The Witches of Cambridge (16 page)

“Good.” Ben beams. “I love introducing new authors to my favorite customers.”

“
Merci beaucoup
.” Héloïse returns his smile. “I’m glad you do.”

The Old Man and the Sea
glows in her bag as Héloïse carries it back home to Magrath Avenue. All along Market Street and Sidney Street, over Magdalene Bridge and the river, she feels the book beckoning her to stop, snatch it out of her bag, and read it right there on the street. But, summoning up every molecule of willpower, Héloïse resists. If the book is what she hopes, she wants to postpone the pleasure of reading it. If it isn’t, she wants to postpone the disappointment too.

Nearly slipping on a loose stone slab on Granchester Street, Héloïse slows. If she falls and breaks a hip, she’ll be reading the book from a hospital bed, which will dilute the pleasure somewhat. When she at last reaches her room, Héloïse postpones the moment even longer by making herself a strong cup of Earl Grey tea, no milk, no sugar. She sinks into her favorite armchair (it being exactly where it had been the day before, the furniture having settled down lately), and Héloïse can hardly open the book, her fingertips are tingling so with excitement.

“
Calme. Calme
,” she whispers to herself. “
Calme, ma petite
.”

As the word comes out of her mouth, François pops back into her head; it was one of his favorite terms of endearment. For a moment, her heart constricts, absorbing sorrow like a sponge. Then, taking a deep breath, Héloïse shifts her focus onto her new mystery. She knows it’s silly to be so abuzz with something that’s solely in her imagination, but she also knows it’s really a gift from God, a little adventure to distract her from her sorrow and help her heal. It’s a shame, though, that her grief has suppressed her psychic ability, or she’d be able to track down the man with the green pen.

With the book sandwiched between her palms, Héloïse shuts her eyes and whispers a little incantation for luck. Then she opens the book. Flicking through the first few pages she sees nothing and then a flash of faded green catches her eye. Héloïse stops. In the top right-hand corner of the title page someone has printed the letters T.S., along with a date: 24th March 1979.

Her twenty-first birthday.

Héloïse holds her breath. Surely it must be a sign? It can’t be a coincidence, it simply can’t be. The letters seem to glimmer as she gazes at them and, for a moment, Héloïse is filled with such a rush of hope that she presses her forefinger to the words, closes her eyes, and whispers a little plea to Athena, Hecate, Saraswati, and Thoth. For nearly a minute she sees nothing and then, still begging inspiration from the assorted gods and goddesses of knowledge, an image starts to take shape: a tree and a wooden bench in a graveyard, and on the bench is a book.

Héloïse strains to see the title. The letters are blurred. Then a male hand closes over the cover and picks it up. She waits, hoping to see more of the man than just his fingers. Then everything goes black.

—

“I want to take you home and do very bad things to you.”

“You do?” Noa smiles. “What sorts of things, exactly? I think I should know in advance what I’m getting into, before I say yes.”

Santiago frowns. “Not at all. That’ll entirely take the fun out of it.”

Noa raises an eyebrow. “Maybe for you, but I like to be prepared.”

They are sitting side by side at a table in Gustare, two untouched cups of hot chocolate and two uninjured pistachio cream croissants in front of them. Noa slowly leans her head on Santiago’s shoulder; wrapping her hair around her fingers, she pulls it back and exposes her neck. She knows what he’ll do next and the anticipation sends little shivers of delight down her body.

Santiago leans over until his lips are almost grazing her skin, so she can feel the heat of his breath, and whispers. “You want me to kiss you now?”

Noa smiles and closes her eyes.

“You want me to kiss you now, in front of all these people, you want me to make you sigh and moan and…”

“Yes,” Noa mumbles, “yes, please.”

She can’t believe how brazen she has become with him. She would plead with him to kiss her, to tear off her clothes and lay her across the table, to lick every inch of her bare skin until she was begging him to fuck her. She really wouldn’t care.

“No,” he whispers. “I won’t.”

“Please.”

Santiago’s breath is hot on her neck and his tongue so close to touching her skin. “I’ll give you a thousand anticipated kisses, to magnify every one I’ll give you after, when I finally have you in my bed.”

Noa smiles. “Let’s go. Now.”

—

Amandine hasn’t had a moment of peace since discovering the Sylvia note. She’d had to teach two classes and give a lecture that day and she’d managed to get through them, though she has no idea how, since every neuron of her brain was taken up with the thought of Sylvia. Who is she? What does she look like? Is she stunning and twenty-three? Probably. That’s the cliché, and why shouldn’t Eliot fall into stereotype? Though, honestly, she wouldn’t have thought he would.

In the first place, Amandine couldn’t have imagined in a million years that Eliot could ever have an affair. For nearly twenty years, excepting the last few months, he’s always seemed so single-mindedly in love with her and their life together. While her colleagues often complain about their husbands’ absent-mindedness, general reluctance to do household tasks, or occasional offers to “help” with the kids, as if it somehow wasn’t their job in the first place, Amandine has never had any such cause for complaint.

Eliot always used to bound upstairs the moment he got in the front door, leaping into the bathroom to take over the twins’ bathing, ushering Amandine out—washcloth still in hand—with instructions that she retire to the sofa with a good book and glass of red wine. He’d bathe the boys, cover their little bodies with moisturizing cream, pull on their pajamas, and tuck them into bed, while Amandine took off her shoes and curled up under the patchwork spread Héloïse had sewn for her thirty-fifth birthday. When she heard her husband’s special soft reading voice floating down the stairs, Amandine would put down her book and creep up the steps. She’d stand in the corridor outside the twins’ bedroom, peeking through the door to watch Bertie and Frankie snuggled up in Eliot’s arms, gazing up at their daddy while he read as if they adored no one more in the whole wide world. When he turned out the light, Amandine would slip back downstairs and wait for Eliot to join her in the kitchen so they could cook dinner together. Since he was the better cook, Eliot would usually make the food while Amandine prepared vegetables and located pans as they talked about the ups and downs of their respective days. At least, that’s how it had been, how Eliot had been, before everything changed so suddenly at the beginning of the year. When he started working long hours and being so distracted at the time, no doubt—Amandine knew now—thinking of Sylvia in every moment he wasn’t with her.

Amandine’s colleagues, in moments of jealousy or disbelief, would sometimes ask how she had such a happy marriage after so many years. And Amandine would tell them:
We say yes to each other, in all things, big and small, every day.
So, if she asked for a cup of tea, Eliot would make it, without question, without delay. If he asked her to take a right turn while they were out driving, she’d do it without first asking why. If either of them wanted sex or to take a trip or see a certain film or buy something slightly extravagant, then the other would agree and, of course, would be agreed to in their turn when the time came. And, when occasionally they lost their way and fell out of sync, they’d bicker—like everybody else—then talk until they found their way again. And this was how they became a true couple, who took care of each other completely, instead of two people with often opposing needs forced to fight to get them met. Amandine would tell her colleagues this and, of course, they wouldn’t believe her. Well, she supposes, they’ll have the last laugh now.

Amandine knows, as she stands in the corridor outside Eliot’s office (she had bathed and put the boys to bed tonight, hearing the front door open and shut halfway through her third reading of
How to Catch a Star
), that she has to confront him tonight. She has to get it out in the open and either give him an ultimatum or insist he leave. She isn’t yet sure which option she will go for; it might depend on how Eliot reacts. If he’s contrite enough and begs her forgiveness on bended knee, then perhaps, just perhaps she can find it in her heart to forgive him. Amandine has never thought of herself as a woman who could forgive infidelity—although stupidly she’s never even pictured the scenario with Eliot, so impossible had the idea seemed—but now that she’s actually faced with it, she’s embarrassed to admit that part of her wants to forgo confronting him at all. Part of her wishes she’d never found the note, wishes she was still ignorant, that she wasn’t about to risk losing the only man she’s ever loved. But, as she stands there, ready to knock, Amandine knows that she can’t go back and she can’t pretend. She has to face the hideous facts of her changed life and somehow, ultimately, make the best of them.

—

“Come in!”

Amandine steps into Eliot’s office, already knowing that she isn’t wanted, that he wishes she wasn’t there. She can feel his reluctance, so strong that it comes off him in waves, almost knocking the breath out of her body, almost knocking her off her feet. So, when Eliot turns around to face her and she sees the faraway look in his eye, she isn’t surprised at all.

“I thought you might come and kiss the boys goodnight,” she says. “It’s been days since you’ve done it.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot says, turning back to his desk. “I came in late, I didn’t want to disturb you, I didn’t want to excite them, if they were almost asleep.”

“You’re always home late nowadays,” Amandine says, hating the sour, vinegar-sharp taste of the words in her mouth, but unable to stop herself spitting them out.

“I’ve told you,” Eliot says, without turning around, “I’m working on a big case at the moment, it’s taking up all my time.”

“I know,” Amandine snaps. “So you keep telling me.”

“The boys are okay, they understand,” Eliot says. “They won’t be scarred for life because they don’t see their old man every day for a few months.”

“It’s already been a couple of months,” Amandine says. “And how much longer will it go on for?”

Eliot lets out a heavy sigh and Amandine’s heart sinks. She wishes she could stop herself, could stop them both from going in this horrible direction, but she can’t.

“You could support me a bit more,” Eliot says. “You used to. It’s not like I can say no to the partners, surely you can understand that.”

“You used to support me more too,” Amandine says, “but a lot’s changed lately, hasn’t it?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Amandine is silent. Now is the moment. Now is the moment to say it. But she’s scared. Once she speaks the other woman’s name she cannot take it back. Their life together will be forever changed. That is it. Amandine hesitates. Then she thinks of her mother, how Héloïse wouldn’t have waited a second after she found the note to confront Eliot. She’d have chased down the first train to London, barged past his secretary, flung open his door, and shouted, demanding to know who Sylvia was.

“Never mind,” Amandine says in a small, slight voice, one so desperate and sad she can hardly believe it’s really hers. And then she turns to go.

After his wife leaves, Eliot sits in his study staring at the wall. He knows it can’t go on like this. He’ll have to tell her soon. He wishes he could tell her right now, this second. But he gave his word that he wouldn’t, not just yet, not until the details are finalized. He knows their family will never be the same again. He can’t bear it and yet that is how it is and there is nothing he can do about it. At three o’clock in the morning, Eliot gets up and creeps down the corridor, checking on his boys, before slipping into bed next to his wife.

“I
DON’T KNOW
what to do.” Amandine sinks her head into her hands. “I don’t know what to do.”

Héloïse reaches across the table and gently squeezes her daughter’s hand. Amandine looks up and gives her a tiny, hopeless smile. They’re sitting in the booth in the back of Gustare, a plate of Cosima’s chocolate and pistachio cream cupcakes between them. Héloïse has already eaten one, which is unusual since three or four would be her normal consumption. But, ever since she started jogging she has, funnily enough, felt far less hungry than before, which is a strange but pleasing phenomenon. In the past few days Héloïse has felt her body shifting, every day wobbling ever so slightly less than it did the day before.

“It will be okay,
ma petite
,” Héloïse says. “No matter what happens, you will be okay.”

Amandine gives her mother a quizzical look.

“Have you done something different with your hair?”

Héloïse touches her tangled gray bob. “No. I mean, I haven’t cut it since…I suppose it’s a bit of a mess.”

“No, it’s not.” Amandine leans closer and squints. “It’s like you’ve—it’s not so gray anymore, it’s almost glowing a little—have you tinted it blond?”