Ghostwritten. Isabel Wolff

clients in their homes – it gives me a strong sense of who they are before we even begin the interviews. Then, once they start to talk, I feel as though I’m right inside their head; plunged into their thoughts and memories. It’s as close as I can get to being someone else.

      Amongst the snaps were some formal portraits in silver frames. It wasn’t hard to guess who the people in these ones were – Klara’s parents on their wedding day; Klara herself at eight or nine, sitting on a pony. There was also a studio portrait of Klara, aged about six or seven, with her arm round a little boy. They both had short blond hair and stared solemnly at the camera with the same large round eyes.

      ‘This is you with your brother?’

      She looked at me then glanced away. ‘Yes.’

      ‘What’s his name?’

      ‘Peter.’ Klara’s face filled with grief. ‘His name was Peter.’ I immediately wondered when, and how, he’d died. ‘All those older photos belonged to my grandparents,’ Klara went on as she spooned coffee into a heavy brown jug. ‘Fortunately my mother always enclosed a few snaps in her letters to them, otherwise we’d have had no record of our ten years on Java. Everything we’d ever owned there was lost or destroyed.’

      The kettle was boiling. Klara tipped the water into the jug and the aroma of coffee filled the air.

      ‘Let’s use the Delft, as we shall be talking about Holland.’ She took down some plates and cups and put them on a tray. So Klara was ready to start. I began asking her more direct questions.

      ‘How old were you when you went to Java?’

      ‘I was almost five. My father decided to try his luck in the NEI – the Netherlands East Indies, as it then was. He got a job on a rubber plantation, not far from Bandung.’

      She picked up the tray and I stepped forward. ‘Let me help you.’

      ‘If you could take the jug, I can manage the rest.’

      Klara carried the tray to the low wooden table and set it down; then she sat on the right side of the sofa while I took the armchair opposite. She poured me a cup of coffee then handed me an enormous wedge of Victoria sponge that almost covered the plate.

      ‘Oh, could I have half that?’

      Klara passed me a fork. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’

      ‘Well …’ I didn’t want to argue with her. ‘It does look good.’ I tasted it. ‘It’s delicious.’

      ‘We really ought to be eating madeleines,’ she quipped. ‘Not that I need help in summoning the remembrance of things past. My memory is quite undimmed. Which I sometimes feel is a disadvantage.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      Klara poured herself some coffee. ‘A few months ago, my dearest friend, Jane, was diagnosed with dementia.’

      ‘Oh, I see. When you said she “was” a great reader, I assumed that she’d died. I’m glad that’s not the case.’

      ‘Oh, she’s in good health – physically at least. But, in a way, the Jane I’ve known for fifty-five years has died. When I talk to her about some of the happy times we’ve had, the people we’ve known or the books we’ve both loved, she looks at me blankly, or becomes confused.’

      ‘That must be heart-breaking.’

      ‘It is. It makes me feel … lonely.’ Klara sighed. ‘But I assume that Jane’s unhappy memories are also disappearing and I must say there are times when I envy her this. How wonderful it must be, to be unable to remember things that once caused us distress. Yet we should embrace all our memories, whether joyful or painful. They’re all we ever really own in this life.’

      As I murmured my agreement I wondered what painful memories Klara was thinking of and whether she would want to talk about them for the book.

      Klara sipped her coffee then looked at me. ‘One might say that you’re in the memory “business”.’

      I nodded. ‘You could put it that way. It’s my job to draw memories out of my clients.’ While fiercely protecting my own memories, I reflected wryly. I glanced at the old leather albums piled up on the table in front of us. Rick had sometimes remarked on my own lack of family photographs. ‘You’ve got quite a few photos, Klara.’

      ‘I have.’

      ‘They’ll help hugely in the interview process – and we can reproduce some of them in the book, if you’d like to.’

      ‘I would. Having committed myself to this memoir, I want it to be as vivid as possible.’

      ‘I think it will be, Klara – not because of any photos that we put in it, but because of what you say. The key to it is not just to remember what happened to you at this time or that, but to think about how those events affected you then, to make you the person that you are now.’

      ‘Put that way it sounds a bit like … therapy.’

      ‘Well, it’s a journey of self-discovery, so the process can be therapeutic, yes – cathartic, even.’

      ‘I’ve been thinking hard about the past.’ Klara laid her hand on one of the albums. ‘I’ve been looking at the much-loved faces in these pages, and remembering what they meant to me – still mean to me.’

      ‘When you talk about them, try to recall not just what they looked like, but how they talked or walked, or laughed, or dressed. Any little details that will bring them alive.’

      Klara nodded and sipped her coffee again. She flashed me an anxious smile. ‘How strange to think that I barely know you, Jenni, yet I’m about to tell you so much about myself – more than I have ever told anyone in my own family – my own husband, even.’

      ‘It must feel very strange,’ I agreed. ‘But try to think of it as a conversation with an old friend.’

      ‘We aren’t friends though, are we?’

      I was taken aback by her directness. ‘No … But we’ll get to know each other over these next few days.’

      ‘Well, you’ll get to know me.’ She put her cup on the table. ‘But will I get to know you?’

      ‘Of … course.’

      ‘Because, this has all come up so quickly; and now that we’re sitting here I realise that I simply can’t talk to you about myself, unless I know at least a little about you.’

      ‘You already … do.’ I wondered whether we were ever going to start the interview. Klara was expertly deflecting my questions, beating me at my own game.

      ‘I don’t,’ she countered. ‘All I know is that you live in London and grew up near Reading, an only child, then moved to Southampton. I know that you’re a friend of Vincent’s goddaughter, and that you came here on holiday, many years ago. So please, Jenni, tell me a bit more about yourself.’

      This was the last thing I wanted to do. I forced a smile. ‘What would you like to know?’

      ‘Well … are you married? I don’t get the impression that you are.’

      ‘I’m not. But I live with someone – Rick. He’s a primary school teacher.’ Klara was looking at me expectantly. ‘He’s … easy-going,’ I went on, feeling myself flounder under her gaze. ‘He’s decent and attractive – at least I think so. He’s the same height as me, which I like, because we can look straight into each other’s eyes. His are the colour of the sea.’ Was that really all I could find to say about the man I loved?

      Klara nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds lovely.’

      ‘He is. We’ve been together for a year and a half.’

      ‘So, you must feel that you know each other pretty well by now.’

      ‘I