She stared at the words in amusement. What a devil to have taken the trouble to find her Web site. He knew she was married. Judging by his adventures in Clapham, he obviously got a kick out of living dangerously. She read it again, dwelling on the best bits. She could hear his voice in her head, the lilt of his accent, his gravelly tone, and she smiled. She could imagine the Dutch vineyard of Rosenbosch settled beneath a bright blue sky, surrounded by camphor trees and budding flowers, and visualized his lying on the grass with a pair of binoculars, watching the birds.
So, what to do? It would be rude not to reply. After all, there was nothing wrong in lighthearted e-mailing. Wasn’t it possible for two married people to be friends? Wasn’t it presumptuous to assume he wanted to sleep with her? He hadn’t overstepped the mark at dinner, and she hadn’t encouraged him. She looked at the date: he had sent it yesterday. With a mounting sense of guilty pleasure, she placed her fingers over the keys and pressed Reply.
Dear Dog on Porch, Thank you so much for your e-mail. It’s nice to hear from you. I’m sitting at my desk pondering my new idea, but feel blocked and uninspired—if you come up with any gems, do send them. I need all the help I can get! How heavenly to be enjoying spring. We’re in autumn as you know, and it’s only going to get bleaker! Oh for sun and the smell of camphor! Rosenbosch sounds delightful. Olivier and I would love to visit you there one day.
She crinkled her nose at the mention of her husband. That’s very childish, she thought, and swiftly deleted it.
Rosenbosch sounds delightful. Would love to see the porch! It must be as big as Olivier’s. Sage
She read it over a few times. It wasn’t flirtatious; she didn’t want him to think that she fancied him. Her finger hovered a moment over the Send icon. What harm can it do to have a cyber friend? She pressed the key and watched the message disappear off her screen, suffering a sudden, though fleeting, stab of regret.
She imagined his receiving it. Would he write back immediately? She waited a moment, staring at the screen, expecting to hear the ping of a new message, but none came. Finally, she clicked out and went into Word, opening a new blank document on the screen.
There was nothing more disconcerting than a blank document with nothing to write on it. So she typed the working title: In Search of the Perfect Happiness by Angelica Garner, then played around with the typeface, settling on large flowery letters in pink. This took up a few minutes, during which time she listened for the ping of an incoming message.
After writing down as many ideas as she could think of on the big subject of Life, she picked up the telephone and called Candace. Her friend was in the McQueen department at Harvey Nichols.
“He’s e-mailed me,” she stated simply. “He found me through my Web site.”
“Oh my God! What did he say?”
“I’ll read it to you.”
“Wait, I have to sit down. Wait, wait, wait! Oh, for a chair . . . Don’t they have anywhere to sit in here? What about the old or disabled, or simply demented like me! Okay, I’m sitting down, fire away.”
Angelica read her the e-mail.
“He’s mad about you.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course. The fact that he went to the trouble to find you speaks for itself.”
“He’s just being friendly.”
“You’re just being naïve.”
“I’ve written back.”
“You’re crazy!”
“There’s nothing wrong with a little cyber chatting. After all, it’s very presumptuous of me to assume that he wants to get into my knickers.”
“No, it’s not, it’s intelligent. I told you, you’re ripe for an affair.”
“I’m not going to have an affair.”
“Look, they always start like this. A little chatting, a little flirting, then it’s lunch . . .”
“He lives in South Africa.”
“He was in London. Trust me, Angelica, he’ll ask you to lunch. Would you tell Olivier?”
“Sure.”
“No, you wouldn’t. Are you going to tell him about this e-mail? Of course not. It’ll be your little secret, and you’ll love every minute of having one. Every time Olivier loses his temper or gets grumpy or whatever, you’ll have your little secret to smile about.”
“Are you suggesting I shouldn’t e-mail him?”
“No, I’m just warning you. Keep him at a distance. Don’t write anything you wouldn’t want your husband to read and don’t ever, ever write an e-mail under the influence of alcohol!”
“You know your stuff.”
“Like I said, I’m the sacred vault.”