3.

Diana, Cheltenham, 1921

At last I’ve received a letter from Simone. I’m so pleased I could dance about the room. I think of her kind amber eyes, pale blonde hair and peaches-and-cream complexion; remember, too, the terrific fun we had. My doctor’s wife and my best friend in Burma and, although her news is sad, of course it is, for her husband, Roger, has died, she says she’ll be coming back to live in England. Somewhere in Oxfordshire, which isn’t so far. I run downstairs, pick up my gardening scissors and trug from the little hall at the back of the house and nip outside, angling my face upwards for a moment – I love to feel the sun on my skin – and then I cut some roses for the dining room.

I recall the brilliance of the flowers in Burma and my life there, my life! Crammed with excitement and laughter. Cocktails, dinner parties and those lavish night-long garden parties. The sheer joy of a Parisian silk dress skimming my skin – and my darling husband holding me so tight I felt as if I was the bee’s knees. Then, having drunk too much champagne, watching pink and orange lanterns swaying in the breeze as the sky turned indigo just before dawn.

But oh, the garden, with its perfumed flowers and the huge canopies of trees where monkeys swung in the branches. We both laughed to see them, our arms wrapped around each other, young – well, I was – and so much in love. And our own special secluded place where nobody could see what we did and could never know how my stern upright husband wanted me so much it stopped his breath.

I bring myself to a standstill.

Don’t think about the garden.