“Promise me you’ll come.”
“I can’t.”
“Then just pretend. I want to hear you say it.”
She stared into his pleading eyes. “All right. I’ll come. I promise.”
The tension in his face melted. “Then I’ll wait for you there.”
He cupped her face and kissed her for the final time, then watched her open the door and step into the street. She took a moment to compose herself, standing beneath the streetlamp, smoothing down her coat. He would have walked her to her door, but it was too risky. Instead, he watched her walk quickly up the pavement, arms folded, shoulders hunched against the cold, her figure growing smaller as she was swallowed into the darkness. At last, she arrived at her house. She turned and stood there a moment, staring back at him. Then she gave a small, cautious wave. Reluctantly, he told the driver to take him back to the hotel.
Angelica watched until the taxi was out of sight. She remained on her doorstep for a few minutes, wiping her face and scrunching her hair between her fingers. Then she took a deep breath and unlocked the door. Stepping into the light of her home, she should have felt guilty, but she just felt sad. The dream dissolved in the glare of reality, and once more she was reminded of where she belonged.
She took off her coat and kicked off her stilettos, then padded up the stairs in her stockinged feet. Olivier was lying in bed watching television. It was midnight: he had waited up. He glanced at her and registered at once her stricken face. “Are you all right, Angelica?” He sat up in alarm.
“I’m fine. Just desperately tired.”
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
She forced a laugh. “Crying with laughter probably, at all those terrible karaoke singers!”
She walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She undressed, watching her reflection with grim satisfaction, as if it didn’t belong to her but to a deceitful, conniving stranger. She didn’t care that Olivier would think it odd that she showered in the middle of the night: she felt compelled to soap away her guilt. It hurt to think of Jack flying off the following day, but she knew it was for the best. She had played with fire and nearly burned her whole family. Standing under the water, her hair squashed into a shower cap, she closed her eyes and emptied her mind. The burden of so much emotion was too much to carry. She listened to the water fall about her like rain and felt the comforting warmth wash over her skin.
Olivier slept pressed up against her, his arm resting protectively over her stomach. She could feel his breath on her shoulder and was reminded of those early days when she had treasured each second of their closeness. Now she wished he were Jack. She sank into her imagination, visualizing riding across the South African veld with him beside her, grinning in that raffish way of his that made her heart swell with happiness. Eventually, she slipped into sleep—a seamless transition into Jack’s world, where it was just the two of them.
In the morning Olivier was gone. He hadn’t woken her up by turning on the light as was his usual habit, but had crept into the bathroom and dressed quietly. The children alerted her to the time by climbing into her bed and turning on the television. She opened one eye to see the clock on her bedside table. It was a quarter to eight. She sat up in panic, switched off the television, and sent the children downstairs to Sunny. Then she dragged herself into her closet, pulled on a pair of jeans and sweater, and sat over a cup of coffee while the children wolfed down their breakfast as fast as their small teeth would allow.
She was late getting them to school. The front door was closed, and she was forced to ring the bell and apologize for her tardiness. It was clear from her pale face and bloodshot eyes that she had overslept. She kissed them hastily and watched them run down the corridor, hoping that she had remembered Joe’s games kit and Isabel’s ballet bag. No sooner had she set off back up the road than her mobile rang. Her heart stalled when she saw that it wasn’t Jack but Candace.
“Good morning,” her friend said chirpily.
“Hi, Candace.”
“You sound flat.”
“Hangover,” she lied. “I could barely get up this morning.”
“I didn’t see you leave. What time did you go?”
“About eleven-thirty. I didn’t want to break up the party.”
“It got rather debauched, actually. We got an ass shot from Art.”
“What, he mooned?”
“I kid you not. Totally hilarious. He pulled down his trousers and flashed his backside.”
“Why?”
“He sang the finale, totally pissed. There were only a few of us left. But you know what?”