Angelica got up. Her legs felt unsteady. Anna accompanied her into the hall. Now that they were being honest with each other, she felt she could ask her anything. “I saw Jack walking across the lawn in the middle of the night. Where was he going?”
“Jack doesn’t like to sleep, Angelica. He fears that there is always a chance he might not wake up. So he walks. It makes him feel better.”
“I sensed something wasn’t right. I just couldn’t put my finger on what it was.”
“I see it in his eyes every time I look into them.” Angelica frowned at her. “Fear, Angelica. I see his fear of dying, and it breaks my heart.”
“I didn’t set out to fall in love with him, Anna.”
“I know. But you have a family who need you. You must go back to them.” Angelica nodded and made to leave, but Anna stopped her.
“One other thing,” she said, taking Angelica’s hand.
“Yes?”
“Jack has had many lovers during our marriage, as I’m sure you know. But he’s never lost his heart before. They’ve always come and gone with the seasons. But you?” She smiled kindly. “You’re beyond the seasons, Angelica, like the sun.”
PART THREE
Wisdom
27
Life is a celebration.
In Search of the Perfect Happiness
Angelica sat at the kitchen table in her house in Brunswick Gardens, hugging a mug of tea. It was raining, the clouds thick and gray like gruel. The trees were bare, twisted and gnarled in the cold. One or two people hurried past beneath umbrellas, their footsteps disappearing as they strode down the pavement towards the High Street. Olivier poured himself a cup of coffee.
Sunny went upstairs tactfully to tidy the children’s bedrooms. Olivier had told her the terrible news about the robbery the night before, and she had taken the children to school that morning while Olivier had driven to the airport to meet his wife. He had never seen Angelica look so pale and thin. It was as if she hadn’t eaten for the entire week—and Olivier, usually so imperturbable, had stayed up all night watching television, unable to sleep for worry.
Angelica had dreaded going home to the bleak winter weather, but now she embraced it. Those low hanging clouds and the light, persistent drizzle were as familiar to her as family. Heathrow had felt like home, the friendly English passport controllers like relatives. She had run into Olivier’s arms and clung to him, hoping that if she pressed herself close enough there’d be no space for her adultery. He need never find out. Nothing would come between them to prize them apart.
He had asked about Jack on the way back in the car. “He’s going to live,” she had replied, then collapsed into violent sobs. How could she explain that while one wound healed, the other in his lungs would surely kill him? How could she explain the depth of her love and the degree of his betrayal? Would she have chosen to love him had she known he had only months to live? Would she have allowed herself to get so close only to lose him in the end? Had he really loved her at all?
She sipped her tea and felt better now that she was home. She had climbed back into her skin with haste and remorse, only to find that it no longer fit so snugly. It didn’t matter. It felt familiar, and she was pleased to put it on again with her rings. She longed to hold her children, but knowing they were in the same city was good enough. Her old life was where she had left it, and nothing had changed but her heart, which no one could see.
She watched Olivier pour hot milk into his coffee. While she had focused on Jack, she had ignored the fact that Olivier wasn’t only her husband, but her best friend, too. She had chosen not to see his good qualities and concentrated solely on the qualities that irritated her in order to justify her affair. He had apologized for their row about the coat, but she hadn’t forgiven him: while she was still angry she felt entitled to Jack. The truth was that Olivier, in spite of his impatience, was funny and charming and affectionate. He was suffering at work, in the very center of the crisis that was shaking the financial world, trying to hold it all together for her and the children, and she hadn’t been there for him. She had shirked her responsibility to her family for a fleeting, dead-end affair. She stared into her tea, plagued with guilt.
“I think you need to talk to Candace,” said Olivier, sitting down at the table. She looked into his clear blue eyes and realized that she had forgotten how beautiful they were.
“Not yet, Olivier. I want to talk to you.”
He looked surprised, but she knew he was pleased. “Do you know what I was thinking when I was tied up there in the dining room not knowing if I was going to live?”