“I think I’ve mastered ‘Sunset.’”
He smiled, pleased. “I’d love to hear you play it.”
“Would you?”
“Very much.”
“I’d be happy to play it for you. I’ve played it a lot recently. I think I know it quite well.”
At that moment Reverend Morley opened the front door of the house and stepped out. “The gates of heaven are not ready to open for the Dowager Lady Frampton,” he said heartily, making for his car.
“She might outlive us all,” said Dr. Heyworth.
“Now that would be a miracle,” Antoinette added, feeling her pulse slow down. Her attempt to encourage Dr. Heyworth had stalled before it had begun. Maybe it was too soon after George’s death. Perhaps she wasn’t ready. Of course, there was the possibility that Dr. Heyworth did not reciprocate her feelings and that he had only ever wanted friendship—a possibility that left her feeling a little foolish. She watched him climb into his car and waved him off. Then she went back into the house to check on Margaret, her heart surprisingly heavy.
* * *
David took a train to London and from there the Eurostar to Paris. He carried a small overnight bag with the bare essentials. He did not expect to stay long. If Phaedra wasn’t at home, he’d come back and tell his grandmother that he had done his best.
He sat in the first-class carriage and watched the English countryside rush past the window; then, as the train whizzed into the tunnel and the glass went black, he suddenly realized that he was no longer staring outside but at his own anguished reflection. He gazed at it in horror. He hadn’t noticed how disheveled he had become. His gaunt face and hollow eyes looked as if they belonged to someone else, and he ran a hand pensively over the thick stubble on his chin. What would Phaedra think? Would she recognize him? She certainly wouldn’t find him attractive—perhaps she never had. He wished he had taken more care of himself. At the very least he could have shaved.
As the train neared Paris he began to get nervous. He hadn’t managed to read more than a few pages of his book, for his thoughts kept interrupting and replaying scenes from the past like a broken DVD stuck on a favorite movie scene. He should have worn out his memories, considering the amount of times he had rerun them in his head, but they still shone bright with the same power to hurt.
He cast his eyes around the carriage at the businessmen and -women in suits and at an elegantly dressed mother with young children. None of them seemed to have a worry in the world; the adults sat reading magazines or newspapers, and the children played quietly on their computer games. It felt surreal, as if David were the only man in the world to nurse a broken heart.
At last the train drew into the station, and he descended. He moved through the throng in a daze, eyes on the ground, going through every possible scenario again.
He climbed into a taxi and asked to be taken to rue de Longchamps. The car pulled out onto the road, and his stomach knotted into a tight ball. He wasn’t sure whether the nausea rising in his stomach was due to his nerves or to the taxi jerking to a stop at a red light. It was early evening. Paris was bathed in a soft amber light as the sun sank slowly in the sky, painting the water of the Seine with bright strokes of red and gold. Electric lights glowed in shop windows and streetlamps lit up a cascade of brown leaves as they were carried on the wind before collecting in clusters on the damp pavements and gutters. As he let his gaze wander over the town houses, with their elegantly curved gray roofs, peeping dormer windows, and pretty iron balconies, he knew why Phaedra loved Paris so much. It still had the charm of a bygone age.
Phaedra’s apartment was in the center of the city. He hadn’t expected to arrive so quickly. He didn’t feel he was prepared. So he paid the cabbie and found a nearby café where he could have a cup of coffee and work out what he was going to say. He sat by the window at a small table and stared into the street, half hoping, half terrified that Phaedra might pass by.
The wind picked up, people came and went, but David remained with his empty coffee cup, gazing anxiously out into the dark. He tried to devise a dialogue, but nothing sounded natural. He started by explaining that Margaret had suffered a stroke, but ended up babbling and sounding confused—and it was only a rehearsal played out in his head. Finally, he realized he’d just have to face Phaedra and see what happened. There was always the chance the words would come to him in the heat of the moment. There was always the chance she wouldn’t be there at all. He paid the bill, leaving a tip, even though the waiter had been typically grumpy.
He stood up to leave. The café was crowded now. He hadn’t noticed. He began to push past the tables and the people standing, waiting to be seated. Then his eyes were drawn to the other end of the room, where a weary-looking blond woman was staring at him, unblinking, her pale-gray eyes large and fearful. He stopped and looked more intently. At first he didn’t recognize her. She was thinner now, her skin white against the black of her shirt, her hair pulled into a tight ponytail. A waiter obscured his view for a moment, and David tried to see round him. Was it or wasn’t it? The waiter moved on; she was still there against the wall, gazing back at him.