Oh, sure, yes, there was nothing better than when a date actually worked. She could remember the euphoria of those early dates with Nick. There was a night where they’d watched Australia Day fireworks from a bar in the Rocks. She was drinking a huge creamy cocktail, and Nick was telling a story about one of his sisters and he was so funny and so sexy and Alice’s hair looked nice and her shoes weren’t hurting and there were curls of shaved chocolate floating on top of her cocktail and Nick’s hand massaging her lower back and she felt such an intense sensation of happiness it frightened her, because surely there was a price to pay for this sort of bliss. (And was this the price? All these years later? Nick swearing at her on the phone from the other side of the world. Had she finally been sent an exorbitant bill?)

A date with any man other than Nick would be boring and awkward and stupid. Dominick. What sort of a name was Dominick?

In a sudden rage, she took the card and tore it into tiny pieces. How could she betray Nick like that by keeping these flowers in her bedroom?

And then there was that other man—that physiotherapist from Melbourne—who had sent her the card with the mention of “happier times.” Who was he? Was she already on to her second relationship after breaking up with Nick? Had she turned into a hussy? A point-making hussy who went to the gym and upset her beloved sister and hosted “Kindergarten Cocktail Parties”? She hated the person she’d become. The only good part was the clothes.

This all had to stop. She had to get Nick’s coins and his socks and his sneakers back in her bedroom, and these roses gone.

She lay back on the bed. Elisabeth was downstairs phoning up that Kate Harper woman trying to get tonight’s party canceled.

Alice crawled across the bed, pulled back the duvet, and got into crisp, clean sheets, still wearing her red dress.

She looked at the ceiling (plastered and painted, the water stains and cracks gone as if they’d never existed) and thought of that moment in the bathroom at the hospital when she had been going through that odd makeup routine and she had that rush of feeling after she smelled her perfume. It had seemed like she was about to fall headfirst into all her memories but then she’d deliberately resisted it, stepped back from the edge when she really should have let herself go. It would be far easier and less confusing if she could just remember what the hell was going on in her life. She sniffed at her wrist where she’d sprayed the perfume that had seemed so evocative of everything, but this time she experienced only a confused, choppy mass of half-remembered feelings; they were insubstantial and slippery, gone before she could even attempt to name them.

She woke to find Frannie sitting at the end of her bed, holding a gift.

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

“Hello.” Alice smiled with relief, because Frannie looked exactly as she should. She was wearing a familiar pale-pink buttoned-up blouse Alice had seen many times before, or at least one like it, and tailored gray pants. Her back was ramrod straight. She was like a little elf. She had short white hair tucked behind tiny ears, creamy white skin, and cat’s-eye glasses on a gold chain.

Alice said happily, “You haven’t changed a bit. You look just the same.”

“You mean as I did ten years ago?” Frannie adjusted her glasses on her nose. “I guess there was no room for any more wrinkles. Here.” She handed her the present. “You probably won’t like it, but I wanted to get you something.”

Alice sat up in bed. “Of course I’ll like it.” She unwrapped a bottle of talcum powder. “Lovely.” She twisted the lid, poured some into her palm and sniffed. The scent was simple and flowery and reminded her of nothing. “Thank you.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Frannie. “You gave us all a fright.”

“Fine,” said Alice. “Confused. Sometimes I feel like I’m on the verge of remembering everything, and then other times it all feels like a huge practical joke and you’re all just pretending I’m thirty-nine when you know perfectly well that I’m about to turn thirty.”

“I know that feeling,” said Frannie reflectively. “Just the other day I woke up and felt like I was nineteen. I went into the bathroom and saw an old lady staring back at me from the mirror and it really startled me. I thought, ‘Who is that dreadful old crone?’”

“You’re not a crone.”

Frannie waved her hand at that dismissively. “Well, anyway, I think you’re probably having a nervous breakdown.” Alice looked appalled. “Don’t look at me like that! People do have nervous breakdowns, and you’ve been under so much stress lately. What with this divorce—”

“Yes, about that. Why are we breaking up?” interrupted Alice. She couldn’t bring herself to say the word “divorce” out loud. Frannie wouldn’t try to hide anything from her. She would tell her straight.

But Frannie said, “I have absolutely no idea. That’s between you and Nick. All I know is that you both seem very set on the idea. There doesn’t seem any chance of reconciliation. So we’ve all just had to button our lips and accept it.”

“But you must have an opinion. You always have an opinion!”

Frannie smiled. “Yes, I generally do, don’t I? But in this case, I really don’t know. You haven’t confided in me. It’s very sad for the children. Especially this awful fighting-over-custody business. I don’t approve of that at all, as you know.”