“I know,” she said, and she did. He looked and sounded sadder than she’d ever experienced anyone to be before. Even her mother when her father died.
“I didn’t tell you when we met because, it didn’t seem … I mean, I didn’t know we would become—”
“I know,” Etta said again. “It’s okay, you don’t have to explain.”
“I do,” he protested. “I’ve done something for which I shall never forgive myself. I should have told you before—but I wanted to touch you, more than anything, I wanted to feel you. And I thought, while we were together, that I could give up God, I could …”
Etta put a finger to Sebastian’s lips, though she couldn’t quite yet look him in the eye. She’d never be able to stop her tears from falling then. “Don’t say that,” she said. “You won’t and you mustn’t. It’s what you’re meant to do. It’ll make you happy, it’ll—”
“I hardly deserve that.”
“Oh.” Etta looked at him then. She reached up to touch his cheek. In spite of what he’d done she still saw in his eyes that he was one of the purest, truest souls she had ever known. “You’re going to do so much good,” she said softly, “you’re going to heal so many hearts.”
Sebastian shook his head. “Not yours,” he said. “Not mine.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Why not?”
Etta shrugged slightly, unable to explain exactly what she meant.
Then he took her hand and held it to his chest. “Tell me not to do it,” he said. “Tell me to choose you and I will.”
Etta wanted to do that, more than anything in the world. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anyone or anything in her life before. But she couldn’t. It wasn’t right. It would be like trying to rip the moon from the sky or changing the tides, destroying a delicate balance, taking something perfect and making it imperfect. Nothing good would come from that, only suffering. So Etta shook her head. But she couldn’t speak, she couldn’t answer his question with even a single word, because then Sebastian would hear the break in her voice and see the break in her heart. And when they made love again, for the second and the last time, Etta wept though she didn’t make a sound.
Milly hurries along the street on her way to work. On the outside she looks like her ordinary, boring, nondescript self: fluffy brown hair, baggy blue dress, oversized coat and flat black shoes. But inside she is shining. Every nonvisible cell of her is alight, her body a container brimming over with delight: bottled sunlight and bursts of stardust. In her pocket is a letter. The loveliest letter she has ever received: the sentences so sweetly simple, the sentiments so heartfelt, the words exactly what she wanted to hear. That morning the post arrived before she left the house, an unusual thing in itself, and instead of the usual bank statements and bills, the letter lay on the mat. Milly read it five times after opening it; the first few times gobbling up the words like chocolate cake, then savoring it slowly like soft caramels coating her tongue. As a result Milly is late to open the shop. It’s the first time that’s happened in the twelve years she’s worked there so she doesn’t feel too guilty about it, but still she rushes along the pavement, panting. In her head the letter replays on a loop …
My dear Milly,
Thank you so much for your letter. I can’t quite put into words how it made me feel to read your words, but I will try. No one in my life has ever been so honest, so bare, with me. No one has ever entrusted their heart to me before. You told me things that, had they happened to me, I could never imagine telling to another living soul. But you did and now I feel I can tell you anything. I only ask that you don’t speak of these things, not when we are together in person at least, only on the page. Would that be all right? Can we have two relationships, one in person and one on the page? At least until I’m confident enough to write and speak the same words. Now I am too shy, sorry to admit, and I think it will take my tongue a little while to catch up with my pen … Write again. Until I receive more words from you I shall simply read the ones I have over and over until they are as close to my heart as my own.
With love,
Walt
He loves her. He loves her. He loves her. The smile is so wide on Milly’s face that her cheeks hurt. So happy is she, so bright is her joy, that she almost—almost, but not quite—forgets she hasn’t yet told Walt that she’s lost his mother’s notebook.
Cora has been wearing one of her grandmother’s T-shirts every night and every night she has dreams so vivid and bright that they seep into her days. She doesn’t only dream of her parents, but also her childhood, of her grandmother and Walt. Perhaps, in his case, it’s because she also listens to his readings on the radio before falling asleep. Though she suspects it’s more than that. It’s incredible though, the things she had forgotten, the events with Walt that didn’t seem significant at the time, the words he’d said that didn’t touch her heart then because she’d lived life in her head.
Last night, after hearing, to her great relief, Marianne Dashwood recover from her illness, Cora dreamed of how she’d used to sit sometimes on the doorstep of the bookshop with Walt on Saturday afternoons. Etta had been busy with her customers and, after feeding her a breakfast big enough to last the day, told Cora it was time to play outside and fill her lungs with fresh air. Cora, having never been a big fan of fresh air, would wander up and down All Saints’ Passage doing sums with the number of leaves on the trees or cigarette stubs on the street, and imagining how she might one day save the world. Would she cure a disease that killed millions? Would she invent a drug that halted the aging process? Would she create a miracle plant that could feed starving populations? One Saturday while Cora paced she’d glanced over at Walt hunched over a book, shoulder blades bent together like birds’ wings. As a general rule Cora avoided people but for some reason, perhaps because he was a few years younger and small for his age, Walt didn’t scare Cora. She said things to him that she’d never for a moment even consider saying to anyone else.
“You’ve got a hundred and eight stripes on your shirt,” Cora said as she stopped at the step and looked down at him. “That’s only if the back matches the front. Does it?”
Walt looked up at her, awestruck. “I don’t know,” he apologized, “I’ve never looked.”
“Oh,” Cora said, glancing back in the direction of her grandmother’s shop, then down at her feet. “Did you know there’s a wine cellar underneath the street?”
“No,” Walt said, “I didn’t.”
“Yes.” Cora sat down on the step beside him. “It belongs to Trinity College. Apparently the cellar is made of caves six hundred and eighty-nine feet long containing over twenty-five thousand bottles worth over two million pounds.”
“Really?”
“Allegedly. I’ve never seen it with my own eyes, so I can’t promise, but I think it’s true. My grandmother told me. I’d like to count it myself, to check on the number of bottles, but I’m not sure how to get down there.”
Walt closed his book. “I like your grandma. She said she’d make me a scarf. She said I could pick any color I want.”
Cora smiled. “You’d better be careful. She’s always trying to make things for me, too, but she doesn’t know how to make anything without frills and sequins and sparkly bits. You’ll end up looking like a Barbie doll.”
“Yuck.” Walt pulled a face. “Do you want to hear a story?”
“Okay, sure.” Cora shrugged. “What’s it about?”
“A boy called Pip who falls in love with a girl called Estella, but she doesn’t like him because he’s a poor orphan and—”
Suddenly Cora stood, stuffing her hands deep into her pockets. “Actually, I can’t, sorry. I just remembered, um, Etta wanted some help in the shop. I’d better get back or I’ll be in trouble.”
“Oh,” Walt said, “okay. Maybe later.”
“No thanks.” Cora shook her head, not wanting to run the risk of hearing that particular story. “I don’t think I’ll have ti
me for stories. I’ve always got important things to do.”
Walt looked at her as she spoke and, just as she finished speaking, Cora caught his eye. She didn’t know what it was she saw in his gaze but she knew it made her uncomfortable.
“Bye,” she said, and turned. She felt him watch her walk away and, though she wanted to change her mind, to go back and sit with him and ask him to read her a different story, one that wouldn’t make her sad, she didn’t. It was easier just to keep walking, so she did.
Sebastian can’t count the number of times he’s wanted to go back to Etta, to find her, beg her forgiveness and ask her to reconsider. How many moments in over fifty years? Perhaps 250 times a day for 18,611 days, nearly five million … But each time he’s slipped on his coat and hat, stepped out of the church and begun heading in the direction of All Saints’ Passage he has always turned back. He does this a few times a year, on the anniversaries of the day they met, the night they made love and the day they parted.
He stops himself because of their promise, on parting, not to see each other again. And when Sebastian read her wedding announcement in the local paper six months later, he was relieved and grateful for it. When, thirty years later, he’d read of her husband’s death Sebastian decided it was too late to go back. Etta would have forgotten him. He didn’t want to stir up old regrets and pains long since buried. He knew her heart would have healed and he could deal with his own broken self. It would be simply selfish to do anything else.
Sometimes he thinks he sees her, on the street or in a shop. Cambridge is a rather small town, especially when the university students leave at the end of term, so if she’s forgotten their promise long ago, it wouldn’t be such a surprising thing to happen. Sebastian hopes for it. Sometimes a woman will catch his eye and for one eternal second his breath balloons in his chest and he floats above the floor, until she turns to show her face. Then he falls and exhales again, deflated. Occasionally Sebastian wonders if Etta might have changed so much that he wouldn’t recognize her now, that perhaps he’s passed her in the street many times and just hasn’t noticed. But, deep down, he knows this can’t be true: he will know Etta anytime, anywhere, no matter what. It’s not just her face he can see whenever he closes his eyes, but the way she walks, holds her hands, the very air around her. If Sebastian were standing in the corner of a darkened room and Etta stepped silently through the door, he would know it.
Of course it’s never happened, he’s never been lucky enough to see her, not once, and for this Sebastian isn’t surprised. Indeed, he’s almost grateful. He’s being punished for his sin, properly and completely, which is exactly as it should be. The fact that he’ll be tied to Etta for the whole of his life yet never be able to speak with her, to unburden himself again, to lighten the load on his suffering spirit, is perfect punishment for what he’s done.
Henry stands on the doorstep of his ex-wife’s house with Mateo tucked into his chest. After a heady day of laughter and play, his son finally fell asleep, nodding off in the car and not waking when Henry gently unbuckled his seat belt and lifted him out into the cool autumn air. Now his soft blond hair brushes Henry’s chin and his smooth, sleep-heavy fingers are curled against Henry’s coat.
As he waits for Francesca to come to the door, Henry glances down at his son, still unable to believe he’s played a part in creating this miniature person, this strange and inexplicable creature so exquisitely beautiful and perfect. His life is so steeped in the worst that mankind has to offer—death, destruction, and general devastation—that sometimes, in the darkest hours, he forgets that anything else exists at all. And then Henry remembers Mateo and, no matter the situation he’s standing in, no matter what awfulness is currently soaking the soles of his feet, he thinks of his son and smiles.
As Henry nestles his nose in Mateo’s soft curls, Francesca opens the door and he quickly glances up.
“Hi, Fran,” he says, wishing that she wasn’t so bloody beautiful: even without makeup or sleep, with red rings around her eyes. Maybe it would be easier not to pine for her. Then again, maybe not. Because Francesca isn’t simply beautiful, she’s seductive. Before Mateo they went to parties every weekend and Francesca had always been the life and soul of them, showering everyone with the glitter and sparkle of her laughter, wit and charm.
“Hello, Hen,” she says, her voice perfectly flat, every molecule of emotion ironed out. But Henry knows it’s there, that love lingers underneath her words even if so deeply buried he can barely hear it.
Francesca doesn’t look at him when she speaks but gazes at her son, a flicker of absolute delight and adoration on her lips. This is the thing that will always connect them, no matter what: their shared love for this little boy. It gives Henry some comfort to know that, even if Francesca no longer wants to share her life with him, this invisible thread will tie them together forever.
Henry leans forward as Francesca reaches out for her son. The two adults dip toward each other and carefully transfer their sleeping child from one parent to the other. Mateo emits a soft sigh as he snuggles into his mother’s arms and Henry suppresses the urge to reach out and stroke his hair one more time. He still remembers how it felt to press his own body into his ex-wife’s arms, to smell her scent: sweet and rich, deep and earthy. Each time he’d pick up a different fragrance: roasting coffee, expensive red wine, baking bread, verbena soap, rose face cream … And each time he breathed her in he thought of Italy and imagined them lying together in an olive grove in Tuscany with the sun slowly heating their skin, as they had the afternoon Mateo was conceived.
“He ate all his dinner,” Henry says, shaking himself free of the memory. “He only slept for an hour after lunch, so he’ll probably go down for the rest of the night now.”
“Perfect, thank you.” Francesca smiles and Henry glances away. When she opens her mouth to him like that, no matter how innocently, he only wants to kiss her. It is a desire he can’t control, can’t reason himself out of, no matter how many devastating words have been spoken to him from those same lips. The night Francesca told him she didn’t love him anymore, that she wanted to leave him, Henry thought that would be it, that he’d never want to kiss her again, but sadly it wasn’t so. The withdrawal of her heart has done nothing to quell his desire. It is, as he stands on her doorstep, just as strong, if not even stronger, than the day he stood on the doorstep of her office at Magdalene College, the day he first saw her.
“You want to come in? I have a fresh caffè.”
Henry suppresses his surprise. Francesca rarely invites him into her home. He only passes over her threshold if he’s carrying something heavy and unwieldy that she couldn’t easily manage herself. He finds Francesca’s thick black Italian coffee virtually undrinkable, but that isn’t going to put him off. He’d swallow turpentine if it gave him the chance to spend an hour with his wife once more. Ex, Henry reminds himself, ex-wife. But a lot can happen in an hour. Lives can change, love can resurrect. Especially if that love never died, despite Francesca’s claims to the contrary. Henry knows a liar at a hundred paces and he knew, even when she looked him in the eye and said she didn’t love him anymore, that she was lying.
“Yes, please,” he says now, “that’d be lovely.”
While Francesca is putting Mateo to bed Henry waits in the kitchen. It’s the kitchen they shared as a couple, then a family, for four years before Henry moved out, but now he doesn’t feel able to sit down at the table, even though he was the one who built it out of oak one sunny weekend three summers ago. He steps over to the wall to study a collection of pictures of Mateo. In some he is alone, in some he’s with his mother, in all he is smiling his sublime little boy smile: eyes bright, face and heart thrown open to the world. Henry runs his finger gently over the photographs, remembering the ones he’d taken himself, exactly where and when and how happy he’d been.
“Would you like biscotti?”
Henry turns to see Francesca standing by the stove, pouring two cups of coffee. He�
��s shocked that he was so caught up in the photos that he didn’t even hear her come in. It hardly speaks well of his policing skills.
“No, thanks, I’m fine.”
“I made them.” Francesca opens the wooden cupboard above her head. They are made of pine, painted white with blue trim. Henry’s first project when he moved in three months after they met. “Toffee and pecan.”
His favorite. Henry feels the blood pumping in his throat. It is a loving gesture, an overture of friendship at the very least, a meaningful beginning, the start of something significant. Why else would she bother to make him his favorite biscuits unless she cared?
“Yes, please then, I’d love one.”
Henry turns away from the wall and lingers at the edge of the table. As he watches Francesca twist the lid off a glass jar of caramel-colored biscuits, her long thin fingers effortless and elegant, her thick black curls falling over her shoulders, Henry tries not to get too excited, too hopeful. When she lifts the cups of coffee off the counter and onto the table, he pulls his eyes away from her jumper, the shape of her breasts, the tuck of her waist, the soft curve of her belly. She’d always been self-conscious about her stomach, wanting to subdue its gentle bulge, to starve it into submission until her body was flat and shapeless. Fortunately, she’d always loved food and wine too much to be able to forgo it for very long. Henry steps forward, hesitant, toward the table.
“Sit down,” she says, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Dr. Baxter has summoned Cora to his office. He’d actually called her that morning at home, waking her at seven o’clock, to make sure she’d be coming in. It’s the first time he’s ever done that so she knows it’s important and she knows why. Consequently she’s putting off the moment for as long as she can. To be a scientist, to make a significant contribution to the world, is all Cora has ever wanted to do with her life. She’s dedicated nearly every hour of her life to it, save for sleeping, eating and those other few annoyingly obligatory things one must do in order to survive.
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