The Witches of Cambridge (31 page)

Héloïse sits up in Theo’s bed, wearing his shirt. For ten minutes they’ve sat in silence, Héloïse overcome with shyness and almost unable to believe what’s just happened. She’s been with another man. Fourteen days and ten hours after she first kissed him, almost forty years after they first met. And it was beautiful. Not terrifying, embarrassing, or awkward, but absolutely, completely, and utterly beautiful. And electric, full of sparks and excitement. She’d swear she has little marks all over her body where Theo’s fingerprints have been. Héloïse rubs the cuff of Theo’s shirt between her fingers. François had a similar shirt, soft cotton, striped blue and white. A tear runs down her cheek and Héloïse bites her lip.

“Are you all right?” Theo asks, his hand resting gently on her thigh.

Héloïse nods.

“Is it something I did?”

Héloïse shakes her head, then nods.

“Yes,” she admits, “I suppose it is.”

“So, tell me what’s wrong,” Theo says, “and I’ll fix it.”

“Oh no,” Héloïse turns to him. “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just…It’s been over two years since…and I never thought I’d do this again. I never thought I’d be kissed and touched and…”

Theo opens his arms and, after a moment’s hesitation, she curls into him, snug against the warmth of his chest.

“He was hit by a car,” Héloïse says, so softly that Theo has to cock his head to hear her. “He was walking to the post box, with a letter of mine. I asked him to go because I wanted it to arrive the next day.”

“Is that why you blame yourself?” Theo asks gently.

Héloïse shakes her head. “Perhaps, that too, but no, it’s because…”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“
Non
, I want to. I’m just afraid you won’t believe me.”

Theo smiles. “Try me.”

“Or you’ll think I’m
loufoque
.”

Theo laughs. “What’s that?”

“Crazy. Mad. Insane. Barmy. Nutty. Lunatic.”

“I doubt that,” Theo says. “I doubt that very much.”

Héloïse takes a deep breath. “Okay, then, we’ll see.”

Theo waits.

“I can see things.”

“What things? Ghosts? Aliens? The Loch Ness Monster?”

“
Non
.” Héloïse slaps him gently. “Shut up and let me finish.”

“Okay, sorry, go ahead.”

“
Merci
. I can see things before they happen. At least, I could before François died.”

“You could?” Theo asks, seeming to genuinely consider this.

Héloïse nods. “When I was little, I knew my family would lose its fortune in the stock market crash of 1963. I saw that Frankie would develop diabetes if he didn’t stop eating pastries at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sadly, neither of them heeded my warnings.”

“Wow,” Theo says. “Well, that’s pretty incredible.”

“You believe me?”

“Of course I do, why wouldn’t I?”

Héloïse smiles. “I don’t know, I just thought…”

“If you tell me something, then I will believe you,” Theo says. “But I don’t understand how you blame yourself for your husband’s death.”

“Because…because I didn’t see it coming. I saw so many things, big things, stupid little things, and I didn’t see that. I didn’t see that.”

“Oh, my dear.” Theo wraps his arms around Héloïse and holds her tight. “You poor, sweet thing, carrying that all this time.”

“I’m a mess,” Héloïse whispers into his arms. “I’m a hideous, crazy mess.”

“No, no, no,” Theo says. “You are, you are…”

“Oh, God, see, you can’t even—”

“You are…you are the woman I love.”

To that, Héloïse has no reply. So, gently, Theo traces his finger across her skin, stroking her breasts, her belly. He tucks her gray hair behind her ears and presses his hand to her cheek. Then he starts to kiss her neck and Héloïse smiles, a smile that goes deep down to her toes, because she knows he won’t stop, he’ll keep kissing her until she’s laughing and gasping and sighing with the deepest, most delicious pleasure.

—

George paces up and down his living room, holding his little girl who’s red-faced and screaming. All around him is an explosion of baby paraphernalia: bags of diapers, cloths, wipes, bottles, powders, creams, fluffy toys, cotton wool, towels…Aura is still tiny, too small to be alive, it seems, and yet she is. George has been in sole charge of his new daughter for less than twelve hours and he thinks she hasn’t stopped crying in all that time. He’s done everything the midwives instructed him to do: feeding, burping, washing, rocking…and yet still she cries. He’s even tried magic, muttering a few incantations now and then, but none of his words seem to alleviate the squalling even for a moment. Why is he so weak, so ineffectual? All the other witches can do useful and powerful things with their magic, but he can’t. He couldn’t save Cosima; he can’t even get a baby to stop crying.

George curses himself, then tries talking to his daughter in soft and gentle tones, asking what she wants, what he can possibly do to make her life a little better.

“You miss your mama, don’t you? I know, my love, I know. I’m so sorry you’ve been left with me instead. I know I’m useless, I wish it wasn’t like this, I’ll learn more. As soon as you fall asleep, I’ll read lots of books on raising babies, I promise.” George goes on, pacing up and down, hoping somehow to soothe her even as he feels fresh blooms of panic in his own chest. “Do you miss the midwives, my love, is that it? Do you want a woman to hold you? Oh God, I wish I could give you your mama back. I’d swap me for her in a heartbeat, if it were possible, I would, I would, I would…”

George sees the splashes on Aura’s tiny cheeks, terrified for a split-second, before he realizes that he’s the source. He sits down on the sofa, wiping her wet cheeks with his little finger, then holds his screaming daughter against his bare chest. He gazes down at her blotched face, the little quiff of black hair, eyes squeezed shut, squashed nose, toothless, bloodred mouth wide open and screaming.

“What do I do, baby girl? Tell me what to do. I need help. I need you to show me. Please. Please. Please.”

And then, as he pleads, all at once, George has an idea. He can’t bring Cosima back, not her body, not her milk, her voice, or her smell, but he can bring back what she created, the atmosphere that Aura was brought to life in, the sounds and smells of the café. That, at least, would be something.

George stands.

“Okay, baby girl,” he says, newly invigorated by his idea, even though he hasn’t slept for more than a minute in at least twenty-four hours. “Let’s take a walk.”

—

An hour later (although Gustare is only a fifteen-minute walk from his home, he’s never done the trip, or indeed any trip, with a newborn before), George and Aura arrive at the café. It’s been closed for nearly two months and George has to force the door open over an enormous pile of mail. He kicks dozens of envelopes, mostly junk mail and bills, aside and pushes the pram into the tiny café. Mercifully, Aura has fallen asleep in the pram—George makes a mental note regarding the effectiveness of midnight walks through town to induce sleep—and so he settles her carefully by the counter while he picks up the mail.

“This was your mama’s café, baby girl. And now it’s yours. Though goodness knows how I’ll keep it open for you. I can barely make beans on toast, let alone chocolate and pistachio cream cupcakes. You’ve got to taste those someday, though, they really are out of this world.”

George sighs. He slips the stack of mail next to the till, then starts opening cupboards, looking for recipe books. “At least they were when your mum made them. I’m afraid it’s unlikely I’ll be able to create the same effect.”

George searches for half an hour before he finds Cosima’s own recipe book hidden in a cupboard under the till. It’s another ten minutes, sitting and staring at the book, before he can bring himself to open it. Very slowly and very carefully, George turns the pages, running his fingers over Cosima’s handwriting, the crossings-out and corrections, imagining Cosima bent over the book, biting her lip in concentration, absently brushing a hand over her flour-dusted cheek.

“What shall I try to make for you, baby girl? What would you like? How about something easy to start with, something very easy indeed.” George stops on a page with the corner turned over:

Very Simple Sicilian Biscuits

100G GROUND ALMONDS

100G SELF-RISING FLOUR

25G GOLDEN CASTER SUGAR

25G SALTED BUTTER

1 EGG

1 PINCH POWDERED AMARANTH

2 PINCHES DRIED HONEYSUCKLE FLOWERS

Mix all ingredients together. Roll out dough to about ½ inch thick. Cut into squares. Bake for 12 minutes at 220°C.

“Okay then.” George takes a deep breath. “Let’s give it a go.”

Within half an hour, George has created more mess in Cosima’s kitchen than he currently has in his own living room, though this time the chaos is culinary. Sweat drips off his nose and his head aches from tiredness and concentration, but he has a doughy batch of biscuits which look passable, if a little soggy, and Aura—perhaps lulled by the warmth of the kitchen and the smells—is mercifully still asleep in her pram. While the biscuits bake, George sits in a chair next to Aura, resting his chin on the curved edge of the pram, and watches her.

George is woken by a piercing scream. His eyes snap open, but the sound isn’t coming from Aura, who’s just been woken up herself and is starting to whimper. It’s a moment before George realizes it’s the wail of the smoke alarm. He jumps up, dashing past the counter into the kitchen, grabbing a towel, and pulling the burned biscuits out of the oven.

“Ow!” George drops the blackened biscuits to the floor, the tin tray clattering on the stone tile, the charred squares scattering. George sucks his sore thumb as Aura’s cry crescendos, hitting the pitch of the alarm. Suddenly, George starts to scream himself, head flung back, eyes squeezed shut, as loud as his lungs will let him.

He screams for help. He screams for answers. He screams for revenge and retribution. He screams for forgiveness and strength. Then he stops. He flicks on the extractor fan above the cooker, nips back into the café, picks his daughter out of her pram, holds her close to his chest, pushes open the door, and steps out onto the street. In the fresh silence and the crisp night air, with the pull of the full shining moon, George hears a whisper on the wind and then he knows what to do.

G
EORGE IS HURRYING
along King’s Parade, on his way to a lecture, when he sees him. George isn’t entirely sure how he knows Santiago by sight, having never set eyes on the man before, but his certainty is immediate and deep.

George slows down, watching the swagger of the man, the cocksure air he inhabits, the way he wears his beauty like a glittering trap, ready to snare the spirit of the next woman he meets. A sudden spark of fury flares up inside George, one third fury at Santiago’s unpunished cruelty but two thirds fury at his own inability to do anything about it. It’s another moment before George sees that Santiago is following someone: Noa.

“Oh, God,” George mutters to himself. “Help.”

But since there is no one else to call on, without knowing what else to do, he starts following Santiago. Five minutes later, Santiago steps into the open entrance of a little art gallery opposite King’s College. George speeds up and hurries in after him. He takes a few seconds to get his bearings among the paintings until he sees Santiago striding toward the back of the gallery, where Noa is standing in front of a large canvas of dark skies and purple seas.

Just as Santiago steps up behind Noa, she turns to see him. A few feet away, George feels waves of hunger and hate wafting off Santiago’s skin.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Noa snaps.

Santiago smiles. “I thought you couldn’t give me up so easily,” he says. “Still admiring my paintings, I see.”

Noa narrows her eyes. “Hardly. You think I don’t know that you’ve been spying on me? I’m not stupid. I’m not here to admire your paintings—you’re here because I want
my
painting back.”

Santiago laughs. The sound is as dark and stormy as the painting behind him.

George shivers. He wants to turn and hurry away; he wants to return to the safety of his daughter and his café.

“You may be of no use to me anymore,” Santiago says, bending toward Noa, “but you’re here because I don’t leave loose ends.”

Noa doesn’t move, though her hands are shaking. “You think I’m scared of you?”

“If you’re not,” Santiago says, “then you’re stupider than I thought.”

George steps forward. Noa looks at him in shock. Santiago regards him with contempt.

“Leave her alone,” George says softly.

A soft smile licks the edges of Santiago’s lips. “Oh, this is good. So, you’ve come to save her?”

George nods.

Santiago laughs, a low, slithering snicker that makes George feel as if he’s just been licked by a snake. Santiago turns away from Noa to fully face him, then opens his arms wide, baring the breadth of his chest and the powerful muscles that pull his T-shirt tight across his skin. Inadvertently, George sucks in his belly and takes a little step back. Noa watches him, wide-eyed.