his plate, touched his lips with his napkin. ‘Viktor. The deuce you did. When?’
‘Two days ago.’
The waiter hovered, then refilled their glasses at a signal from Carrington. He went on in his normal, measured tones, yet she received the impression that he was as profoundly shocked as she. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’
She shook her head and was silent. Eventually she began to tell him how it had happened.
She rarely slept late, but that day she had wakened even earlier than usual, her heart thudding, with the bad dream, almost a nightmare, already sliding serpent-like back into the mysterious depths of sleep before she could capture and hold it.
Vienna…Viktor…Bruno. Oh, Bruno!
No, she mustn’t try to remember. She would not. Let the past stay buried. She’d contrived a life of sorts for herself here in London, and memories such as that were destructive. She lay still, letting the warmth of the sun stroke her face with its buttery light, listening to the joyous outpourings of the little albino blackbird in the climbing rose outside the window. Marked out as different from his kind, it never seemed to prevent him from getting on with the business of life, a lesson in microcosm, and presently her heart resumed its normal beat. The dark night had gone, and almost as if by the strength of her own will a stirring, a glimmer of something once taken for granted had taken its place. Could it be – a returned sense of purpose?
Continuing to live in London had been a hard, almost insurmountable step towards rebuilding her life. She’d managed that, but so far failed to take another. After Vienna, she’d lost her appetite for society. She lived quietly, went out very little, seeing few people other than Sophie and Susan. Nevertheless, for some time she’d been dimly aware that she was going to have to make an effort to remedy the situation, to rouse herself and begin again with the ordinary business of living, to widen her horizons, if only for Sophie’s sake. A pretence that everything was normal went a long way towards making it so, she knew that. But how to start?
It came to her with something of a shock how very few people she really knew here in London, other than her friend, Julian Carrington – and his form of carefully maintained neutral concern was rather more than she could bear at that particular moment. Then she felt herself smiling, hearing her mother’s voice when they had been faced with yet another crisis:
‘Alors, mignonne
, we will take our minds off it with a little shopping,
hein?
And the problem –
voilà!
It will resolve itself. A new hat, some scent! Oh, very well, handkerchiefs, since you say that’s all we can afford, my little – how did your father say? – my little skinflint!’ As if no more was needed to right the troubles of the world – as indeed it usually was not, for Vèronique. Sometimes, that same approach had worked for Isobel, too…though it wasn’t shopping she’d needed, so much as mixing with other people, those who lived nice, ordinary lives. Being anonymous among the crowds, pretending their own life was ordinary, too.
Today, the renewed sense of energy she felt seemed like a gift it would be ungracious to ignore. She would make herself take that second step, make a little excursion into the world again – it didn’t matter where, anywhere – leaving word that she’d gone shopping: stockings, new hair-ribbons for Sophie, anything.
Susan wouldn’t believe it, of course. She knew Isobel had no need of stockings, or gloves, or anything of the kind, but never mind that. She would be only too pleased to see her at last making some effort to rouse herself from the mental lethargy which had consumed her for far too long. Having made the decision, she sprang out of bed immediately, knowing all too well that her new-found determination might dissipate if she waited mundanely for breakfast, and the newspapersy – and certainly not for the post.
She dressed
‘Two days ago.’
The waiter hovered, then refilled their glasses at a signal from Carrington. He went on in his normal, measured tones, yet she received the impression that he was as profoundly shocked as she. ‘You’ve spoken to him?’
She shook her head and was silent. Eventually she began to tell him how it had happened.
She rarely slept late, but that day she had wakened even earlier than usual, her heart thudding, with the bad dream, almost a nightmare, already sliding serpent-like back into the mysterious depths of sleep before she could capture and hold it.
Vienna…Viktor…Bruno. Oh, Bruno!
No, she mustn’t try to remember. She would not. Let the past stay buried. She’d contrived a life of sorts for herself here in London, and memories such as that were destructive. She lay still, letting the warmth of the sun stroke her face with its buttery light, listening to the joyous outpourings of the little albino blackbird in the climbing rose outside the window. Marked out as different from his kind, it never seemed to prevent him from getting on with the business of life, a lesson in microcosm, and presently her heart resumed its normal beat. The dark night had gone, and almost as if by the strength of her own will a stirring, a glimmer of something once taken for granted had taken its place. Could it be – a returned sense of purpose?
Continuing to live in London had been a hard, almost insurmountable step towards rebuilding her life. She’d managed that, but so far failed to take another. After Vienna, she’d lost her appetite for society. She lived quietly, went out very little, seeing few people other than Sophie and Susan. Nevertheless, for some time she’d been dimly aware that she was going to have to make an effort to remedy the situation, to rouse herself and begin again with the ordinary business of living, to widen her horizons, if only for Sophie’s sake. A pretence that everything was normal went a long way towards making it so, she knew that. But how to start?
It came to her with something of a shock how very few people she really knew here in London, other than her friend, Julian Carrington – and his form of carefully maintained neutral concern was rather more than she could bear at that particular moment. Then she felt herself smiling, hearing her mother’s voice when they had been faced with yet another crisis:
‘Alors, mignonne
, we will take our minds off it with a little shopping,
hein?
And the problem –
voilà!
It will resolve itself. A new hat, some scent! Oh, very well, handkerchiefs, since you say that’s all we can afford, my little – how did your father say? – my little skinflint!’ As if no more was needed to right the troubles of the world – as indeed it usually was not, for Vèronique. Sometimes, that same approach had worked for Isobel, too…though it wasn’t shopping she’d needed, so much as mixing with other people, those who lived nice, ordinary lives. Being anonymous among the crowds, pretending their own life was ordinary, too.
Today, the renewed sense of energy she felt seemed like a gift it would be ungracious to ignore. She would make herself take that second step, make a little excursion into the world again – it didn’t matter where, anywhere – leaving word that she’d gone shopping: stockings, new hair-ribbons for Sophie, anything.
Susan wouldn’t believe it, of course. She knew Isobel had no need of stockings, or gloves, or anything of the kind, but never mind that. She would be only too pleased to see her at last making some effort to rouse herself from the mental lethargy which had consumed her for far too long. Having made the decision, she sprang out of bed immediately, knowing all too well that her new-found determination might dissipate if she waited mundanely for breakfast, and the newspapersy – and certainly not for the post.
She dressed
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