Edward smiles. ‘Do you have any that aren’t flowers or herbs?’
Tilly sniffs. ‘They’re very fashionable right now, actually, Dad. You’d know that if you weren’t so totally ancient.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Edward says. ‘Yes, I admit, I don’t have my finger on the pulse of the “youf” of today.’
Tilly frowns at him. ‘See, that’s exactly what I mean. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Mum?’
Greer shrugs.
‘Yes, well, fortunately youth isn’t a quality coveted in my profession,’ Edward says. ‘And, since I do have a job interview today, I really ought to focus on that.’
‘That’s cool, Dad,’ Tilly says, actually sounding like she means it. ‘You should get out of the house more.’
Now Edward frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
Tilly shrugs. ‘Well, I mean, Mum has to stay in, right? Cos she’ll scare people if she goes out. But you’re alive and everything, but you still stay in as much as you did when Mum died. And now she’s back, so … I figured it meant you wouldn’t have to any more.’
Edward glances at Greer, who doesn’t take her gaze off her daughter. A touch of sorrow brushes across his face. He shakes it off.
‘Yes, well, I will be getting out more, if I get this job, won’t I? I’ll be out from eight till six every day. You’ll be begging me to be home then; you’ll be moaning that I’m never here.’
Tilly raises her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Yeah, okay, Dad. I’m sure Mum and I will get really lonely without you. And we’ll really miss your delicious dinners.’
‘Oh, very funny,’ Edward says, though he can’t help but wonder what Greer might do while he’s out. When she’d encouraged him to go back to work he believed she had his best interests at heart. But, still, he can’t help but wonder, and worry.
‘I’m going to teach Till how to cook,’ Greer says softly. ‘Just basic stuff. So we’ll be okay.’
Edward frowns, wishing his wife sounded a bit happier, that he couldn’t feel her sorrow from where she sat, that he knew how to make it all better, make it all work, make it all perfect. But he doesn’t and he can’t. ‘You’re all talking like I’ve got the job already,’ he says, trying to sound upbeat. ‘I haven’t even had the interview yet.’
‘Oh, you’ll get it, Dad,’ Tilly says. ‘You may be ancient, decrepit and out of touch, but you’re a total genius when it comes to building stuff and everyone knows it.’
Edward smiles gratefully at his daughter. He’s desperately grateful for how relaxed and content she’s been since Greer’s return and really, everything else aside, his daughter’s happiness is enough. He will focus on this. And this, he tells himself, will be sufficient to call the current status quo a success.
The thin ice that had crept over Finn’s heart has now hardened, like a pie left too long in the freezer, to a thick, concrete crust. He can almost hear it rattling around in his chest as he walks, weighing it down so he has a slight stoop. However, the benefit is that he can play his violin again. Sadly, the sound of his music is not so deep and rich and moving as it was when his audience was Greer. And this irks Finn a great deal more than he’d care to admit. But still, the fact of being able to play at all is quite something and the relief takes the edge off his disappointment.
He understands why she hasn’t come back. Actually, he doesn’t blame her. He’s guessed what must have happened. Of course, her husband gave her an ultimatum and, of course, she acceded to his request. Truthfully, he wouldn’t have wanted her not to. Being raised by a mother whose heart was shattered by infidelity has left Finn with a strong moral code on that count. He would never, ever knowingly have an affair with a married woman and he’d certainly end it as soon as he found out. He just wishes he’d known about the husband and child, then he’d never have let himself get involved with Greer in the first place. But he did and now he can’t undo it.
Finn even considers going next door, to visit the sweet – if slightly odd – woman who brought him the cakes. Or what did she call them? He can’t remember. In all honesty, he couldn’t tell the difference at a push. Finn might be able to identify Mozart’s Sixth Concerto or Vivaldi’s Spring Quartet from the first few notes, but food has never been something that interested him very much. He never understands why women complain about the size of their thighs (he once had a fling with a woman who wouldn’t make love with the lights on, so self-conscious was she about this particular area – although he’d caught a lucky glimpse of the supposedly enormous thighs once and found them perfectly lovely) since surely just eating less would solve the problem without fuss. Finn has the opposite problem since, especially when he’s practising a new piece, he often forgets to eat altogether. At least Greer would never worry about her weight, having virtually none of it to speak of at all.
Stop! Finn admonishes himself. Stop thinking about her. It’s over. It’s not happening. Just let it go. And yet, regardless of how many times he tells himself this, Greer keeps snapping back into his mind, suddenly appearing centre stage like a reappearing magician’s assistant. And there doesn’t seem to be much he can do to make her disappear again. No matter how hard he tries. Sometimes, he doesn’t even bother trying, he just lets her hover at the edges of his vision, waiting in the wings, waving at him. It’s easier that way – when he includes her she seems content to be a constant part of the background. But when he tries to banish her, she’ll leap unexpectedly into the midst of an unrelated thought and scare the bejesus out of him.
Truthfully, Finn knows that any attempt to truly forget Greer, or try to replace her with another woman, is futile. She has marked him, she has claimed her stake and while some men can erase such things, can move on without even a scar, he cannot. Despite the fact that this has never happened before to Finn, and despite the fact that it’s only been a week and he can’t really judge so soon, he just knows, somehow he just knows. And so, eventually, he stops telling himself to stop and simply resigns himself to his fate.
Both letters arrive on the same morning, three days later. Edward picks up the thick cream envelope first. He sees the internal postage frank and knows what it is without even opening it. A&B Associates are writing with their formal offer of a position at their firm. They’d suggested as much after the interview, so Edward isn’t surprised, nor is he particularly delighted. And, before he opens the second letter, he decides to turn it down. He’ll simply tell Greer and Tilly that he didn’t get the job after all. He knows he’ll have to find something soon, but not yet, not quite yet. He needs to stabilise his family first; he needs to be sure that it’ll be safe to leave them when he does. And he isn’t at all certain of that right now.
And then, as this runaway train of thoughts is hurtling through his head, Edward begins to open the second letter. He doesn’t know whom this one is from. The stamp is foreign, from Europe, though he doesn’t know exactly where, not understanding the language on the postmark. The envelope doesn’t bear his name, it simply says: To the Householder, followed by the address. It’s only when he’s torn open the envelope and is pulling out the single sheet of paper that he recognises the handwriting. It’s from the same person who sent him that first anonymous letter, the one he received before Greer returned, the one he read so many times he ended up having to Sellotape it back together along the seams. He never thought he’d get another, though he dearly wished he would. And here, at last, it is.
Edward steps back to sit on the staircase. If this letter is anything like its predecessor, he’ll want to be sitting down when he reads it. He takes a deep breath, before smoothing out the page on his knees and beginning to read. As before, the letter isn’t addressed to anyone. But, as before, Edward hasn’t a single doubt in his mind that it’s meant for anyone else but him.
Please forgive me for writing to you again like this. I wasn’t intending to. I cannot explain what moved me to do so, nor can I know if what I say will be right or, indeed, make any sense to you at all. If not, I apol
ogise. And, if so, I do hope you will find comfort and understanding in these words.
Last night I dreamt about you. I think of you quite often, though I don’t even know your name – I probably shouldn’t mention that, but don’t worry I’m not a stalker, just a letter writer – and, though I can’t explain it, I felt your sorrow, how it’s seeping out of you, though you’re trying desperately to contain it, to be strong and seeming normal so as not to hurt those you love.
Speaking of love, when I woke, I remembered this poem, a Shakespearian sonnet – does it have a title? I’m not sure. Sadly I can’t recall it all, but I think I have the most important lines here, the ones that say what I wanted to say to you:
Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! It is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
Now, I can’t explain why I had to tell you this. I hope you will know. I hope it will make sense to you. No doubt you know this poem, but I’m guessing you’d forgotten it, I’m guessing you had forgotten how to love. I think (and of course I could be entirely wrong, though I believe this poem backs me up) that true love means allowing a person to be exactly as they are – exactly – not trying to tinker with the wiring or adjust a few fundamentals here and there. It means wholehearted embracing, not simply enduring the bits you don’t like, or trying to change them.
And, I believe, though I’ve admittedly never experienced it for myself, that there may be great liberation in true love. It means that you fully know who and what you want. If you say ‘yes’ to everything a person is, if you welcome their whole self into your heart then, and only then, can you really know if that’s the person you want to spend your days with. You know then if something is missing – something you in fact want and need – but something you were glossing over in the hopes that it would change, or you could change it. But you can’t change another person and, if you try, they will only hate you for it and, what’s worse, you’ll hate yourself while trying.
True, unconditional love – as opposed to romantic love, the sort that everyone believes is unconditional, until they discover it’s not – is the only sort that fills you, body and soul. It swells your spirit and opens your heart so you feel gratitude and joy to be in this bright bubble of life. It’s all-encompassing and non-exclusive. It does not fix its mark upon one person and insist that one is the only one who must meet your every desire. It simply loves everything as it is and does not seize upon a single soul and try to alter and tinker and tweak until it’s satisfied – that type of love is always edged with pain and suffering. No, it opens its arms to embrace everyone exactly as they are and it trusts that, one day, it will find its perfect match.
When he’s finished reading, Edward wants to scrunch the letter up and burn it. He wants to unread it. He wants to pretend he never opened it in the first place. But, of course, he can’t. Once the words have been released, he can’t squish them back into the bottle. And he can’t pretend he doesn’t know exactly what the letter writer means. If only. Although, how on earth does she – for he believes, unequivocally that it’s a woman – know what’s in his heart and in his life? Could it be his sister? Alba has always been acutely perceptive and no doubt she picked up on all manner of undercurrents when she and Zoë came to dinner. And yet, the tone and language of the letter makes Edward think otherwise. He doesn’t know the writer of this letter, he might not know much about much, but he’s absolutely certain of that. And so how does she know him so well?
Edward sighs. He may be a little clueless and self-deluded, but he knows why he’d rather sit on the bottom of the stairs and wonder about the origins of the letter, rather than act on its decrees. Slowly, he stands and folds both letters and stuffs them in his back pocket. Then he climbs the stairs to go and find his wife.
Edward finds Greer on the second floor of the house, gazing out of the window into the garden. She’s so faded now that he can barely make out her edges in the light. She doesn’t turn when he walks into the living room, perhaps because he’s too quiet, perhaps because she’s looking for someone else. Edward suspects the latter.
‘I got the job,’ he says, because he can’t bear to say the other thing just yet. He wants it all to remain the same, if only for a few moments longer.
She turns to him then, a half-smile on her lips. ‘Congratulations. I knew you would.’
‘Thank you.’ Then, with another deep breath, he crosses the floor to reach her. ‘Are you happy?’ he asks.
Greer nods. ‘Of course.’
‘Bless you for lying,’ Edward says. ‘but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so unhappy.’ He sighs. ‘When you came back you were … radiant, sparkling, effervescent …’ He can’t help but smile at the memory of it. ‘I thought, as you said, that’s how you were now, that’s how you’d always be, in this … particular state.’
‘Yes,’ Greer agrees. ‘That’s what I thought too.’
‘But you’re not any more, are you?’
Slowly, reluctantly, Greer shakes her head.
‘Is it … Is it because of him?’
Greer looks up at her husband, surprised at his directness. It emboldens her in return. ‘Actually, no – I don’t think so. It’s hard to tell, of course, since I have no frame of reference.’ She gives a weak smile. ‘I haven’t been like … this for very long, so I don’t really know how it goes. But …’
‘What?’
‘But, much as I miss … him, and I do,’ Greer admits, ‘it’s not simply that – it feels, it feels more as if I’m trying to go against the nature of who I am now, trying to be a way I am not meant to be …’ She falls quiet for a while. ‘Do you see?’
Though he’d rather go down fighting, Edward nods.
‘It’s as if …’ she continues, ‘As if I’m a river flowing into an ocean, that’s my natural state, the state in which I’m truly myself, truly happy, perfect – but instead I’m a river that’s stopped flowing, a still, stagnant pool of water slowly filling with algae and bugs and—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Edward says, unable to hear any more. ‘I understand.’
Greer looks at him, slightly incredulous. ‘You do?’
‘Yes, I do. I’ve been keeping you stagnant, trapped, forcing you to try and be a way that you can’t possibly be. And I, I …’ He bites his teeth together and takes a deep breath. ‘And having you here like this is, well, it’s worse than not having you here at all.’
Hope fills Greer’s eyes and Edward finds it almost unbearable to see. He’s been her captor, her jailer and now she’s on the edge of being free.
‘You can do what you want,’ he says softly, ‘be the way you need to be. No rules, regulations, no expectations.’
‘Are you sure?’ Greer asks. ‘Are you really sure you’re okay with that?’
‘No. I don’t know.’ Edward shrugs. ‘It doesn’t matter. I’ll get used to it. Since it can’t really be any other way now, can it?’
‘But I don’t want you to suffer, simply so I don’t,’ Greer says. ‘That’s hardly fair, is it? Anyway, I couldn’t, I—’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Edward says, ‘don’t worry about me.’
‘But I do.’
‘I know, and I love you for it. But I also know that this is the only way we can be together,’ Edward says. ‘If you’re able to be yourself, otherwise, what’s the point?’
‘How will it work? What will we do? What …?’
Edward shrugs again ‘I don’t know; I’ve not thought that far. I suppose we’ll talk it over with Tilly and try to explain and then … Then we’ll just try to figure it out as we go along.’
‘Are you sure?’ Greer asks again.
‘I believe,’ Edward says, ‘at least I want to believe, that this is the best way to be and the only way to love. And, after that, we’ll just have to see how it works out.’
‘Thank you.’ Greer ho
lds her hand up to Edward’s cheek and he closes his eyes. He wonders if his heart will ever recover. He wonders that for a long time. Long after she’s disappeared.
Chapter Twenty
‘Oh, dear,’ Clara says, ‘Greta is really going to hate me now.’
Pieter runs a finger along her bare arm. ‘I’m starting to get a little jealous of your obsession with Greta. Are you certain that seducing me wasn’t just a way of getting to her?’
‘Um,’ Clara pretends to consider it. ‘Er … yes, quite certain.’
‘Then I have absolutely no idea what your ulterior motive is. You’ve got me stumped.’
Clara turns onto her side, letting the sheet slip from her shoulders. ‘Is it not possible that I just wanted you?’
Pieter shakes his head. ‘You’re saying that I was the final objective in your plan? No, I’m afraid I can’t possibly believe that. You are, quite simply, the worst liar I’ve ever met.’
Clara casts her eye around the bedroom. Happily, like every other room in the house, every inch of its floor is completely covered with piles of papers. ‘I get the feeling that you haven’t had that many liars – or, indeed, honest people – in this room at all …’
Pieter smiles. ‘Gosh, you women really do have your extra senses, don’t you?’
Clara studies him. ‘Have you ever been in love?’
‘Well … yes, I have actually. Perhaps not in the way of Marthe and Otto, but yes, in my own way, I have.’
Clara waits.
‘A woman lived in this room – well, in the whole house, of course – for about five years,’ he continues, suddenly sounding sorrowful. ‘She left when I was thirty-five.’
‘Did she leave you because she kept slipping over all your papers?’ Clara says, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘Did she break her leg one too many times?’
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