‘He lived, I believe.’
She gave a suspicious and cynical kind of look. I gave her something else.
‘I like the way you look after Grace. The way you know yourself. The way you have made a life, a good one, with a good home, when you have lost so much. You find beauty where there is none. You are the light that glimmers in a puddle.’
‘A puddle?’ she laughed. ‘I am sorry. Go on . . . I am starved of compliments. Feed me more.’
‘I like the way you think. I like the way you don’t just go through life unaware of its nature.’
‘I am not a pale theatre lady. I am a fruit picker. I am plain.’
‘You are the least plain thing I know.’
Her hand was on me. ‘My clothes are just rags with dreams.’
‘You may be better without them, then.’
‘Dreams?’
‘No.’
I was standing close to her now. And I held her gaze. There was no running away. I had no idea I had been looking for her, but now I had found her, I had no idea what would happen. I felt like I was spinning fast and out of control, like the seed of a sycamore, travelling on a changing wind.
‘Go,’ she said. ‘Save our pleasure. You will be late.’
We kissed and I closed my eyes and inhaled lavender and her, and I felt so terrified and so in love that I realised they – the terror, the love – were one and the same thing.
London, now
I remember how it feels, that dizzy spinning fusion of love and terror. I remember, as the bell rings. I remember the orchard scent of her hair, and still miss her so much it can burn.
Steady thyself.
I open my eyes, and see Anton sloping out of the room.
‘Anton,’ I say, ‘a minute.’
He looks scared. He has looked like that for the whole lesson. He is in the process of putting an earphone in his ear.
‘Do you like music?’
He seems confused by the question. He’d been expecting another one. Everything about him was playing it cool except his eyes. ‘Yeah. Yes, sir.’
‘Do you play?’
He nods. ‘Yeah, piano, a bit. My mum taught me when I was younger.’
‘You have to be careful with that. It can screw you up. Messes with your brain chemistry. The emotion.’
He looks at me quizzically.
I move on. ‘Does your mum know about your friends?’
He shrugs sheepishly.
‘Because you could do better.’
He knows he can’t sulk, but he almost does. Pouts a little. ‘Si isn’t my friend. He’s just the older brother of someone I know.’
