“Hello there, you.” His voice was full of affection.
“I’m coming to South Africa.”
“My God, when?” His excitement rippled down the line, and she smiled into the telephone.
“Next year.”
“I have to wait that long?”
“Only a few months.”
“How have you managed to pull that off?”
“Book tour. My agent just told me. I’m going to promote the new book.”
“So what are we looking at? February?”
“Maybe.”
“February is beautiful. You must come and stay.”
“I’d love to.” She thought of his wife and her exuberance deflated.
“Come for a long weekend.”
“I’ve requested a couple of days at the end of the trip.”
“A couple of days? That’s too short. Come for a long weekend. Four days.”
“I don’t know . . . What will your wife think?”
“It doesn’t matter. I want to spend time with you. Where will you be before?”
“Jo’burg and Cape Town.”
“I’ll come and see you.”
“I’d love that.”
“I couldn’t bear to think of you in the same country as me without being able to see you. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”
“I’m going to have to work.” She laughed at his enthusiasm.
“All work and no play . . .”
“I’ll make time to play.”
“I can think of a few games.”
“Will you be allowed off the porch?”
“I’m already off the porch, darling. I was off the porch the moment I laid eyes on you at Scarlet’s.”
“Then we’ll meet in Johannesburg.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“Neither can I. I haven’t told Olivier yet.”
“He won’t ban you from a book tour, surely?”
“I hope not. But I’ll have to convince him that it’s really necessary.”
“Darling, it is more necessary than you know.”
“Not sure he’ll agree with you.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“Tonight.”
“Let me know what he says.”
“I’ll text you.”
“I love your texts.” He paused, then lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “I think I’m falling out of love with you, Sage.”
She remembered their conversation by the Serpentine: that you truly start to love someone only when you fall out of love with them. “You don’t know me well enough to fall out of love with me,” she replied softly.
“I feel I’ve known you forever.”
“But you haven’t, Jack.”
“True, and we don’t have forever. But I’m living for now. And at this very moment, you’re here with me, and that’s more than I could wish for.”
She put the mobile in her handbag and smiled to herself, the warmth of their conversation wrapping her in a pair of invisible arms. An old tramp in a ragged black coat was sitting on the next bench. He stared at her, his arms folded against the cold, a bottle of something toxic in a brown paper bag beside him. At his feet a skinny greyhound shivered in a dirty little coat of its own. Her heart buckled with compassion. Aware of her own good fortune and fueled by happiness, she delved into her handbag for a five-pound note. When she gave it to him, he blinked at her in surprise. “You’re a pretty lady,” he said, shoving the money into his pocket.
“Thank you,” she replied.
“I’d like to fuck you.” He grinned at her toothlessly, and Angelica’s stomach churned in disgust. She hurried away, wishing she hadn’t parted with that five-pound note. No good deed goes unpunished, she thought as she hailed a taxi outside the Ritz Hotel.
That night she went to see the new James Bond film in Leicester Square with Olivier, Joel, and Chantal. At dinner afterwards at the Ivy, Angelica decided to tell Olivier about her book tour in front of his friends. That way he’d be less likely to refuse her. “Darling,” she said after he had eaten a healthy portion of lobster and drunk almost a whole glass of Sancerre, “my publisher wants me to go to South Africa on a book tour in February.”
“That sounds fabulous,” Chantal enthused.
“It’s not all that fabulous. Book tours are really hard work,” Angelica replied, watching Olivier nervously. She took a sip of wine and hoped he couldn’t see her heart jumping through her sweater.
“I didn’t think you wanted to go on book tours.” Olivier’s face clouded.
“Well, I have to go sometime, and I’ve said no to Australia.”
“I agree: that’s too far for a mother to travel,” said Chantal. “But South Africa is so pretty.”