“I’d love that.”
“We can go shopping, and you can choose something . . .”
“I don’t need a present,” she said humbly, knowing that now was no time for extravagance but disappointed all the same.
“We’ll choose it together. Have the girls planned anything?”
“I haven’t mentioned it. To be honest, I’ve been busy, too . . .” She thought of the book she had to write and the wasted hours staring at her e-mail, willing Jack to find a way of contacting her. Hoping he’d make the effort in spite of all the obstacles she had erected to stop him. “I wouldn’t expect them to remember.”
“Well, I’ve remembered, and the children have got something for you.”
She smiled at the thought of Joe and Isabel’s gifts. They’d be more precious than anything bought in a shop.
The following morning, the children woke her up to cries of “Happy birthday, Mummy.” They had made cards and plates at the Pottery Café in Fulham. Isabel’s was prettily painted in pinks and blues with butterflies and flowers around the edge and one glorious bumble bee in the middle. Joe’s was a mess, but Angelica could make out a red train, puffing smoke. She cuddled both children, holding them for as long as possible before they wriggled away. Nothing could beat those delightful plates; she would hang them on the wall in her study.
Olivier was already dressed for work. He kissed her tenderly. “Be ready at seven-thirty. I’ll come home early to change. I’ve reserved Mr. Wing for eight.”
She walked the children to school, bumping into Candace as she left them at the door. “Happy birthday!” she said, Ralph straining at his lead as he attempted to follow a scruffy little bitch down the pavement.
“Thank you!” Angelica was surprised.
“So what’s Olivier got you?”
“Oh, nothing yet. We’re going to go to Paris in the spring. He’s busy at the moment.”
Candace pulled a face. “Too busy to buy you a present? Honey, there’s a Tiffany in the City.”
“Don’t tell me!”
“Is he taking you somewhere nice tonight?”
“Mr. Wing.”
“A Chinese?” Candace crinkled her nose in disgust. “I think he could do better than that.”
“I love Mr. Wing.”
“We all love Mr. Wing, but not on our birthday.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Angelica said, laughing it off. “Things are really good between us now—I shouldn’t complain. At least he didn’t forget.”
“I’d take you out for lunch if I didn’t have a meeting.”
“I’ve got to get down to some writing anyway.”
“Go have a massage or something.”
“Not today. I’m not in the mood.”
“I’ll see you at pickup.” Candace gave the lead a yank and Ralph loped back reluctantly.
Angelica returned home and took a cup of tea up to her office. Claudia called at nine to find out how the book was doing, impatient to see what she had written so far. Angelica lied and told her she was halfway through it. Her mother telephoned to wish her a happy birthday, and Daisy called, suggesting they have lunch together. Angelica didn’t hesitate but invited her to Le Caprice, thrilled to be doing something exciting on her birthday.
She scanned down her e-mails, disappointed to find that Jack hadn’t written. She couldn’t remember whether or not he knew it was her birthday. She had asked him not to contact her, and he had obviously respected her wishes. She had to summon all her strength to restrain from e-mailing him. She longed to find out how he was. But he was dying, with Anna at his side, guiding him towards the last leg of his journey home. There was no room for her there. It was well and truly over.
She opened her novel about the greasy Troilers who live on the estuary, and turned on her iPod. Engulfed in grief, she channeled her feelings into her novel. Her resentment formed the ugly, slimy Troilers; her love, the weightless, phosphorescent Dazzlings. The story would be an allegory of her love for Jack, and no one would ever know that but her. The music carried her into her fantasy world, where she gave vent to her emotions and thus created a captivating story where love battles to save the world from evil. She knew her theme was not original, but equally no one else could write it like she could.
After an agreeable lunch with Daisy, during which they had laughed about their ludicrous botanical names and their parents’ disastrous attempts to hold on to their youth, she picked up Joe and Isabel and brought them home for tea. She hadn’t seen any of her other friends, and none of them had called, which surprised her. Kate had prided herself on remembering birthdays; after all, she had remembered Olivier’s, Angelica thought bitterly. The least she could have done is remember hers. Sunny bathed the children as she showered and slipped into a black Prada dress. As she applied makeup and sprayed herself with scent, she reminded herself that happiness was a state of mind. That the quality of her life depended on the quality of her thoughts. If she dwelled on the negative aspects of her day, they would only pull her down. Instead, she concentrated on the positive things: The fact that her children had gone to such trouble to make her cards and presents. The fact that Candace had remembered her birthday. The fact that she had made peace with Daisy. The fact that she was now close to her mother. The fact that Olivier hadn’t found out about her affair. The fact that she had such good friends. The fact that her husband and children were healthy. The fact that she had so much to be grateful for. After a while it began to work. She lit her scented candles and played Back to Black by Amy Winehouse. Her spirits rose with the perfume and filled the room.