“Those are the vows you said when you married Mum.” She blinked back tears. “I remember that day so well—or at least I think I do. There was a lot of cake.”
His smile was full of fond recollection. “You did eat a great deal of cake, and you danced until you dropped.”
“I remember that too.” She’d stood on Anwar’s shoes at first, then learned the steps for herself.
“My heart misled me more than once before I met your mother. But I didn’t stop listening to it.”
She wanted to say bah humbug because it sounded a lot like “the right one will come along” advice. Just like an Anita Topaz novel—and now she was thinking about Paris again. “I made a mess of it. I’m not good for her.”
“You know this how?”
She couldn’t help her tart tone. “Because I have a brain.”
“You are very like your mother.” He laughed in Diana’s outraged face. “You list the numbers, add them up, take one look at the result, and off you go.”
“It’s not like anything will change.”
“People are not numbers,” he observed while dishing out more chana for himself. At Diana’s nod, he added another spoonful to her plate. “You know that.”
“I’m getting a headache, Pita.” She had to look away. The faith in his eyes for her good sense was undeserved.
A sharp ping poked her hangover back to life and left Diana wincing. Her mother was using her wineglass as a bell, lightly tapping it with a knife.
“Showtime,” she muttered to Anwar, who was already rising to his feet.
After Anwar’s toast came her mother’s, then, as the groom’s eldest sibling, Diana raised her glass to the happy couple, carefully schooling the envy out of her voice.
Dinner concluded with a brief moment when she thought her interest in something, anything, might be caught by another bridesmaid. Not the woman, but the earrings she wore. The laborious engravings on the white metal looked distinctly African. Gorgeous little trinkets she’d bought at auction, the woman gushed after Diana asked about them. The catalog had said they had been handed down from a director of the East India Company and the latest heir had put them up for sale, wasn’t that lucky? That made them at least 170 years old, Diana estimated, and that meant it was unlikely that the African woman they’d belonged to had given them up voluntarily. A museum curator would call such objects “personal heritage ornaments.”
Yes, Diana agreed, they looked wonderful with the tribal geometrics that were all the rage this season.
Diana wanted to care enough to think about how those earrings might find their way home with her help. She wanted to care but she didn’t.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“So what gives?” Lisa set the bowl of steaming tomato soup on the table.
Paris inhaled the sweet, salty aroma and began her stirring and blowing ritual. “What do you mean?”
“Third day in a row you’ve come here for lunch. I know the tomato soup is good, but it’s not that good.”
“Can’t I change my habits?”
“Yes.” Lisa pulled out the chair opposite Paris and sat down. Bright spring sunlight came in through the window, turning her long blond locks into spun gold. It wasn’t like Lisa was even trying. Like Diana, she knew where the best light was by instinct.
Lisa is not the femme you’re mad at, she told herself.
“I’m trying to expand my horizons again. I feel like it’s safe to go in the water.”
Lisa nodded. “Like going on a trip for the first time in five years. Which you said went really well. Except you’re here every day now and you look like death.”
“Thanks,” Paris muttered. Mouth half full of toasted sourdough bread dipped liberally in the soup, she said, “This is her fault.”
“Oh, so there is a her. Knew it. Fiona?”
“Her real name is Diana. Fiona was a stage name.”
“Really?”
“You were right about the fake fur and the real emeralds. And she’s British, not Irish.”
“A pretty good actress, then.”
“Too good.” Paris slurped her first spoonful of soup. She was hopeful Lisa didn’t like slurpers and would leave her alone.
Lisa leaned back in the chair, apparently having nothing else to do. Paris noticed then that the place was very quiet, with only a couple of regulars at the bar. “And how is this her fault?”
“She left—not a word. No phone number. I’m lucky to know her real name.”
“Aren’t those the rules for a one-night stand?”
“It wasn’t…” Maybe it was.
“Oh! So you’re here hoping she’ll turn up.”
It didn’t help for Lisa to put it into words. Lisa didn’t have to know that every morning Paris told herself she wouldn’t go, because there was no way Diana was coming back. “No, I want tomato soup.”
“Sure.” Lisa slowly shook her head. “You got stomped on.”
“Well I did.” Now she had tears in her eyes and damn it, Lisa could probably tell. “I’ve turned into a complete cliché, the lovelorn heroine who wonders why she’s not happy when she hooks up with people who don’t stick around.”
“But in all of your books, the disappearing-act frogs turn out to be princes.”
Paris blinked. “You’ve read my books?”
Lisa shrugged. “One or two. Well, maybe all of them. That’s beside the point.”
“The point is?”
“You’re feeling kicked in the teeth right now.” She opened her big blue eyes as wide as they would go. “It gets better.”
“Nice try.”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me. But it does, you know. I caught She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with an anorexic surfboard waxer. Next thing I know I’m clinging and repressed and judgmental—and sloppy.”
“The bitch!”
“I know, right? So then I think I’m going to get some self-esteem back with this totally smokin’ hot bartender at this new place I’m working at, but she gives me a huge cold shoulder.” She gestured at her bosom. “Doesn’t even see this.”
“What an idiot.”
“She completely is.” Lisa brushed her hair over her shoulder with a dismissive gesture. “I forgave her. She’s my best friend now.”
“That is so lesbian.” Paris enjoyed another dunk of bread into the soup, then broke off some of the cheddar. Heaven on a plate. “You said something about having a point.”
“So Ms. Cold Shoulder is how I met Tan—”
“The wonder wife who keeps you warm at night. I’ve heard the rest of the story.”
“Spoilsport—it’s a good story. I’m just trying to say that Ms. One-Night Stand might lead to something…better.”
“Probably not.”
“Not if you spend the rest of your life with your eyes on the pavement.”
“Are you ever wrong?”
Lisa twisted in her seat. “Hey fellas! Am I ever wrong?”
“No, Lisa,” came the answer, in sing-song unison.
“See?”
“The benefits of owning the joint.”
“I’ve always wanted a very small country to run, so this is perfect. You should try it.”
“I run fictional countries. That works for me.”
“Then bring a laptop and work here if you want. That is, if you intend to camp out waiting for Fiona-Diana to come back. Even if she never does, something better might walk through the door.”
Something better, Paris mused as she walked home. What could something better possibly be? A woman who didn’t run away, didn’t have so many secrets Paris needed a character guide to keep track—that would be a start. Who danced in the park and melted when Paris touched her—also required. Who was brave, laughed easily and never lost her cool.
She paused at the top of the hill above the house to let the sun warm her face. The cloudless sky was criss-crossed with vapor from jets heading toward all points of the compass. White sailboats skimmed the surface of th
e bay, running ahead of a warming wind blowing in from the south.
It was a beautiful day, yet she was living on the other side of the mirror where blue skies meant rain. At least that was what it felt like.
She trudged down the hill and waved at the newlyweds who were clipping bunches of lilacs from the unruly bush in the front yard. The answering machine was blinking when she opened her door.
It won’t be Diana, she told herself, and it wasn’t. She was so busy not being disappointed that she missed Finn’s opening words.
“—and she’s more than happy to take you on. She’d be a fool, otherwise. You need to let RMG know that future contracts and proposals should go to your agent.” He rattled off the contact information and told her to expect a representation agreement in the mail, and if she had any questions feel free, et cetera.
She played back the message to make sure she had all the details. An agent was a good thing, a welcome change to how Anita Topaz did business with the world.
Wasn’t this what she had wanted? A month ago she would have been happy, and now everywhere she looked she was aware that Diana was gone. She was being a sap. Or a hopeful fool. Not that there was much difference.
The hopeful fool tugged open the kitchen junk drawer, dug toward the back and came up with the slip of paper with the number Diana had given her. She pictured that Diana, with long blond hair, wrapped in fake fur, wearing perfect makeup and glittering jewels. So beautifully fake. Then the Diana who had gasped in frantic pleasure, with freckles and pale lips. Real and alive.
This number won’t work, she told herself. But it might, Hopeful Fool insisted. The debate raged back and forth in her head until her phone crackled with the three-tone chime and the snippy voice announced, “The number you have reached is not in service at this time.”
She sent Hopeful Fool on her way and sat down at her desk to work. She was going to make progress today, and stop all this nonsensical distraction. The problem was she’d edited and edited, because that was fun and obsessively consuming for her. But she hadn’t written a single new paragraph, and it didn’t seem likely that she was going to anytime soon.
She wished the phone number had worked. She felt stuck and trapped, and angry with herself for not knowing how to get back to writing. It was an ideal situation for Boss Anxiety to make an appearance, but she visualized swatting away the tiresome creature, and hard enough that she could hear a satisfying splat.
And still the words wouldn’t come. Her head might believe in love, but her heart was empty.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“I am going to build a bonfire and put these shoes on it.” Diana dropped the offending footwear on the floor as she eased herself painfully into the nearest chair at the family table, which occupied the bay alcove at the end of the kitchen. Cook had left sandwiches in the refrigerator and her mother was already switching on the kettle.
William and Millie were on the way to Reykjavik for a week of camping out in an ice house under the last of the northern lights for the season. The remainder of the family seemed to have had the strength to dance the rest of the night away. Diana had wanted her shoes off in the worst way, and had spent far too much of the evening evading the erstwhile Evan, who lingered hopefully everywhere. She wanted her own bed, and quiet.
“You didn’t have to come back with me,” Diana said again.
Her mother fetched a small carafe of milk from the nearest refrigerator and added it to the always ready tea tray. “I’m exhausted. I don’t think I’ve slept for the past week.”
Diana stopped herself from saying that it was only a wedding. The day in truth had been perfectly organized, the setting idyllic and the reception full of enchanting music and food. William and Millie had both seemed to treasure the chance to celebrate with their friends and family all in one place. They’d also kept pace with several of their peers in stipulating that they would accept no gifts, and offering the names of several charities should people wish to make a difference in that way.
That she’d spent most of the day looking for something to grouse about wasn’t the fault of the happy couple, or society—or even her mother. “It was a brilliant day, Mum.”
Her mother set down the tea tray and met Diana’s gaze square on. “Do you really think so?”
Surprised by the vulnerability in her mother’s eyes, Diana said, “Of course. It wasn’t exactly the wedding I would have, but it was perfect for them.”
“What kind of wedding would you have?” The kettle shrilled and her mother hurried to shut it off.
“Have Florence and William been blabbing?”
Her mother turned from the stove, a sharp look in her otherwise weary eyes. “Why? Is there something to blab about?”
“There is nothing to blab about.”
“Fine.”
It wasn’t that she feared her mother would be dismayed that Diana’s romantic life had taken a turn toward women. It was that her mother fixed things, even when Diana wished she wouldn’t try. She’d been grateful when that fearless tendency had secured her one of the best coaches in gymnastics and steamrolled over school objections to the amount of distraction pursuing competitive achievements generated. She was an adult now, and she wanted to be in charge of her own life. One could not ask Mum to help one day and not help the next. Better not to ask at all.
Besides, there was nothing in her so-called love life that could be fixed.
Steeping tea had never smelled so good. She limped to the sink for a glass of water and downed pills for her back. “I’m not wearing high heels for the rest of the year.”
“Have you been to the doctor about your back lately?”
“No—nothing’s changed. He’ll repeat the list of surgical options available if the usual list of symptoms persist. I’ll promise not to do the activities that make it hurt. We’ll agree that in that case, it’s hardly a bother and there’s no need to take further action at this time.” She rejoined her mother at the table. “There you have it.”
“So it’s not hurting more?”
“No, I don’t think so. I shouldn’t wear high heels. Ever. I do and it hurts. I know there’s damage, but most of the pain is self-inflicted, for now.”
They sipped companionably and Diana helped herself to one of the watercress and cream cheese sandwiches. Her mother sighed deeply and her shoulders relaxed. The last time her mother had seemed so tired was several days after a brutal storm had taken the roof off a local pensioners’ care home, and Mote Hall had been filled with temporary beds and two dozen extra mouths to feed.
Thinking they would enjoy a quiet cuppa and then retire, Diana was reminded by her mother’s next words that there was really no such thing as an off button for her mother’s observant curiosity.
“Am I going to have to bribe your brother and sister to find out what it was they could blab to me, as you put it?”
“There’s really nothing.”
“And you didn’t arrive home in tears and spend twenty-four hours in your room going through two boxes of tissues.”
There was no point in further shilly-shallying. Her mother would ferret it out and resisting made it seem as if she were ashamed. “I had an…An experience. With a woman.”
Her mother’s expression remained curious. “And?”
“You heard the noun correctly?”
“Yes. With a woman.” Hurt in her eyes, her mother asked, “Were you expecting me to be homophobic?”
“You’ve been setting me up with men since forever, Mum.”
“If I’d known women would do the trick, I’d have been setting you up with them. I have friends with single lesbian daughters. I wanted you to have—” She looked just over Diana’s shoulder. “The joys that I know are part of life. I suppose it’s my own guilt I’m really trying to assuage, but truly, I want you to be happy.”
Thoroughly confused, Diana asked, “Guilt? About what?”
“Sweetie, you were nine. You didn’t know the choices you were making. Th
at’s on me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Elite level gymnastics. It’s one thing to have a hobby and quite another to practice for three hours a day with the intention of competing. You understood about injuries—you’d sprained wrists and ankles already. But you had no way of comprehending the other risk, the one to your normal development.”
“Oh, you mean the delayed puberty. It was kind of a gift—no periods for six extra years.” It was the usual cheerful line she told herself, but there had been an undeniable toll. She was definitely getting a late start on life. She knew now that sex was really, really fun with the right person. She’d missed out on desire and attraction, which could be as painful as they were glorious. “Did you know, Mum? That delayed puberty was a risk?”
“Yes. I didn’t think it a great price to pay. But after your injury I thought you’d catch up in a year, maybe two. Not a decade before you were even drawn to someone.”
“Not everybody is meant to pair off.”
“If being solitary was your normal state, then fine. But I couldn’t know for sure. Was it natural, or was it because I hoped you’d win medals?” The level of anguish in her mother’s eyes shocked Diana. “I wondered if you’d ever be able to have children.”
She squeezed her mother’s hand. “It’s not the be-all and end-all for a woman, you know.”
“I know that. But to have a choice in the matter versus it taken from you by something I decided for you when you were nine…”
“Water under the bridge, a long time ago.” She reached for more tea, then decided against it. She hoped to sleep tonight and more caffeine wouldn’t help. “If you’d known I was going to break my shoulder would you have not wanted me to do gymnastics?”
Her mother shook her head. “No. Because of all the times you didn’t break your shoulder. You were inspiring to watch. I was so proud of you. You were proud of you. Determined and strong. Competing gave you ambition and drive, and fearlessness.”
“So stop being guilty. In the end, I think it gave more than it took. I assure you everything works.” She fought down a blush. “It was a great experience.”
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