Eighty Days Blue (29 page)

He wore red braces, sported a side parting in his hair and had short, chubby fingers, a perfect combination designed to turn me off from the onset of our conversation.

I tried to sleep, but knowing I was less than a day away from Dominik kept me soundly awake and neither could I concentrate on the in-flight movies.

Susan had been talking about the prospect of a European tour, to follow up on the success of the one that had now come to an end, but had warned me it could be at least another six months before she could pull it off. That was all right with me. I felt bone-tired and dreaded the idea of walking onto a stage ever again.

When he discovered that I had six hours to kill in transit at San Francisco, the blank-faced businessman bluntly
suggested
we take a room in one of the airport hotels and ‘enjoy a quickie', as he put it, although he warned me that his connection to Omaha was due long before mine to La Guardia, and that he would only be able to devote a couple of hours to me.

He appeared genuinely surprised when I declined his offer, and I was grateful when the signs on arrival diverted him to a different immigration queue for US nationals. Hopefully, his luggage would arrive before mine and I'd seen the back of him.

It was an American writer, I think, who'd said that ‘you can't go home again' or something of the sort. I'd read about it in a magazine left hanging around in Dominik's loft once, though I hadn't given it much thought. Until lately. The trip back home had me realise that America was my home now and that New Zealand, however much I romanticised it, would never be the same again.

I had made my choices.

I checked my watch, an old multi-coloured Swatch I used to wear in my teens and that I had found buried at the back of my childhood bedside drawer. It would be quite late in New York, so he would probably be home had he gone out for the evening. I dialled Dominik's number.

‘Hello.' Yes, his voice was sleepy, but warm, deep, familiar.

‘It's me.'

He cleared his throat. ‘It's good to hear from you.'

‘Did I wake you up?'

‘Of course, but it doesn't matter. You know me, I'm an early riser.'

‘I'm in San Francisco. At the airport, in the transit
lounge
. I'm taking the red-eye, so should be in New York early morning.'

‘I'm in London . . .'

‘London?' A sharp stab pierced my heart. Had he returned to England?

‘Just for a few days. Had some business to settle. Family stuff, things to do. I'm returning to Spring Street after the weekend.'

A wave of relief flowed through me.

The text message I had sent him a few days previously to warn him I was on my way back, with the concert tour finally over, had somehow not reached him.

We both agreed it was unimportant and wouldn't have made a difference. He'd already made arrangements for the London trip anyway, so wouldn't have been able to pick me up from the airport. It was the middle of night where he was and I felt a bit guilty for waking him up, but his voice was as soothing as honey, and sitting there in the lounge, lullabied by the sparse night-time announcements and sipping a tepid beer, I wanted to keep him on the line for as long as possible.

There were a lot of things I wanted to say to Dominik, but the geographical distance that separated us, the time difference and my tiredness conspired to keep the words stuck at the back of my throat and all I could come up with was small talk.

We parted with the vague promise that we were both looking forward to seeing each other soon.

As I stumbled my way out of the arrival hall at La Guardia the following morning, violin case under one arm and pulling the heavy suitcase behind me, its squeaking wheels burdened with all the gifts from family and friends
in
New Zealand, bleary-eyed and only halfway conscious, I was surprised to hear my name called out.

‘Summer!'

It was Simón. I attempted a smile, looked down at his feet. The flamboyant pointy boots. The wild curls of his hair. The perpetually enthusiastic smile.

‘How did you know I was arriving now?'

He pecked me on both cheeks, the fragrance of his aftershave fresh and dizzying, and gallantly seized the suitcase handles from me.

‘We have friends in common, remember? Susan told me you were returning. She also happens to be my agent, or didn't you know?'

‘Of course.'

‘You look good.'

‘Thanks.'

‘I gather the tour went really well. You're the talk of the town, or at any rate the Gramercy Symphonia . . . Everyone is so pleased for you. Excited. The whole gang.'

‘Thanks, Simón.'

‘Welcome home.'

There was a limousine waiting for us, with a proper chauffeur, uniformed and everything. Simón had decided to court me with all guns blazing, it seemed.

The drive into town was slow going, as we got caught up in bumper-to-bumper rush-hour traffic full of commuters making their way to work in the city. I had no energy for conversation, but Simón had enough for the two of us, bombarding me with questions about the places I'd played and how the repertoire he had been instrumental in selecting had been received. He was careful not to tread on personal waters, just asking where I wanted to be dropped
off
and avoiding any queries about Dominik and my future plans.

By the time we reached SoHo, the sun was already high in the summer sky. After New Zealand and Australia, it felt like a whole new world. My world.

As the driver carried my well-travelled luggage from the boot of the car and set it down by the steps of our building, Simón asked, ‘Your boyfriend couldn't be bothered to greet you at the airport?'

‘He's in London,' I said.

I had another four days until Dominik's return. On the first day, I slept. Like a log. Barely moving from the bed, tiptoeing to the toilet when I could hold on no longer or shuffling my way to the kitchen area to pick at old pieces of cheese in the fridge and sip straight from a milk carton that hadn't yet reached its expiry date.

It was blissful to be lazy, with no plans or commitments. The loft was as I remembered it, spacious, familiar, homely in its sleek and pared-down vastness. I hadn't unpacked properly and didn't plan to for at least another day. I wandered naked, dancing along the polished wooden floor, watched a gaggle of pigeons through the windows as they settled in a shadowy corner of a nearby roof. I even ventured shyly into the built-in wardrobe and caressed some of Dominik's hanging clothes, my bare skin rubbing against the cashmere of his sweaters, my fingers gliding across the exquisite fabric of his suits.

I surrendered to the peaceful ordinariness of expectancy.

Simón rang twice, but I didn't return his calls. I then switched my mobile phone off altogether. Even if Dominik did call and missed me, he would be here in a few days and
there
were words I would rather exchange with him present than over the phone.

By the second day, I was going stir crazy and, having finally showered, made my way out onto the Manhattan streets. Within a block or two I felt famished and treated myself to a wonderfully fat burger and chunky chips from a busy diner on the corner of La Guardia Place and Houston. I bit into it with health-defying relish. My trainers would be waiting for me at home, but they could keep for another day.

In Washington Square Park, a flock of foreign nannies congregated by the childrens' enclosure with their push-chairs and charges, while the dog walkers criss-crossed the alleys with determined strides as they pulled the animals along, or sometimes it was the other way round. The squirrels leaped from tree to tree, whizzing along the sparse grass borders. At the north-west corner, a bunch of ill-dressed chess players sat at the games tables, seeking partners or challenges. There were no musicians today. I sat and spied on the crowds, focusing on the small children, wild thoughts careening in all directions through my mind as I tried to concentrate on what normality with Dominik might possibly entail. Or if normality with the two of us together was even possible.

I'd left my phone back at the loft, but remembered a public one at the corner of University Place, fed it a few quarters and called Cherry. We'd left on strained terms and I felt I owed her an apology. The number was no longer in service. Maybe tonight I'd go to the bars and clubs I knew she frequented.

Finally, I made my way back downtown.

I took another shower; my body was still re-accustoming
itself
to the heat of a Manhattan summer and I was roasting after my short winter in New Zealand. Then I did some yoga exercises. The sun-salutation and downward-dog poses always helped clear my mind. In a corner of the loft by the orange sofa, my violin case still sat where I had left it on arrival two days before, lonely and calling to me, begging me to come and open it. I realised with a shock that I had not touched or played the Bailly for three whole days, what with the long flights and my last couple of inactive New York days. Never had such a long period gone by without me at least practising or going through the scales. But I hadn't missed playing, hadn't even noticed.

At first, the thought was frightening, but then I took comfort in the fact that it meant I could change. Nothing was permanent. Even my love for my music.

I deliberately blanked the violin case and stepped over to the small desk where Dominik often used to work with his laptop when he was at home. He'd taken the computer with him to London, and there were just a few pencils and pens scattered there, a couple of abandoned memory sticks, a sleek black stapler and a handful of thin folders lying across its almost empty surface.

I negligently opened one of them. It contained a bunch of pages he must have printed out back at his office at the library, as we had no printer here.

I picked up the top page.

Read the opening lines.

I had half expected something about Paris, the period I knew Dominik was researching – dates, facts, quotes – but not this.

It was a story.

Set in East Texas in a small town I'd never heard of. About a young woman with flame-red hair.

Intrigued, I grabbed hold of the rest of what appeared to be a first chapter and sat down on the sofa, pulling my legs up under me, my favourite position for reading, something I realised I'd done little of for months now.

The familiar minutiae of small-town life, a curious similarity to some of the few things I remembered telling Dominik, about where I had grown up in New Zealand, but now more fantastical, subtle variations on the true story and as a result more interesting and somewhat alien at the same time, as if it was seen through the eyes of an outsider who couldn't quite grasp its reality.

Surely not?

Dominik was writing a novel.

I quickly skimmed through the chapter, which appeared to be unfinished, and rushed to the other folders. Only one appeared to have further excerpts from Dominik's novel. Just four pages, with large blanks between some of the sections. Elena, the character, was now in Paris, in the early 1950s, the period I was aware Dominik had been avidly researching. Was his choice of Elena for the heroine's name a coincidence?

Before I could read any further, I was interrupted by the buzzer. Someone was downstairs. I walked over to the intercom. I wasn't expecting anyone. Maybe it was Simón hoping to find me in. I debated whether to answer, unsure if I was quite ready to confront him and let him know once and for all that I had decided it was best if we remained platonic friends.

Just in case it was someone else or something important, a delivery for Dominik maybe, I pressed the button.

‘Hello?'

‘Let me in, Summer.'

A voice that chilled me, that I recognised without a shadow of a doubt.

Victor.

I let him in.

‘How did you know where I lived?'

‘Come on, don't underestimate me, my dear.'

‘We have nothing to say to each other, Victor.'

His thin smile was, as ever, unreadable. He was formally dressed in a grey suit, shirt and tie, as if he was arranging a business deal rather than visiting an ex-lover. His black shoes were polished to within an inch of shiny perfection.

‘Oh, but I think we do . . .'

He put a foot forward and entered the loft, closing the door behind him as if he owned the place. I retreated towards the shelter of the sofa and he followed me, deliberate, silent. His thin beard was cut in its usual pattern, trimmed with razor-blade precision.

‘We have unfinished business,' Victor said, soft-voiced.

‘I walked out. I changed my mind. It's a road I no longer wish to take,' I protested.

‘Quite the little star now, aren't you? Travelling the world with your fiddle and all that . . .'

‘It's not a fiddle, it's a violin,' I protested, aware I was taking his bait.

‘Whatever.'

His gaze swept over me and I realised that I was only wearing one of Dominik's shirts, half buttoned up at the front and covering me no further than mid-thigh. I had casually slipped it on after I'd dried myself from the shower
and
then had become totally absorbed by my reading. When Victor had buzzed at the door, it had put me in a state of shock and I hadn't even thought of changing into something less revealing. I pulled on the shirt, not that it made much difference.

‘Once a slut, always a slut,' he remarked.

I looked down. Sitting on the edge of the orange sofa with my legs drawn up, I was fully exposed. Damn.

‘I prefer you shaved.'

‘It's none of your fucking business any longer. Can't you understand?'

‘Understand? Look who's talking.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘A woman who's lying to herself. Who refuses to accept what she is, Summer. You're fighting against your own nature. Tell me, are you happy? Right now?'

His question took me by surprise.