Miranda wasn’t the sort of person to snoop. There were no secrets between herself and her husband. But after the children had gone to bed, exhausted from playing on the farm, she began to go through his desk. He kept everything immaculately tidy. There were files for letters, household maintenance, invoices and insurance, but anything incriminating would surely be kept in London. If he had anything to hide, he’d hardly keep it at home. She ran a hot bath and soaked in lavender oil, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam. She cursed herself for having a suspicious mind. They just needed to spend more time together. She resolved to discuss it with him the following weekend.
That night she lit a scented candle, curled up in bed and opened the scrapbook. There was a strange magic to it, like opening the door into a world infinitely more beautiful than the one she lived in. It absorbed her, the memories wrapping their silver threads about her heart and pulling her in. She could feel the love like the heat of the sun and the pain as if it were her own suffering. While she read, she escaped from the increasing coldness of her marriage into the warmth of someone else’s secret.
Ours was a love doomed from the very beginning. It was as transient as sunset. You once said that the setting of the sun was a tragedy, filling you with melancholy as you tried unsuccessfully to hold on to it. Perhaps its transience is its beauty. Perhaps our love is made sweeter by its hopelessness. If one could halt the sunset and live in a perpetual dusk, would it retain such magic? Would our love be as tender without the expectation of loss? We will never know, because all we have is loss and the memory of the crimson and gold.
XVIII
Pink cotton candy clouds at sunset. Spiders’ webs sewn into the bushes like lace.
Jean-Paul stood on the stone bridge. It was dark and cold, the sky a deep navy studded with stars. The moon was high, not quite full, surrounded by an aureole of mist. He put his hands on the stone balustrade and leaned over to look at the water. The light bounced off the ripples as it flowed gently down to the sea. He stared for so long that his eyes stung, but before he blinked he was sure he could see her face, reflected with the moon, gazing back at him with the same yearning.
He couldn’t sleep. It was hard to find peace in the cottage that used to be theirs. Every room echoed with her presence, every sound triggered a memory, the smell of orange blossom tormented him with longing. Yet he was drawn to it, like a loose tooth that he kept probing with his tongue, taking a strange pleasure from the pain. He could leave tonight, but the thought of the empty château caused him more discomfort than the cottage. If he couldn’t spend his future with her, then he’d have to be satisfied in the past still warm with her memory.
The following morning Miranda took great care choosing her clothes. She put on a pair of faded gray Ralph Lauren jeans, brown leather boots and a gray cashmere Ralph Lauren polo neck. Just because she lived in the middle of fields didn’t mean her standards had to slip. She applied makeup and sprayed herself with perfume, filling the bathroom with the scent of lime, basil and mandarin. With a bounce in her step she went to give the children breakfast.
As she was due at Troy’s at nine, she decided to take the children to school by car, leaving their bikes at the end of the drive for them to cycle home on their return. She was on the point of setting off when the telephone rang. She half expected it to be Troy canceling their coffee morning. Cancellations were as frequent in London as unforecast rain.
To her surprise, the caller was a shop assistant from Theo Fennell, the jeweler in London where Miranda had been a good customer for many years. “I’m sorry to call you so early in the morning, Mrs. Claybourne,” said the girl, her voice breathy and upper class. “But I’ve mislaid your husband’s office number and he’s keen to get an engraving done before Christmas. I wrote it on my pad, but my pad has gone missing. I’m new and I’m really embarrassed to have been so silly. Theo would kill me!” Miranda’s curiosity was aroused. Perhaps David was buying her something expensive for Christmas. He knew Theo’s was one of her favorite shops.
“What’s he doing shopping in there?” she laughed, angling for more information.
“I don’t think I should say,” replied the girl nervously.
“No, perhaps you shouldn’t. I’ll give you the number, but don’t tell him you spoke to me. If it’s a surprise I don’t want to ruin it. He’ll be terribly hurt.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Claybourne.” The girl sounded relieved. Miranda dictated the number and hung up. A beautiful piece of jewelry from Theo Fennell would certainly go towards making up for his long absences. How could she have doubted him?