. Yvonne thinks I’m flirting with you, Jenny.”

“Not just thinking it,” said Maureen, coldly.

“Oh, come on, Mo. Don’t be a bore.” His voice, while still joking, held a note of irritation. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to Jenny for far too long. We’re just catching up.”

“Has it really been that long?” Jennifer said innocently.

“Oh, an age,” he said fervently.

Yvonne saw the girl’s face fall. “Maureen, darling, would you care to come and help me make some more drinks? Goodness only knows where my useless husband has gone.”

“He’s just there. He—”

“Come on, Maureen. Through here.”

The girl followed her into the dining room and took the bottle of crème de menthe Yvonne handed her. She radiated impotent fury. “What does that woman think she’s doing? She’s married, isn’t she?”

“Jennifer’s just . . . Oh, she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“She’s all over him! Look at her! How would she like it if I mooned at her husband like that?”

Yvonne glanced into the living room where Larry, his face a mask of contained disapproval, was now sitting, only half listening to what Francis was saying. She probably wouldn’t notice, she thought.

“I know she’s your friend, Yvonne, but as far as I’m concerned she’s an absolute bitch.”

“Maureen, I know Reggie’s behaving badly, but you can’t speak like that about my friend. You have no idea what she’s gone through recently. Now, pass me that bottle, would you?”

“And what about what she’s putting me through? It’s humiliating. Everyone knows I’m with Reggie, and she’s got him wrapped around her little finger.”

“Jennifer had the most awful car crash. She’s not very long out of hospital. Like I said, she’s just letting her hair down a little.”

“And her knickers with it.”

“Mo . . .”

“She’s drunk. And she’s ancient. How old must she be? Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? My Reggie’s at least three years younger than she is.”

Yvonne took a deep breath. She lit a cigarette, handed another to the girl, and pulled the double doors closed behind her. “Mo—”

“She’s a thief. She’s trying to steal him from me. I can see it, even if you can’t.”

Yvonne lowered her voice. “You have to understand, Mo, darling, that there’s flirting and then there’s flirting. Reggie and Jenny are having a high old time together out there, but neither of them would ever think of cheating. They’re flirting, yes, but they’re doing it in a roomful of people, not attempting to hide it. If there was the slightest seriousness in it, do you really think she’d be like that in front of Larry?” It sounded convincing, even to herself. “Darling girl, you will find, as you get older, that a bit of conversational parrying is part of life.” She popped a cashew into her mouth. “It’s one of the great consolations for having to be married to one man for years and years.”

The girl scowled, but deflated a little. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “But I still don’t think it’s a nice way for a lady to behave.” She opened the doors and went back into the living room. Yvonne took a deep breath and followed her.

The cocktails slid down as the conversation grew louder and livelier. Francis returned to the dining room and made more Snowballs, while Yvonne deftly threaded cherries onto cocktail sticks to decorate them. She found now that she felt frankly dreadful if she had more than two proper drinks, so she had one made with blue curaçao, then limited herself to Jaffa Juice. The champagne was going down like no one’s business. Francis turned off the music in the hope that people might take the hint and leave, but Bill and Reggie turned it on again and tried to get everyone to dance. At one point both men had hold of Jennifer’s hands, while they danced around her. As Francis was busy with the drinks, Yvonne moved to where Laurence was sitting and planted herself next to him. She had sworn to herself that she would get a smile out of him.

He said nothing, but took a long swig of his drink, glanced at his wife, and looked away again. Dissatisfaction radiated from him. “She’s making a fool of herself,” he muttered, when the silence between them became too great.

She’s making a fool of you, Yvonne thought. “She’s just merry. It’s been a strange time for her, Larry. She’s . . . trying to enjoy herself.”

When she looked at him, he was gazing at her intently. Yvonne felt a little uncomfortable. “Didn’t you tell me the doctor said she might not be herself?” she added. He had told her this when Jennifer had been in the hospital—back when he still talked to people.

He took another swig of his drink, his eyes not leaving hers. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Knew what?”

His eyes strafed hers for clues.

“Knew what, Larry?”

Francis had put on a rhumba. Behind them Bill was entreating Jennifer to dance with him, and she was pleading with him to stop.

Laurence drained his glass. “Nothing.”

She leaned forward and put a hand on his. “It’s been tough on both of you. I’m sure you need a little time to—” She was interrupted by another peal of laughter from Jennifer. Reggie had put one of the cut flowers between his teeth and was engaging her in an impromptu tango.

Laurence shrugged her off delicately, just as Bill, breathless, flopped down beside them. “That Reggie character’s a bit much, isn’t he? Yvonne, shouldn’t you have a word?”

She dared not look at Laurence, but his voice, when it came, was steady. “Don’t worry, Yvonne,” he said, his eyes fixed somewhere in the far distance. “I’ll sort it out.”

She found Jennifer in the bathroom shortly before eight thirty. She was leaning across the marble washbasin, retouching her makeup. Her eyes slid to Yvonne as she entered, then returned to her reflection. She was flushed, Yvonne noted. Giddy, almost. “Would you like some coffee?” she said.

“Coffee?”

“Before you go on to Larry’s work do.”

“I think,” Jennifer said, outlining her lips with an unusually careful hand, “for that shindig I’m more likely to need another stiff drink.”