“You’re shivering,” he said. “You better get home. Good night, Clarissa Jane Bourne.”
There was no doubting whose fault it was that her mind jumped the way it did. She tilted her head, looking at him quizzically, trying to keep her voice casual. “What superpowers do you have to know my middle name?”
“No laser beam eyes or magical brain scanning or secret agent snooping involved. It’s full names on the jury list. I see yours each morning when I cross my own off. Yours is at the top.”
She bit her lip in mock embarrassment. “And how did I not notice that?” she said, laughing a bit, dismissing herself. “Silly.”
“No,” he said. “That’s not a word I’d use about you.”
And in truth she didn’t feel silly. He wasn’t a man who made her feel silly at all. Even when she had to face her own default paranoia, even when she lost control and couldn’t help but let him glimpse it, he seemed to respond only with gentle good humor and kindness. And she truly did think that he saw so much. Names. Lighters. She wondered what else he saw.
“Say hello to Jack for me,” she said.
“I’ll do that.”
She didn’t want to look back after they parted to see if Robert was watching her, just as she never looked to see where the barristers’ and defendants’ eyes were as she went in and out of the jury box. But she did turn. She couldn’t help it. Robert walked on, straight and purposeful and evenly paced, and never looked back himself.
She hurried into a waiting taxi, grateful there was no queue, refusing to search again for Rafe’s horrible shadow. She knew it was there. She didn’t need to see it to know that.
Friday
A SHORT, PLUMP, PASTY-LOOKING man was sitting in the witness box. The ex-boyfriend who’d broken Lottie’s heart.
“How did Miss Lockyer seem to you when she returned from London on Sunday, July twenty-ninth?”
“She were in a state. She were a right mess. She were dirty-looking. There were a bruise around one of her eyes. She were shaking and crying. She wouldn’t let me touch her. She smelled bad. She weren’t wearing any knickers. That upset me, worried me. I kept asking about that, but she wouldn’t say. There was dried blood between her legs. Her breathing were rough, like it were hurting her in her chest.”
CLARISSA AND ANNIE were wandering through the outside market at the end of the day. It had been Annie’s idea to spend a little time together, shopping, before Clarissa caught her train back to Bath and Annie got her bus to the outskirts of Bristol.
“Our judge always lets us out too late,” Annie said. “All the other juries are gone before us. There’s never anything good left by the time we get out.”
“We could go again together, during lunch. Like we did on Wednesday.”
“You look as if all that passes your lips is mineral water from enchanted springs and purified air. The rest of us need to eat during lunch.” Annie frowned as the owners of the craft stalls began to pack away the vestiges of their painted pots and handcrafted jewelry and artisan cards and tie-dyed dresses, seeming to snatch things from display tables faster than she could grab them. “At least your creepy friend isn’t following us. He’d better hope for his sake that I don’t see him again.”
Clarissa reasoned with herself that Annie would be safe from Rafe. She was sure Annie would notice if she was being watched by him—Annie was way too observant and careful for him to get away with that. Plus, there was something about Annie that made Clarissa certain that Rafe wouldn’t dare mess with her.
“I’m not inclined to hope anything that’s for his sake.” Clarissa blew her nose and tossed the crumpled tissue into a bin.
“What do you think of this?” Annie was studying a handmade wooden box decorated with Disney princesses. Clarissa thought it was hideous. She pointedly remained silent, and Annie put down the box, deciding against it.
“This is pretty.” Clarissa held up a child’s dress. It was cornflower blue and embroidered with roses. She wondered if Annie’s little girl might like it, but frowned as she inspected the hem. “It’s unraveling.”
Annie rolled her eyes. “You are a mistress of stitches, Clarissa. I’ll give you that.” Annie paused, as if unsure whether she should continue, but then she did. “Think about something this weekend. Consider whether that cliché’s wrong about women lying down for artists. Ask yourself whether they lie down for firemen, and whether firemen know it. One of the perks of the job.” Annie squeezed her arm. “You hardly know anything about him, Clarissa,” she said, looking hard at her. “There’s something about him I don’t . . .” Annie stopped herself. “It doesn’t take a mind reader to see how much you like him. Be careful.”
Saturday
Saturday, February 14, 11:00 a.m. Happy Valentine’s Day.
When I get to the bottom of the stairs, I find Miss Norton in the hall. I’m on my way out to run errands and meet Gary for coffee, but Miss Norton is already returning from a busy morning of excursions. She is saying good-bye to the taxi driver who insisted on carrying in her tartan shopping bag on wheels, scolding him that she could have done it herself.
Miss Norton is ninety-two and likes her routines. Every day, as soon as she wakes up, Miss Norton walks twenty times around her flat, as fast as she can, for exercise. The pavements outside are too uneven and dangerous for old ladies to speed-walk, Miss Norton says.
I want a fairy godmother. She will look like Miss Norton and laugh Miss Norton’s tinkling laugh. She will grant three wishes, and I will choose wisely. One. I wish for a baby. Two. I wish for Robert. Three. I wish you would go to some place far, far away forever. The wand will wave and wave and wave once more. It will be so simple.
Miss Norton gives me a knowing look. “These came for you, dear. Chocolates. I only just put them on the shelf with your other post. Such a lovely box, too. Someone left it in front of our door.”
I walk to the door. I hesitate but make myself pull it open.
You are standing opposite the house, on the other side of the road, leaning against a lamppost. Black jeans again. A black long-sleeved shirt, not tucked in. You aren’t wearing a coat or a hat, and your shoulders are hunched against the cold. You actually look vulnerable.
For an instant, I falter in my hatred of you. I see you as if you were a stranger. I see the trouble in your face, and I think what a lost soul you are. I think of when Henry first left and how it felt to be so hopelessly disappointed in love. Isn’t that what you are, only to a pathological degree? But then you lift a hand in greeting, slowly, and start toward my house. You’re moving closer to me, where I absolutely don’t want you to be. And the stab of compassion that took me by surprise is gone as quickly as it came.
Your voice is too loud on my peaceful street. “Hello, beautiful.”
Hello, beautiful.
Henry said that to me the day we met.
It happened five years ago, soon after I started working at the university.
The first time I ever saw him is still vivid. His sharp suit. His tie with quotations from T. S. Eliot zigzagging over it. The way his eyes shone as Gary introduced us at the start of the committee meeting that had brought us together that day. The electric shock he gave me when we shook hands. The fact that from the beginning it was impossible for me to look anywhere else in a room if Henry was in it.
During the meeting Henry actually winked at me, so I had to stop myself from laughing. When I got back to my office, the two words were waiting for me in an email. Hello, beautiful. They seemed to blaze out of my screen.
I could have ignored him or rejected him or even made a complaint of sexual harassment. But I didn’t do any of those things.
Hello, I wrote back, aware of how hard my heart was beating.
Have dinner with me tonight. His message appeared within seconds of my reply. It wasn’t a question, but I could have said no and he would have respected that word.
Another big difference between you.
So is the fact that I can’t
even remember the first time I ever saw you. Until your book launch party, I’d never had anything to do with you outside of work or taken much notice of you; you were just one of the many barely distinguishable academics I had to chase to fill in paperwork on behalf of their PhD students. That’s all you were.
After the restaurant, Henry and I walked along the river, breathing in the wood smoke from the barges’ chimneys. The river was so swollen it covered the black iron barriers that were supposed to stop people from falling in. Henry recited Yeats’s “The Mermaid” from memory and made me promise not to drown him. Despite being slowed by all the wine we’d drunk, we somehow solved the paving-stone maze, holding hands in the near darkness until we reached its mosaic center.
At the end of the evening, we stood by the weir, watching it foam just below the upside-down reflection of Pulteney Bridge, illuminated gold on the water’s glassy mirror. “Perfect date,” Henry said. He colored the words with his usual ironic edge and his poet’s awareness of the statement’s retro feel. “Perfect date” wasn’t naturally part of Henry’s vocabulary. But I had to agree that that was what the evening had been, as he pulled me close.
It was a month later that I found out he was married, though he swore the relationship was over in all but name. I refused to see him for three weeks after he told me, ignoring his phone calls and messages and emails, not answering the doorbell, furious beyond expression that he had kept it from me. But I’d already fallen for him too hard, and it wasn’t long until I broke my vow to renounce him. Two months after that, Henry left the house he’d been sharing with his wife and showed up at my flat, bearing wine and flowers and a suitcase.
I could have turned him away, as I’ve turned you away so many times.
Instead, I kissed him and pulled him in.
You’ve finished crossing the road. “Clarissa. I wanted to say—”
I slam the door before you finish.
Miss Norton raises a white eyebrow. “I’ve seen him several times before.”
“Don’t ever let him in, please, Miss Norton.”
“As if I’d ever let a strange man in, Clarissa.”
“Sorry. I know you wouldn’t. I know I didn’t need to say. Will you tell me if you see him here again?”
“Of course.”
“Could you describe him if you were asked to? Or identify him?”
“Of course,” she says again, looking hard at me.
“Good. That’s good.” But I’m worrying that I’ve asked even this much of her. It’s not the job of a ninety-two-year-old to protect me. It’s mine to protect her. Delicately, I touch the heart-shaped box, displayed so carefully by Miss Norton on the shelf. It is deep red. I pull my fingers away quickly, as if it burns me.
“You do get so many gifts, Clarissa.” Miss Norton shakes her silky white hair in impressed amazement.
“I’ll never eat these.” I push the chocolates farther from me; they are weighty. “I wish I could throw them out.” But I know I must keep them, locked away with your other things.
Miss Norton squints. Perhaps she is genuinely shocked at the thought of such waste.
“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. Miss Norton must be wondering why I don’t give the chocolates to her if I’m not going to eat them myself. “I know you’re of the generation who experienced rationing. My grandmother did. She never got over it.”
“You’re of the generation who thinks everything will go on forever, dear.”
“You’re right.” I nod, abashed. “I know how careful you are.” I decide to buy Miss Norton some chocolates of her own while I’m out and surprise her with them when I return.
“Can you speak up? My hearing aid needs a new battery.”
Patiently, I repeat myself.
“Yes.” Miss Norton appears thoughtful. “I am on a pension.” She has long been retired from her job as headmistress of a private girls’ school. “Don’t forget the card,” she says. Her hand is papery white and traced with blue veins. It curls around the edge of the crimson container. She slides the envelope from beneath the curling pink ribbons.
The envelope is the color of candy floss. It is heart-shaped, too. If it were from Robert, I would smile in secret pleasure at the words. For the Princess in the Attic.
But you are not Robert. You are like a living version of the troll’s mirror in The Snow Queen. From you, even the most beautiful things become ugly and distorted.
I want to hide from Miss Norton’s X-ray eyes.
“It can only be for you. You do look like a princess, you know. And I’m too old to live in an attic.” She reaches out a finely boned hand and lightly, briefly, touches my forehead. The hand is soft and dry. Surprisingly, it smells of eucalyptus. “You don’t look well.”
I try to smile. “I’m fine. You’re so kind, Miss Norton.”
The hall falls into near darkness, and the card slips from my fingers.
“Oh dear,” says Miss Norton.
I fumble for the light switch’s timer, and the chandelier’s silvery crystal droplets are illuminated for another ten minutes. I retrieve the card from the dark-gold matting and slide it out of the envelope. Be my Valentine.
Your handwriting is more familiar to me than anyone else’s. I will never give up.
“You’re trembling. Come into my flat. Let me make you a cup of tea.”
Despite my powerful instinct to shelter and spare lovely Miss Norton, the words spill out. “I know I must seem ungrateful to you, and spoiled. But I don’t want it.” I shove the card back into the envelope, not wanting to touch it or look at it as I do. “I told him I didn’t want it. I want nothing from him.” I wipe away a tear. “I won’t have any tea now, but thank you.”
Chocolates and diamonds and leather gloves. You assault me in the park. You put your hands on my body when I don’t want them there. And then you give me a Valentine’s card. Are all of these things of the same order for you? You’re practically schizophrenic.
I will still go out. I will march right past you. It is daylight. My neighbors will hear me if I call for help. You cannot do anything to me on a morning like this. If you follow me, I will lead you straight to the police station, and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like that at all.
But I am still shuddering in the aftermath of my walk in the park. I plan to drop my coat off at the dry cleaner’s while I’m out so they can wash your touch from it. I plan to buy a shredder, too; you can search my recycling bin as much as you please, but you will never again find anything interesting there.
You will not see the receipt for the book about sex that I chose during the lunch break yesterday, thinking perhaps I should consider my skills, just in case. You will not see the receipt for the book about natural fertility that I bought at the same time, also just in case. I will be donating the barely used bottle of Gardenia to a charity shop. The receipt for my new perfume will be turned to confetti. You will never know what it’s called.
Suspiciously little is known about you. Maybe there is a missing key, one that can help me. I remember Gary mentioning that he knows someone who worked with you years ago. Maybe Gary can tell me something useful, despite my wish not to have to think about you.
But it isn’t all about you. Not everything is about you. I mustn’t let myself forget that.
I want to see Gary. I want to hear about the people at work and the things that are going on in my absence. You’re no danger to Gary. You can’t hurt him like you could hurt Rowena or Hannah. You can’t use him to get to me like you would use them; he’d see right through you if you even tried.
And Gary is a man. A big man. A man from work. A man from work whose position is higher and more powerful than yours. You don’t pick on people your own size.
I brace myself as I open the door. “I’m meeting a friend, Miss Norton. And there are a few things I must do. I have to go.” Without actually stepping out of the house, I look as far as I can, both ways, along the wide, gracious street. No ugly, cowardly shadow. Unless you a
re hiding in one of the beautiful front gardens, all different, like the Georgian buildings themselves in their various heights and shapes and pastel shades and window styles.
I wonder vaguely if the seasickness I’m feeling is akin to pregnancy nausea.
“Can I get you anything while I’m out, Miss Norton?”
She scolds me for missing an obvious fact, though fondly. “I’ve just been to the shops, dear,” the ever-sharp Miss Norton says.
WEEK THREE
The Steadfast Lover
Monday
Monday, February 16, 8:12 a.m.
I see you as soon as the taxi turns into the road in front of the building. You’re leaning against the wall by the station entrance. As soon as I get out, you intercept me, like a hack journalist dogging a celebrity. You stick close as I head toward the ticket gates.
God, you’re annoying. The most annoying person in the world. When I’m not in a state of complete terror, I can see that at your best you are just plain irritating. But you’re long past your best. You’re getting closer each day to your worst, and I don’t want to let myself imagine what the final stage of this trajectory might be.
“Did you enjoy the market with your juror friend on Wednesday, Clarissa?”
My mouth goes dry at the thought that Annie has come to your notice. But I tell myself you can’t imagine there’d be anything to gain from a woman I’ve only known for two weeks, purely because our names were both pulled from a hat. I swallow hard and clear my throat. I tell myself again that Annie can’t be in any danger from you; she’d give you nothing of me: Annie is no Rowena. But I know also that I have to keep away from Annie outside of court from now on—I need to make sure you never look at her again.
“Why aren’t you wearing your ring, Clarissa?”
My eyes are on the electronic departure board. I don’t pause in my step as I search for the train to Bristol. To my great relief, the 8:22 is running on time.
The Book of You: A Novel Page 11
