It was a beautiful, restful room, and Terese had chosen the décor and furniture herself. Ruth had tried to persuade her to follow the fashion of five years ago and have everything modern from the paintings on the walls to the angular, black leather chairs and cubist tables which were the rage of smart New York interior decorators. Her own house at the time was a riot of violent colours, Swedish sofas and Reginald Bacon paintings. Terese had refused to be influenced. The colour scheme was muted; soft green silk walls were matched by a fine Aubusson carpet and several rare pieces of French furniture, including a Roetger commode which had once been in Versailles. The sofas and chairs were deep and comfortable, the pictures English eighteenth-century landscapes with an exquisite Gainsborough conversation piece Robert bought for her when it came on to the public market in England. Everything in the room was a reflection of the best of French and English taste, and this was only their New York apartment, which was empty three-quarters of the year. The Bradford home in Boston was like a museum. Terese had never felt at liberty to change anything or add anything of her own, and she had never regarded it as her home, though they spent most of their time there. She leant back, drawing in the smoke and thinking about Boston and the house and Ruth. Fifteen years ago she had come there to meet his family, so dependent upon her husband that she was uneasy if he was out of the room. Her mind was a blank. It had reminded her of a piece of paper which had to be filled up with pictures of a past drawn by someone else. She could remember the hospital and waking up, seeing Robert sitting by her bed. She hadnât known who he was or where she was or her own name. Strangely she had felt no panic, and afterwards when they pieced a little together for her she understood that Joe Kaplan had prepared her for this moment by hypnosis, so that she wouldnât be overcome by fear. âI am Robert,â the man in American uniform had said. âDonât be frightened, darling. Iâm Robert.â
Why in Godâs name hadnât she ever been able to love him properly? And why hadnât he ever reproached her? She got up, threw her cigarette into the grate and called herself an ungrateful bitch out loud.
She lit another cigarette and went into the kitchen. When she switched on the light it was like walking into a room in Provence on a day of the brightest sunshine. Everything was polished wood and brass, with yellow walls and tiles and a pine floor. She and Bob would have liked to eat there, only they never dared because of the servants. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She stretched her right hand out in front of her; it was white and smooth-skinned, with long pale nails; she looked at the little scars along the back of it. She didnât know how she had got them; Joe Kaplan had told her not to worry about it and she had accepted that. He had treated her for weeks before she married Bob, after she left the hospital and Bob had put her into a hotel with a nurse. Every time she saw Joe Kaplan he drew in a little more past on the blank paper, so that she had a name and a birthplace and she knew how old she was. And her mind accepted the facts, but without any great curiosity. It was odd how little she cared about what she didnât know, and she couldnât make herself care. She had had an accident and lost her memory, and it didnât matter. Even trying to speculate made her feel lost and miserable. Bob had been very good to her that first year; he had made her see that a present and a future were all she needed, and he hadnât tried to sleep with her until Joe Kaplan said he could. She only knew that because of something Joeâs wife Vera had said years afterwards. Vera didnât like her; Terese had the feeling that the older woman was holding herself back whenever they were together,
Why in Godâs name hadnât she ever been able to love him properly? And why hadnât he ever reproached her? She got up, threw her cigarette into the grate and called herself an ungrateful bitch out loud.
She lit another cigarette and went into the kitchen. When she switched on the light it was like walking into a room in Provence on a day of the brightest sunshine. Everything was polished wood and brass, with yellow walls and tiles and a pine floor. She and Bob would have liked to eat there, only they never dared because of the servants. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She stretched her right hand out in front of her; it was white and smooth-skinned, with long pale nails; she looked at the little scars along the back of it. She didnât know how she had got them; Joe Kaplan had told her not to worry about it and she had accepted that. He had treated her for weeks before she married Bob, after she left the hospital and Bob had put her into a hotel with a nurse. Every time she saw Joe Kaplan he drew in a little more past on the blank paper, so that she had a name and a birthplace and she knew how old she was. And her mind accepted the facts, but without any great curiosity. It was odd how little she cared about what she didnât know, and she couldnât make herself care. She had had an accident and lost her memory, and it didnât matter. Even trying to speculate made her feel lost and miserable. Bob had been very good to her that first year; he had made her see that a present and a future were all she needed, and he hadnât tried to sleep with her until Joe Kaplan said he could. She only knew that because of something Joeâs wife Vera had said years afterwards. Vera didnât like her; Terese had the feeling that the older woman was holding herself back whenever they were together,
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