‘You should have a fling.’
Ava chokes on her wine. ‘With you?’ she asks, when she’s got her breath back.
Ross smiles, placing his hand gently on her knee. Ava glances down at his hand, then back at his face, his mouth, his lips … And, suddenly, she’s so overcome with desire that it terrifies her.
‘No, not me, lassie. I don’t sleep with anyone I’m assisting. It’s not part of the service and it just ends up complicating and confusing things. Trust me, you’d regret it.’
‘Oh,’ Ava says softly, trying to hide her disappointment. ‘Okay.’
‘Aye, but I do think ye need a fling. Not a relationship – not yet. Nothing serious, all right? Promise me that. Fun is what you need. Dancing and sex. Sex and dancing. All right?’
Ava looks at him, incredulous. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude,’ she says, still feeling the sting of rejection, ‘but I don’t even know you. Why on earth should I take your advice?’
Ross smiles. ‘Because I know what I’m talking about. This is what I do. I see into women’s souls and I tell them what they need to do to be happy. And this is what I’m telling you.’
Ava scowls. ‘And how do you know I’m not already happy?’
Ross gives her a look.
‘Okay, okay.’ Ava scowls. ‘But sex and dancing? Really?’
Ross nods. ‘Aye.’
Ava frowns.
‘Stop being so cynical,’ he says, still smiling. ‘You know – deep down, you know I’m right.’
And Ava’s scowl intensifies, because she does.
When Finn opens his curtains she is the first thing he sees. He blinks, but when he opens his eyes she’s still there. Finn closes the curtains.
Fuck. He can’t do this. He won’t. He won’t step into someone else’s marriage. Even if she’s willing to, he will not be a party to it. No matter how deeply, no matter how desperately he wants her, he will do the right thing.
Finn opens the curtains a crack and peers through. Greer seems to be leaning against the tree, though of course that’s impossible, since surely she’d slip right through. He steps back and waits. A few minutes later he peeks again. Greer hasn’t moved.
The following morning, having kept his curtains closed for the whole day previously, Finn pulls himself out of bed and takes another peek. Greer is still standing by the tree. He wonders if she’s come and gone, once or a few times, or if she’s actually been there, unmoving, since the day before. It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. Either way, he won’t go to her.
Three hours later, after he’s practised and showered, Finn is in the kitchen forcing himself to eat toast. He forgets to butter it and the slightly burnt bread scrapes against the roof of his mouth. He has to go into the school today, he has eager (or, more often, reluctant) students waiting to be imbued with the joys of Mozart and Beethoven. Finn glances out of the window overlooking the garden. She’s still there.
Six hours later, after a rather trying day of attempting to persuade the young of the enlightening glories of classical music, Finn slams his front door and slumps onto his sofa. He tells himself he won’t look. He’ll practise, he’ll eat dinner, he’ll fall into bed and he’ll sleep. That’s what he’ll do. He won’t look out of his windows, he won’t draw back any curtains. He’ll focus. He’ll be good.
Ten minutes later, after more of this self-talk, Finn wanders into the kitchen for, ostensibly, a glass of water. He stares at the glasses, the taps, the fridge. And then, just as he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do, Finn sneaks a glance out of the back window. She’s gone. Despite the thick, concrete crust over his heart, he can still feel it contract. Disappointment washes through his blood, sorrow. He pushes himself up against the fridge, struggling to breathe.
And then, all of a sudden, she’s there again. In just the same place as before, unmoving. It was simply the light, a trick of the fickle, flickering late afternoon sunlight shining through the leaves of the tree. Finn gasps and, before he can stop himself, before he even realises what he’s doing, he’s yanking open the back door and is running through the grass until he reaches her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Greer says, before Finn can speak. ‘I’m sorry I left without explaining, without coming back. I know—’
‘You’re married.’
‘Well, yes, but—’
Finn frowns and this time, though he can hardly bear it, his hardened heart rises with hope. ‘What do you …?’
‘I tried to be, again. I tried to be as I was before,’ Greer says. ‘But I’m not, I’m not the same – I don’t love in the way I used to, when I was alive.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I love my husband. I do. But I love you. And I, I … want to be with you, if it’s possible, in the way you thought it might be.’
Finn swallows. His chest aches as he feels the crust on his heart start to crack, the ice begin to thaw. ‘Do you want to be with him, like that, too?’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain – I feel deep affection for Edward, I’m sure I always will. And, at first, I thought I came back to be with him, just him, again. But now I don’t think I did, at least, I don’t think I can.’
‘Have you told him all this?’ Finn asks.
Greer nods.
‘And he’s okay with it?’
Greer glances at the grass. ‘Well, it’s a lot to ask, he’s human, after all. But he understands. At least, he’s trying. He’s being pretty amazing, actually. And if you’re not okay with it, I understand too. I know it’s a lot to ask – to love without attachment. It’s not something humans do very well.’
Finn nods, thinking back over the past week. ‘No,’ he admits, ‘I guess it’s not. And, I confess, I feel more attached to you, more desirous of you, than I’ve ever felt for anyone in my life.’
Greer is silent for a while. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘But the way I feel about Edward is … It’s part of the way I feel about everything. I want to see him every day, I want to be affectionate with him, I want to be allowed to keep loving him – but I won’t be with you if that’ll cause you pain.’
‘Oh, no,’ Finn exclaims, suddenly feeling her slipping away again. ‘No, I didn’t mean—that doesn’t mean … I’m not insisting on keeping you all for myself. You can come and go as you please,’ Finn says, slightly surprised to find himself saying the words but, at the same time, knowing that he means them absolutely. ‘I don’t need to own you … As long as you come back to me, as long as you’re here from time to time, that would be … bliss.’
‘Really?’ Greer asks. ‘You could do that?’
Finn nods. ‘This is a very strange situation, but yes, I think so.’
Greer smiles. ‘I know.’
‘It’s certainly not one I ever expected to find myself in.’
Greer glances down at her transparent self. ‘Me neither.’
‘No,’ Finn admits, ‘I suppose not.’
They stand in silence for a while until Greer finally speaks.
‘So …’ she ventures. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think I love you,’ Finn says. ‘I even love the fact that you love your husband, as strange as that sounds. I think I want to be with you, whenever possible. I think that I don’t care about anything else.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Our Otto,
It’s hard to believe, to understand, that your son is here and you can’t see him – more than that, you don’t even know of his existence. You will be so happy, so overjoyed, I know, when we are at last together again and you will have more than just me, you will have him, little Otto, as well. Do you mind that I have given him your name? When we spoke of children, I know you preferred other names than your own: Jaap, Johannes, Bastiaan, Mathijs, Vincent … But, I’m sorry, I couldn’t give him any other name but yours. When I first looked into his eyes, he was so completely you. And, of course, saying his name keeps me more connected to you, which I’m afraid, I couldn�
�t resist. I hope you’ll forgive me, I hope you’ll understand, I am fairly certain you will, given these strange and crazy circumstances. Besides, he is only our first. We will have many more children. You wanted five, though I confess, after the birth I did not feel willing to go through it again so many times. Can we compromise on three? Although, as the days pass and the pain fades … perhaps I will be able to do it again and again. We shall see.
Yesterday he looked at me, right at me, right into me, for the very first time. It was … I confess, I cried. Quietly, of course. But, before I knew it, tears were running down my cheeks and I couldn’t stop them. I had spent every hour, every day caring for him: feeding him, rocking him to sleep, holding him – but, even though he needed me, he didn’t seem to know I was there, me, myself, a person separate – and then, suddenly, he did. One day he will see you, his father, too. I hope that day is soon.
Ever Yours,
Marthe
‘He died in Herzogenbusch. He was twenty-three years old.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Pieter says.
‘It means, of course, that he wasn’t my great-grandfather. Though I still don’t understand what happened to Baby Otto. I think he must have died, after all, before my great-grandmother had Granddad,’ Clara considers. ‘And, of course, it means that he never read the letters, doesn’t it?’
Pieter briefly closes his eyes and nods. ‘Which, I imagine, is why your grandfather had them in his possession in the first place.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Clara reaches for Pieter’s hand and he clasps hers in his. It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon and they’re walking back from lunch in a pavement cafe and a visit to De Posthumuswinkel, where Clara bought a selection of papers and her own wax seal embossed with the image of a sealed envelope, along with gold and silver wax. As she shuffled around the tiny shop, feeling as if she were in a church among ancient spiritual relics, Clara slipped into her dream of opening Letters in Amsterdam, of living in this beautiful city that already felt like home. She watched Pieter as he picked up different papers, holding each with tentative reverence before placing it back into its drawer or onto its shelf. And she wondered how he would react if she were to share her dream with him. Though she can’t, she won’t. Not yet.
‘I want to go there,’ Clara says. ‘I want to visit the place where he died. I want to read him the letters. Does that sound stupid?’
‘No,’ Pieter says. ‘It doesn’t, not at all.’
‘I don’t know where it is, I don’t know how to get there, I don’t even know if it still exists, the site of the camp. Maybe they’ve built on it. Maybe nothing’s left. But still, I need to go … I can’t explain …’
Pieter squeezes her hand tighter. ‘You don’t have to. And anyway, it makes perfect sense to me. And I’m sure it’s still there. Most of the camps have been memorialised to commemorate the dead, to allow for visitors. You may even find his name there. You may learn how he died.’
Clara nods. The thought of this traps the words in her throat. She bites her lip and blinks hard to clear her cloudy eyes.
‘It’s not far from here, perhaps less than a hundred kilometres,’ Pieter says. ‘I can take you there, if you wish.’
Clara stops walking. ‘You’d come with me?’
‘Of course. It’ll be a hard thing to do alone. I visited Auschwitz-Birkenau about twenty years ago, after my father died. It was perhaps the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.’ He takes a deep breath and drops her hand. ‘I’ve never, I can’t think on it still, without …’
A gust of sorrow sweeps off him and Clara shivers. She fixes her gaze on the pavement, not wanting to intrude on his memories, not knowing how to comfort him if he cries now. She’d find it hard, she realises, to be in the full force of his sorrow and not try to kiss it away, to stop it, but just to let him feel, to let him crumple and hold him and let him be.
‘I’d like to come with you,’ he says softly. ‘I’d like to be there so you don’t have to be there alone.’
‘Thank you,’ Clara whispers. ‘I’d like that too, very much.’
They walk on along the canal, occasionally dodging bicycles zipping past, brushing each other’s shoulders as they step but not holding hands again, keeping their space, curled up in their own thoughts.
‘I’ve always believed, like Marthe did, that letters aren’t complete until they’re read,’ Clara says. ‘And I hate to think of Marthe’s letters never reaching Otto … That she put all her love, all her heart into that writing, and he never heard her words.’
Pieter nods towards a turn in the road, a side street, and they take it. They brush together and he envelops her hand again.
‘Will you read them all?’
Clara nods.
‘Would you like me to?’
Clara looks up at him. ‘Sorry?’
‘Well, they’re in Dutch. I imagine you might struggle a little, both with deciphering Marthe’s handwriting and with our rather, how do I say, elaborate pronunciation.’ He smiles.
‘You’d do that for me?’ Clara asks.
‘Of course.’
‘That’s so incredibly … Thank you.’ She’s so deeply touched by his offer that the desire to declare love rises up within her. The declaration is on her tongue, ready, but it’s too much, too soon and she swallows it back. ‘Though, I don’t know … Somehow, I think I should be the one to read the letters.’ She smiles. ‘Even if it’ll take me a hundred years.’
‘Okay,’ Pieter says, ‘but I’ll be there, if you change your mind.’
Clara reaches for his hand, brings it to her mouth and kisses his fingers. ‘Thank you,’ she says again, then drops her voice to a whisper, pulls him to a stop. ‘And I must say that I’m rather overcome with the sudden urge to …’
Pieter looks a little shocked. ‘Right now? Here?’
Clara grins, basking in the lighter mood that encircles them. ‘No, I wasn’t thinking of a public display, but we’re not too far from your house, are we?’
‘No,’ Pieter says, his surprise now swirled with delight, ‘it’s about a twenty-minute walk.’
‘Okay, then,’ Clara says, already starting to move, pulling him after her, ‘let’s run.’
‘I’ve got you a gift.’
‘You have?’
They sit in Pieter’s kitchen drinking tea. Despite her initial reluctance, Clara is becoming used to the herbs of the Dutch tea. She still misses the comfort of hot milk, a thing that every time returns her to childhood, but she does enjoy the scent of the dried leaves and petals as they steep, finding that just the smell starts to soothe her before she’s even taken a sip.
‘What is it?’ Clara asks, when Pieter is still silent.
‘When you’ve finished your tea, I’ll show you.’
‘Really?’ Clara gulps down the rest of her tea, wincing slightly at the strength of the final gulp. ‘Okay, I’m done.’
Pieter smiles as he sips. ‘You’re not a person of great patience, are you?’
Clara laughs. ‘I used to be, before … I suppose, in my life back then,’ Clara muses, her voice dropping as she remembers what now feels like a hundred days, a hundred lifetimes ago, ‘when I didn’t really—when, when I wasn’t excited by anything. Back then I was slow and I had all the patience in the world.’
For a moment Clara seems sad, swept back to the past in a sharp tug of melancholy. And then she jumps up from her chair and claps. ‘Okay, drink up old man, let’s go!’
Now Pieter laughs. He stands and follows her out of the kitchen. ‘You’ll have to get fully dressed first, it’s outside.’
Clara bounds down the steps and stands on the pavement, glancing expectantly about, while Pieter follows, locking the front door behind them.
‘Where is it?’
‘Wait a moment, I’m coming.’ He reaches her. ‘Here.’ He points across the cobbled street at two bikes chained up against the railing. One is black, one fire-engine red.
Clara fr
owns. ‘Where?’
‘There.’
‘In the river?’
Pieter laughs. ‘No, the bike. I bought you a bike. The red one.’
Clara’s frown falls. ‘You did?’
‘Yes. Do you like it?’
Clara grins. ‘Do I like it? I-I …’ Then she hides her face in her hands.
Pieter places a hand on her back. ‘What’s wrong? Is it too much? It’s not – it’s just because you said you weren’t rushing off home so soon, and I thought, well everyone here cycles, so—’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Clara mumbles into her hands. ‘It’s a lovely gift, it’s very thoughtful.’ She looks up, peeking through her fingers. ‘I have a confession.’
‘What? You hate cycling?’
‘No, it’s far more embarrassing than that.’
Pieter waits.
Clara drops her voice to a whisper. ‘I don’t know how to ride a bike.’
‘Oh.’ He frowns. ‘Really? But I thought … Isn’t Cambridge one of the cities with the most cycles in England?’
Clara sighs. ‘Yes, yes. I expect everyone in Cambridge cycles except me.’
‘Why ever not?’
She shrugs. ‘My parents tried to teach me but I was too scared to learn and, as I grew up, I just preferred to walk places – probably because I was still a bit scared but didn’t want to admit it – and then, when I started writing the letters, it was perfect because I needed to walk, or I wrote the letters because I walked, I can’t remember which way it happened. But, anyway, there was no need for me to cycle any more.’
‘That’s perfect,’ Pieter says.
‘It is?’
‘Yes, I can teach you.’
A burst of nervous laughter escapes Clara. ‘No, no, no … I’m not a kid any more. I’m thirty-three. People don’t learn to ride bikes when they’re thirty-three.’
Pieter smiles. ‘Perhaps it’s all a matter of perspective. You’re almost a kid compared to me. We could pretend I’m your dad and you’re six years old or something, a perfectly acceptable age to learn to ride a bicycle.’
The Lost Art of Letter Writing Page 16