The Witches of Cambridge (26 page)

“Rupert?”

“Yes?”

She smiles, savoring the taste, curling her tongue around his voice. “I know an amazing artist you should meet.”

“I’m not interested unless I’ve heard of him.”

“You haven’t yet, but you will,” she says, each word silver-smooth with heat and liquor and sex. “His name is Santiago Costa.”

T
HEY DON’T MEET
at Gustare but in a little café close to Trinity College, a scruffy place frequented by students. They sit in a booth at the back in a darkened corner. It’s a long time before either speaks. Finally, George lets go of the coffee cup he’d been hugging to his chest and looks up. Kat stares down into her cup.

“Thank you for coming,” he says softly. “It means…I’m so happy to see you. We’ve missed…I’ve missed you.”

Kat doesn’t look up. She taps a finger against her cup. Since eating six slices of her sister’s cake—quite the most delicious thing she’s ever eaten in her life—Kat has been feeling better, lighter and more…hopeful. She doesn’t know what Cosima put in the cake but she guesses it was good and powerful. Without it, she couldn’t be sitting with George right now.

“I know how hard this must be for you,” George says. “It means the world to me that you came.”

“I still think you’re making a huge mistake,” Kat says. “I know you want me to be happy about this, but Cosi is risking her life and you, well…”

“I’m sorry,” George says, “I wish I could make it better, I wish I could give you what you want, I—”

“Me? Give me what
I
want? This isn’t about what I want, this has got nothing to do with me, it’s…”

“Wait,” George says, softly. “I know why you were so upset about me and Cosima—before the baby, I mean—Amandine told me.”

Kat frowns. “Told you what?”

“About you, about your…feelings for…”

Kat freezes. It’s a few moments before she finds words. And when she does, it’s surprisingly easy to forget about herself and her own personal humiliation and focus instead on her friend. Kat looks him straight in the eye. “Are you really okay with this? Do you really want a baby?”

George nods, deeply relieved that they’ve sidestepped the frightfully awkward subject of Kat’s feelings for him. “I do. And don’t worry, it’ll be okay. A little unconventional, true. But it’ll be wonderful, in its own way, I’m certain.”

“That’s what Cosi keeps saying,” Kat says. And then—all of a sudden—she sees something she hadn’t noticed a moment ago. She smiles. “It worked.”

George frowns. “What worked?”

“It doesn’t matter—but…you know what she did and you don’t mind?”

George shakes his head.

“Jesus.” Kat sighs. “You must be a saint. Well, actually, she didn’t mean to enchant you. I warned her about baking spells, silly girl, they’re notoriously unpredictable. But, anyway, what does that matter now?”

George reaches across the table and takes Kat’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t love you back.”

Kat nods slightly, her eyes swelling with tears.

“But you know I care for you, deeply, virtually more than anyone else in the world, don’t you?”

Kat’s tears start to fall.

“Can we be friends again, please?” George says. “I miss you so much.”

Kat closes her eyes. “I’m not sure I’m quite—I need to finish the rest of Cosi’s cake—just give me time, okay?”

George nods, disappointed. Then he frowns. “Cosi’s cake?”

But Kat doesn’t respond. She lets go of his hand, then stands and walks away.

—

“We have to do something.”

They’re in the kitchen, Amandine chopping tomatoes and Eliot frying onions, while Bertie and Frankie watch TV in the living room.

“What can we do?”

“We can’t just leave her there,” Eliot says. “We have to help her. Jarvis would represent me. He’s a snake but I don’t think he’s ever lost a custody case.”

“Custody?”

Eliot nods. “We could sue for full custody. We’d stand a fairly good chance. After all, it’s not as if I abandoned Sylvia. I never knew, and we’ve got a good home to bring her into, we’ve—”

Amandine stops chopping. “Have you already spoken to Jarvis about this?”

“Yes.”

She puts down her knife. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just wanted to see if we stood a chance first, that’s all.”

“What about the boys?”

“What about them?”

“They don’t even know about Sylvia yet, and you’re talking about moving her in so we’ll all be one big happy family.”

“You don’t want her?”

“I’m not saying that.” Amandine feels a flash of panic in her chest. “But there’s a lot to think about. We can’t take her away from her mother just like that. It wouldn’t be right, and she’d hate us for it. Have you talked to her about all this?”

“No, not yet,” Eliot says. “I wanted to talk to you first, before—”

“And Jarvis before me.”

Eliot steps away from the stove, walks over to his wife, stands behind her, and wraps his arms around her waist.

“You don’t want her here?”

“She still hates me,” Amandine says softly.

“She doesn’t hate you, my love. It’s just—you’re not her mother, that’s all.”

She does hate me
, Amandine wants to say.
I can feel it every time we see her, hatred crashing off her in huge waves
. But, of course, explaining exactly how she knows that would involve many further explanations.

“I don’t think Sylvia would be happy here, I don’t think—”

“Could we at least offer her the chance?” Eliot pleads. “Could we ask and see what she says?”

—

Noa is staring at Santiago. Somehow, she knows she’s dreaming, but she can’t make herself wake up. She wants to run from him but her feet are rooted to the spot. Noa glares at him, trying not to show the fear rippling through her. “What did you do to me that night?”

Santiago laughs, deep and thick like swallowing molasses or plunging into the ocean. “Whatever do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. You used your dirty magic on me.”

Santiago shakes his head. “I didn’t have to, darling. The delicious combination of my innate charms and your desire was quite enough to—”

“Liar!”

Santiago smiles. “You don’t remember? We were sitting on the sofa, drinking tea, talking about art. You said something startlingly complimentary, and extremely accurate, about one of my paintings and I kissed you.”

Noa scowls. “Yes, of course I remember. But…”

“Then we finished our tea and I took you on a tour of my collection. That was when you asked if I wanted to paint you. Naturally, I said yes.”

“What collection? You never showed me a—”

“Didn’t I?” Santiago grins. “I didn’t show you my nudes? How remiss of me.”

Noa catches the scream rising in her throat. “Exactly how many women have you painted naked?”

Santiago shrugs. “I’m not sure,
exactly
.”

“Then”—Noa speaks through gritted teeth—“give me an approximate number.”

Santiago closes his eyes for a moment, his mouth moving as he counts. “Approximately fourteen hundred and seventy-six.”

Noa gasps. “What the f—? How is that—have you been doing nothing else in your life but painting naked women?”

Santiago shrugs. “Not all of them were alone. I’ve painted a few pairs, even a group here and there.”

Noa stares at him, openmouthed. “How do you…? How do you get so many women to take off their clothes for you?”

“I don’t have to make them,” Santiago says. “They all volunteered. Just like you did.”

Noa laughs, a bitter laugh that burns her throat. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe so many women would be willing—would want to be seen like…”

“Oh, every woman wants to be seen as beautiful. Every woman wants to hold a man’s attention, to be looked at, to feel—even if only for a few hours—as if she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“And how many of them have you slept with?” Noa asks.

Before he answers, she wakes, sweating. She glances at her alarm clock: 3:33
A.M.
The same time as last night and the night before. She’s had the same nightmare now for five nights in a row: she’s standing at the auction podium, gazing out at a crowd of eager bidders, chanting and heckling and waving their numbered paddles. She glances behind her at the lot she’s supposed to be selling: lot 36,
Storm over Bahia
. The dark canvas, great splashes of royal blue on black, deep purple seas beneath deep red skies. Now, as Noa looks more closely, she can see the dark gray fins of the sharks swimming beneath the purple seas and the big black wings of the crows cawing through the red skies.

She turns back to the heckling audience to see Santiago striding down the center aisle toward her, fury on his face. A flood of fear overtakes her. She wants to run, but she can’t move. When Santiago reaches the podium, the bidders are booing and jeering so loudly that she can’t hear what he’s shouting at her. Silently, she prays desperately to be given her curse back, so she’ll know his secrets, so she’ll know what to expect, so she can be better prepared to escape.

When he reaches her, Santiago grabs her arms and presses her face down onto the wood. He forces his foot in between her feet, pushing her legs apart. Then she wakes.

—

Héloïse walks slowly across town. The restaurant Theo suggested is two miles from home. She didn’t want to take the car, it would have been too quick. At least walking gives her time to calm her nerves. This will be their first official date. Theo offered to pick Héloïse up, but she declined, since that would make it even more scary and official. She’d also persuaded him to have lunch instead of dinner, on the basis that it’d be less like a date, thus a little less scary. What a mistake that was. She couldn’t be more nervous if she was sitting her Cambridge entrance exam again.

As she clip-clops along Trinity Street in blue suede heels, she isn’t finding the forty-minute walk any more calming than driving would have been. She’s still more nervous than she’s ever been in her life. More than on her wedding night, the birth of Amandine, or the dreaded day she turned fifty. They’d been nerve-racking moments at the time, but were nothing compared to this. It’s only a first date, for goodness’ sake, a first date. What’s so scary about that? Héloïse talks to herself as she walks, trying to calm down, to not scream out loud. We’ve known each other for months, years! And yet, she feels completely different than she did before.

Thirty-eight years ago, getting ready for her first date with François, Héloïse hadn’t been nervous at all. Finding François had been like opening a Christmas present to discover the most comfortable pair of slippers ever made: stitched with silk and lined with fur. She’d slipped them on straightaway, sinking into their soft, kind, attentive soles, never taking them off again. Until one day—in an instant—they disappeared. With François, love had been like sitting in your mother’s lap while she read your favorite stories and let you eat chocolate biscuits and drop crumbs all over the sofa. Héloïse felt so taken care of, so safe. With Theo she feels a lot of things, but safe isn’t one of them. Just standing near him makes her shiver. And the thought of touching or, God forbid, kissing him brings her close to having a heart attack.

When Héloïse at last arrives at the restaurant, she looks through the windows at the art deco décor, the black wood and cream walls, linen tablecloths and crystal glasses, until she sees him. Theo sits at the back of the bright white room in a dark leather booth. A bottle of water is on the table and he sips from a glass, watching the waiters gliding past, now and then glancing at the gold-framed posters of Noël Coward’s plays on the walls:
Private Lives, Present Laughter, Blithe Spirit
…

“
Alors
, what am I thinking?” Héloïse mumbles.

Then he sees her and waves. Héloïse lifts her hand halfway. There’s no backing out now. She inhales deeply, holds her breath, and pushes open the glass door. The scent of orchids swirls in the foyer as she surrenders her coat to the maître d’. He’s dressed like Bertie Wooster, in a cream suit, plus fours, and a boater, which makes her smile. Thirty years ago she’d read P. G. Wodehouse to François in the evenings, his head in her lap, after putting Amandine to bed. Héloïse pushes the memory away as she crosses the restaurant floor, feigning an air of nonchalance. Theo stands as she reaches him, a delighted grin puffing out his cheeks.

“A beautiful restaurant,” Héloïse says.

“I must admit I’m more of a pie and chips man, myself,” Theo says. “But I thought you’d appreciate a little sophistication.”

Héloïse smiles and sits opposite Theo. She glances up at the posters on the walls.

“I love Noël Coward. François and I saw them all.
Easy Virtue
was my favorite,” Héloïse says. “He liked
Present Laughter
, but I found it too frenetic. I liked
Private Lives
a lot, very funny if a little contrived. So, what—”

Héloïse’s nervous chatter is cut off by a waiter sweeping in and filling her water glass.

“Ah, thank you.”

“So what do you fancy?” Theo asks. “Do you like fish? The waiter says it’s their specialty. Apparently the sea bass in white wine sauce will melt in your mouth.”