She’s been waiting for food cravings, but hasn’t been struck by anything strange just yet. No desperate desires for pickles and ice cream or bacon dipped in peanut butter. But she does get seized by sudden unexpected urges every now and then. Last Wednesday she stayed up until three in the morning reorganising her bookshelves into alphabetical order. Yesterday she spent nearly an entire day trying to remember how to knit so she could begin a baby blanket. Today, as she sits behind the counter, Clara is grabbed by an instant impulse to force open the locked drawer of the little writing desk. She’d quite forgotten about it since returning home and, before she’d left, she hadn’t felt desperate desires or insatiable curiosities regarding anything much, not the greater things in life, certainly not inconsequential things like locked drawers. And yet, now, all of a sudden, she has to know. No matter what it takes, Clara will open that drawer.
Three hours later, having tried everything she can think of, including attempts to pick the lock as well as prise it open with a pair of scissors, Clara is truly exhausted and thoroughly fed up. If the desk wasn’t the most precious object she owns in the world, Clara would right now take an axe to it, or a crowbar. But, of course, she won’t. Not only could she not bear the idea of hurting the ornate little writing desk, but she also imagines that even a scratch on its intricately carved surface might spoil its special powers altogether. And so Clara sits on the floor beside the desk, legs outstretched, contemplating her next move: tears or sleep.
Just as she’s starting to nod off, the door to the little shop opens and a customer steps inside. Clumsily, drowsily, Clara stumbles to her feet.
‘Oh, sorry,’ the customer says, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
‘No, no, you’re not.’ Clara blinks, rubbing her eyes. ‘I was just … Oh, hello.’ She recognises this woman, though for a moment, Clara can’t quite place her. And then she remembers. ‘You came in a few months ago; you wrote a letter to your sister.’
‘Yes.’ Ava nods, surprised to be remembered. ‘I did. Thank you. It … It helped me a great deal and, soon after that, well, my life changed a great deal too.’
‘Oh,’ Clara says. ‘For the better, I hope.’
Ava smiles. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Have you come to write another letter?’
Ava nods again. ‘Yes. To a dear friend who died a few weeks ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Ava takes a deep breath. ‘It’s okay. I mean, not for him. But I don’t really feel like he’s gone, silly as that sounds. So much of what he wanted for me has happened, so I rather feel like he’s still with me, same as he ever was. I still talk to him in my head, all the time, though I know that’s silly too.’
‘No,’ Clara says, ‘not silly at all.’
‘Actually, he wrote me a letter, before he died. And I think, by the paper, that he wrote it here.’
‘Oh? When was that?’
‘Sometime between two and three weeks ago. He’s Scottish. Cheeky. Handsome.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Clara exclaims. ‘I remember him. He was lovely. In fact, he …’
‘He told you something?’ Ava asks. ‘He gave you some great life advice? It’s okay, don’t worry, I won’t ask.’ She smiles. ‘It was his thing.’
‘He was very good at it.’
‘Yes, yes, he still is too, judging by the answers I hear in my head,’ Ava says. ‘I’m writing to thank him for that, for everything.’
‘That’s lovely, I’m glad,’ Clara says. ‘I might write to thank him myself.’
Ava smiles again. She looks at the writing desk, then her gaze drops to the floor, to the instruments and implements strewn about.
‘Um, what are you doing?’ The old Ava, the pre-Ross Ava, wouldn’t have been so bold, so intrusive and impertinent. But the new Ava just says what she thinks, within reason – she isn’t quite as outrageous as Ross was, not yet.
Clara follows Ava’s gaze to the floor. Her first impulse is to lie. To protect her family secrets from this virtual stranger. But there’s something about Ava she likes and trusts, even more so than the first time she saw her, so many months ago. She would, Clara thinks, probably make a rather perfect friend.
‘I was trying to force open a locked drawer in my desk.’
‘Did you lose the key?’
‘No,’ Clara admits. ‘I never had it. It was locked when I got it.’
Ava’s eyes brighten with interest. ‘Have you tried to open it before?’
‘Not really. I—’
‘No? Gosh, you’re so patient – I’d have been at it with a hammer the first day I bought it.’
‘Well, yeah, I used to be accepting, apathetic. Boring.’ Clara gives a wicked little grin. ‘But now I want in.’
Ava claps her hands. ‘Excellent!’
‘The only thing is, I can’t take a hammer to it, since I can’t damage the desk in any way. So my options are a little limited.’
‘Ah.’ Ava regards the desk. ‘Okay, so perhaps here’s where my skills come in use at last.’
‘Oh?’ Clara asks, feeling a spark of hope rise in her chest.
‘Well, I used to be a devourer of cryptic crossword puzzles and a gobbler of the written word,’ Ava says. ‘I work in a library, so that helps.’
Clara grins. ‘You’re a reader.’
‘Yes. And I’ve read about how these old writing desks were often built with hidden drawers, and that their visible drawers were sometimes designed with a secret catch that would unlock it from behind—’
‘Really?’ Clara asks, open-mouthed.
Ava nods. ‘Yes, I suppose it was in case the owner lost the key and didn’t have a copy. It was a quick, easy safeguard.’
‘Do you think this desk has one?’
Now Ava returns Clara’s wicked grin. ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out now, isn’t there?’
Both women dart towards the writing desk. Very gently, they lift it and place it carefully in the centre of the carpeted floor. Clara stands, watching, as Ava gets down on hands and knees to examine the back of the desk. Clara holds her breath, then quickly exhales once she starts to sway a little with dizziness.
A sharp, quick click sounds in the silent shop and Ava rises, a triumphant look on her face. ‘That’s it, I think. Try the drawer.’
Slowly, postponing the moment in case it’s all about to evaporate into nothing, Clara bends down and gives a little pull on the handle. It slides open.
The drawer is deeper than it looked from the outside, though it’s empty, save for a single envelope. A letter. And on it, in her great-grandmother’s handwriting is written: Otto Josef Garritt van Dijk. Clara picks it up, turns it over, and sees that it is still sealed. It has never been opened, never been read.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘Are you sure?’
Greer nods.
‘You’re not scared?’
She shakes her head, then smiles. ‘Well, maybe just a little. But what’s the worst that can happen? I’m already dead.’
‘Hey,’ Finn says, ‘you joke, but there’s a lot worse pain than death. Hell, death is a mercy in some cases.’
Greer regards him. ‘Are you trying to talk me out of it?’
‘Oh no,’ Finn exclaims, realising his mistake. ‘I was speaking abstractly. Not about us. This will be fine. This, I’m imagining, will be wonderful.’
Greer remembers what happened with Edward and only hopes that Finn’s right, that he won’t be about to suffer in the same way. ‘So, how’s it going to work?’
Finn only pretends to consider this question. Truthfully, he’s been thinking about it every night since the day he first suggested it. ‘Well, I figure, I’ll play and then, when you’re ready, you just step inside me. Like you did with the tree in my garden.’
‘I like the way you say that, so cavalier, so casual,’ Greer says with a smile. Then, all of a sudden, she worries that, for some reason, Finn might have an even more extreme reaction than Edward. After all, what
if he has a weak heart, or something of that nature? ‘But, what if something awful happens?’
Finn frowns. ‘Like what?’
‘Like you die of a heart attack or something like that.’
Finn shrugs. ‘So, then I’ll have a heart attack and we’ll both be dead. We’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Nothing to lose? You’d be dead.’
Finn shrugs again. ‘We’d still be together, though. That’s all that matters.’
‘I’m not sure it works that way,’ Greer says. ‘I don’t think all dead people come back as ghosts. I don’t know that we’d be able to find each other. I don’t know how it works, I’m no expert on the afterlife.’
‘No expert? You’re living the afterlife. Or, not exactly “living” it, but you know …’
Greer laughs. ‘Yeah, but that doesn’t make me an expert. I don’t know how it works in the grand scheme of things, I don’t know—’
Finn holds up a hand. ‘Okay, enough! Enough procrastinating with ridiculous reasons—’
‘—hardly ridiculous,’ Greer objects.
‘I don’t care. Let’s just do it and see. You promised you would.’
Greer sighs, reasoning that he probably won’t die. ‘All right, then. But, since this is such a risky endeavour, this means you have to play in a park tomorrow too, and—’
‘Hey! No renegotiating of the terms,’ Finn protests. ‘That’s not fair.’
Greer smiles. ‘I know, but still, worth a try.’
‘You really are a cheeky minx.’
‘That reminds me,’ Greer says. ‘Did I mention, Edward invited you round for lunch on Sunday?’
‘Did you mention?’ Finn sits up straight. ‘No, you certainly did not.’
‘I know,’ Greer says. ‘But, apparently, he heard you play – see, I told you it was a brilliant idea, didn’t I? – and then—’
‘Are you sure he doesn’t just want to beat me up?’
‘No, quite the opposite, in fact. Bizarrely, he seems to be really looking forward to meeting you properly.’
‘That is bizarre. But great, I mean …’ Finn frowns. ‘Hold on a sec, is this another sneaky distraction technique designed to throw me off my game and make me forget about what we were about to do?’
‘No! Of course not. I wasn’t lying. What do you take me for?’
Finn raises an eyebrow. ‘You’ve already warned me that you stop at nothing.’
‘Yes,’ Greer admits, ‘true. But I draw the line at lying. Even I have my moral standards.’
Finn eyes her. ‘Do you? But still, why are we talking about your husband when we’re about to try making love for the first time?’
Greer holds up her hands. ‘Okay, you’re right, bad timing. Chalk it up to a fear of intimacy – and death.’
‘But you’re already dead, I thought we’d established that.’
‘Not my death, silly, yours.’
‘All right, okay, well, as I’ve said, that doesn’t matter.’ Finn stands. ‘Now, I’m going to go and get my violin, before you can come up with any other cunning diversion tactics.’
‘Wait!’
Finn turns back. ‘What now?’
‘One more thing. I wasn’t totally telling the truth, at least, not the whole truth. The reason I brought it all up, the death thing, well … I sort of kissed my husband.’
Finn frowns. ‘What?’
‘Well, he kissed me. And then, sort of accidentally, sort of on purpose, he stepped inside me.’
Finn’s frown deepens. ‘He did?’
Greer gives a little nod.
‘Did you try to stop him?’
‘It was over really quickly,’ Greer says. ‘But no, I didn’t.’
Finn narrows his eyes. ‘How did it feel?’
‘How did it feel?’
Finn nods.
‘Well, he got a huge headache and I didn’t feel anything.’
‘Nothing?’
‘No, not really. It was rather similar to walking through the tree.’
‘Oh,’ Finn says, then he smiles.
‘You’re not angry?’
‘No. Hell, he’s your husband. I don’t blame the man for wanting to try. But, at least this way, he won’t try again. And, anyway, it’s a good sign. A sign that you’re not meant to be.’
‘You don’t worry that it might be the same for us too?’
Finn shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t. Not in a million years.’
He chooses Mozart. The Marriage of Figaro. He builds slowly, drawing Greer in, winding long silky ribbons of music around her as she listens, pulling her towards him. When she stands and steps forward, Finn plunges into the greatest aria ever written. The notes soar high and strong above their heads, the strength of the music tugging at their hearts and pulling them towards each other. When she steps into him, for a split second Finn stops. It’s as if he has plunged into a waterfall on a blistering day, cool rivulets running down his scorching skin, as if he’s breathing in the softest, sweetest scent he’s ever smelt and it’s seeping into every cell of his body, as if he’s free-falling through the air with all the beauty of the world beneath him … And then, Finn doesn’t know what he plays. It’s a wonder, in fact, that he manages to keep playing at all, since the sensation of having Greer within him is so intense, so extraordinary, that he might forget to breathe. It’s quite unlike any physical pleasure he’s ever felt before while, at the same time, being an infinite magnification of every orgasm he’s ever experienced – as if he’s standing in the centre of a firework display, as if he is every firework, exploding with joy, over and over again.
Finn finally drops his violin, just as Greer steps out of his body. She shakes herself off and floats above the floor, bathed in a beatific smile.
‘So,’ Greer says, ‘was it wonderful for you? Because it was pretty bloody wonderful for me.’
Finn collapses on the sofa and gives a slight shake of his head.
‘No headache?’
‘No,’ he says, his voice barely a whisper. ‘And, I mean, it wasn’t wonderful for me. It was the most magnificent, most glorious, most sublime experience of my life.’
Greer smiles.
‘In that case,’ she says. ‘Shall we do it again?’
Finn manages a slight nod.
‘And, perhaps,’ she suggests, ‘like physical sex, it gets even better with practice.’
Finn closes his eyes and sighs.
The day after she received Ross’s letter, Ava signs up to take an introductory course in grief counselling. Five days after that, she attends his funeral. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it had been a rather uplifting affair, considering. Ross’s friends, all the people who knew him – of whom there were, also unsurprisingly, a very large number – were keen to celebrate his life with great gusto and cheer. Eulogies were filled with jokes and loving anecdotes. Swing music was played. Pop songs were sung.
And yet, underneath all the cheer ran an undeniable river of grief. Ava inhaled the breath of over five hundred hearts heavy with sorrow and, by the time she’s shuffling home, she feels so heavy with mourning that she can barely put one foot in front of the other. On her doorstep, she fumbles with the key and drops it into the rose bush next to her door.
‘Oh, hello.’
Ava turns to see a man she vaguely recognises, wearing a very smart suit and carrying a briefcase. It comes to her, through the fog of her sorrow, that he lives on her street.
‘Hello,’ she says, beginning to scrabble about among the leaves, trying not to get pricked by the thorns, hoping the man won’t linger.
‘Can I help?’ he asks.
‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’
Not seeming to hear, Edward walks over, puts his briefcase down on her doorstep and starts to help Ava search.
‘Ouch!’ Edward sucks his thumb. Then he laughs.
Ava looks up at him. Her sight is still hazy through the fog of sorrow, but even she can’t deny that her neighbour is really rather handsome. So
mething stirs inside Ava and, all of a sudden, she desires nothing more, nothing else, but sex. With this stranger. A fling. She wants to be flung. Preferably, with great gusto and passion onto her own bed. The desire is so sudden and so surprising that Ava is rather caught off guard. She’s read somewhere that people often want to have sex after (and even during) funerals. Something to do with death and the reaffirmation of life. But, whatever the reasoning, she wonders if, by any chance, he might want the same thing. The way he looks back at her, she thinks she might just be in luck.
‘I don’t suppose …’
‘What?’
‘You might, you fancy coming in for a drink?’
Edward gazes at her. ‘I, um, I know we only live a few doors away but I’m afraid I don’t even know your name.’
She reaches out her hand. ‘Ava.’
‘Edward.’
‘Nice to meet you. Now, how about that drink?’
‘Well, um, I was … Yes, of course, I’d love to.’
‘Great.’ Ava looks down into the rose bush once more and there is the key, caught by the fading summer sunlight, glinting up at her. She picks it up and unlocks the door. And then, she laughs. A pure, sweet, lovely sound that catches the breeze and lifts them both up.
‘What?’ Edward asks.
‘Oh, nothing,’ Ava says. ‘I just realised something. I can say: This is what Ross would have wanted.’ She giggles again.
‘Who’s Ross? He’s not your husband, is he?’
‘Oh, no,’ Ava says. ‘Just a very dear friend.’
Edward smiles. ‘I’m delighted to hear it.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
My dearest Otto,
I have a story to tell. I’m afraid it will probably shock you, perhaps upset you, but hopefully it will touch you too. So, I once wrote these words: ‘my dearest Otto’, to your father but, of course, you won’t remember that you were once called Otto too. You have long been Lucas, after your adopted father. I hope you will not hate me for this, for this choice I made. I hope you will understand why and that you will forgive me for not telling you the truth, for not telling you your story, until now. You were born during the war. On the 8th March 1944.
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