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“Stop here,” Edward says to the cabdriver. We’re in the middle of the City. On every side, dramatic, modern constructions of glass and steel tower over us, with the tops of the Shard and the Cheese Grater just visible above them. Edward sees me looking up at them as he pays the cabbie. “Trophy buildings,” he says dismissively. “We’re going in here.”
He steers me toward a church; just a small, plain parish church I’d hardly noticed, tucked away among all these strutting, modernist behemoths. The interior is lovely: quite plain, almost square, but flooded with light from huge windows high in the walls. The walls are the same pale cream as One Folgate Street. The sun throws a lattice across the floor from the lead in the clear glass. Apart from the two of us, it’s deserted.
“This is my favorite building in London,” he says softly. “Look.”
I follow his gaze upward, and my breath is taken away. Over our heads is a vast dome. Its pale void dominates the tiny church, floating on the slimmest of pillars over the entire central section. The altar, or what I assume must be the altar, is directly underneath: a massive, circular slab of stone five feet across, positioned in the very center of the church.
“Before the Great Fire of London there were two sorts of churches.” He doesn’t whisper, I notice. “Dark, gloomy Gothic ones that had been built the same way since England was Catholic, crammed with arches and ornaments and stained glass, and the plain, undecorated meetinghouses of the Puritans. After the fire, the men who rebuilt London saw an opportunity to create a new kind of architecture: places where everyone could worship, no matter what their religious affiliation. So they deliberately adopted this stripped-back, uncluttered style. But they knew they had to replace the Gothic gloom with something.”
He points at the floor, to the lattice of sunlight that makes the stone glow as if lit from within. “Light,” he says. “The Enlightenment was literally all about light.”
“Who was the architect?”
“Christopher Wren. The tourists flock to St. Paul’s, but this is his masterpiece.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.
When Edward phoned earlier there’d been no reference to the suddenness with which he’d left my bed a week ago, no small talk. Just, “I’d like to show you some buildings, Jane. Do you want to come?”
“Yes,” I’d said without hesitation. It isn’t that I’ve decided to ignore Mia’s warnings completely. But if anything, they’ve only made me more curious about this man.
And I’m reassured by the fact that he’s brought me here today. Why would he do that if he was only attracted to me because of a fleeting physical resemblance to his dead wife? I have to embrace the parameters he’s set for us, I’ve decided: to take each moment as it comes, and not burden our relationship with overthinking or expectation.
From St. Stephen’s we go to John Soane’s house in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. A notice says it’s closed to the public today but Edward rings the bell and greets the curator by name. After some friendly discussion, we’re invited to come in and wander as we please. The tiny house is stuffed with artifacts and curiosities, everything from fragments of Greek sculpture to mummified cats. I’m surprised Edward likes it, but he says mildly, “Just because I build in one particular style doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate others, Jane. Excellence is what matters. Excellence and originality.”
From a chest in the library he pulls out an architectural drawing of a small neoclassical temple. “This is good.”
“What is it?”
“The mausoleum he built for his dead wife.”
I take the drawing and pretend to study it, but actually I’m thinking about that word mausoleum.
I’m still considering the implications as we get a taxi back to One Folgate Street. As we approach I look at the house with new eyes, making connections with the buildings we’ve seen.
At the door, he holds back. “Do you want me to come in?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t want to seem as if I’m taking that part for granted. You do understand, don’t you, that this works two ways?”
“That’s sweet of you. But I really do want you to come in.”
THEN: EMMA
Where are we going? I say as Edward hails a cab.
Walbrook, he says, as much to the driver as me. Then: I want to show you some buildings.
Despite all my questions, he refuses to say more until we pull up in the middle of the City. We’re surrounded by spectacular modern buildings, and I wonder which we’re going to. But instead he steers me toward a church. It seems out of place here in the middle of all these gleaming banks.
The interior is nice, if a bit unexciting. There’s a big dome overhead, with the altar directly underneath, a great slab of rock plonked in the middle of the floor. It makes me think of pagan circles and sacrifices.
Before the Great Fire there were two sorts of churches, he says. Dark Gothic ones, and the plain meetinghouses where the Puritans worshipped. After the fire, the men who rebuilt London saw an opportunity to create a new, hybrid style. But they knew they had to replace all that Gothic gloom with something.
