Marjory Millhaven, who had organized the event, clapped her hands exuberantly, announcing to everyone that Jack was the speaker’s cousin. A shadow of anxiety had passed across his face as the entire room had strained to get a better look at him. A few young mothers had tittered appreciatively, and Angelica had hastily answered his question, moving swiftly on to the next. So pleased was she with her lunch that Marjory was reluctant to let Angelica go, insisting at every attempted departure that she stay another ten minutes. Aware that the clock was gnawing through her afternoon with Jack, she hastily signed more books, talked to each child who approached her, and finally extricated herself by promising to come back another year.
“You were a real pro today,” Jack said, running his fingers through her hair. “As your cousin, I was very proud.”
“You were brave to come.”
“I know. South Africa is a small place. There was a chance I might have known someone, but I didn’t.”
“What would you have done?”
“Pretended you were my cousin,” he replied nonchalantly, as if it really wasn’t such a big deal.
“Does your wife know you’re here?”
“Yes, and she knows I’m taking you out for dinner.”
Angelica was astonished. “She doesn’t mind?”
“You’re my friend.”
“Do you sleep with all your friends?”
“Only you.” He kissed her forehead. “I can’t lie to her.”
“So you’ve told her how you feel about me?”
“No, she hasn’t asked.”
“But if she did ask, what would you tell her?”
“She won’t. She respects my boundaries.”
“Isn’t she at all possessive?”
“We’ve been married twenty years. She knows me well enough to give me my freedom.”
“She sounds extraordinary. Do you offer her the same freedom?”
“She doesn’t require it.” He sounded like Olivier. Were all men such hypocrites?
She sat up to challenge him. “So it’s all right for you to have an affair, but not for her?”
“She doesn’t want one.”
“How do you know?”
“I know.”
“You have a very peculiar relationship.”
“You’ll understand when you meet her. She’s unique.”
Angelica had no desire to meet her. “Are you sure it’s a good idea?” she asked, seeking reassurance.
He pulled her back into his embrace and squeezed her. “Are you crazy? You’re coming to Rosenbosch whether you want to or not. Don’t think about Anna.” Sensing her unease, he added: “Live in the moment, Angelica. Leave my marriage to me.”
Angelica tried not to think about Anna as she sat in the car with Anita on the way to Pretoria. The traffic was heavy on the highway, shantytowns quivering in the heat and close enough for her to get a stirring sense of their poverty. Anita told her about the history of her country, what it was like living under apartheid, and the positive future she so passionately believed in. Angelica made all the right noises, half listening, half replaying the stolen hour she had enjoyed with Jack. She knew she should telephone Olivier, if only to put him out of his misery. Perhaps she had been unfair to treat him so coolly. But Joe would want to talk to her, and she dreaded hearing his voice, knowing it would drag her back to the reality she had so deliberately left behind. While she was removed from her family, she felt disconnected, as if she were living another woman’s life.
Anita parked the car in the parking lot, bribing the attendant to watch it, as was the custom.
“What would happen if you didn’t pay him?” Angelica asked, following her towards the restaurant.
“He’d probably steal it himself!” She laughed.
The restaurant was a log cabin. Angelica took a deep breath, bracing herself for another talk. But as she stepped into the foyer she was transported into the world of Cold Konard. The lights were dimmed and the walls decorated to look like the inside of a cave, hung with extravagant garlands of fake green weeds and purple and red crystals the size of footballs. She peered into the dining room, which had been cleared for what was obviously a children’s tea party. About fifty children were running around in fancy dress—as Mart and Wort, Yarnies, Elrods, Mearkins, and Greasy Grouchoes.
She laughed with delight. “This is how it must feel to be J. K. Rowling,” she said to Anita as an oversize Wort strode over to welcome her.
“I’m Heather Somerfield, or Wort,” she said, snorting in amusement at her effort to dress in character.
“You look terrific!” said Angelica, though the Wort she had invented was a five-foot elf, not a monumental egg. “I’m so flattered by all the trouble you’ve gone to.”