Sara followed him underground, into the bowels of the museum.
The words would not come.
In fluent Italian, Gillane ordered two espressos.
"Were you....always....a painter?" Sara saw an expression of surprise pass across Gillane's face.
He paid for the coffee. The coins rattled on the small table as he counted them for the waitress.
"Gracia," he smiled at the waitress who gazed at him expectantly.
"Yes, Sara. I've been painting for many years," he said, matter of factly. "Every now and then I exhibit, here in Florence."
"I..I didn't know you were a painter."
Her eyes riveted on the table, Sara sipped her coffee.
"I always have been."
Gillane was looking intently at her. Thinking without speaking.
He got up abruptly.
"I must leave you now."
Sara sprang to her feet.
"Wait! We haven't seen each other for twelve months. Surely we can find something to talk about!"
Gillane bent down and kissed her on both cheeks. He slid his arm around her waist and held it there, looking down at her. He moved towards the staircase. Sara followed him out into the warm sunshine of a Florentine spring.
Side by side, they strolled along the timeless, narrow streets. Gillane clasped his hands behind his back, pensive and silent. At a loss for words, Sara wanted desperately to speak. What could she say without sounding like a schoolgirl? Didn't their time together, mean anything to him? Why did he send a card if he didn't care? And, by the way, was he a murderer?
God! God! There is nothing to say! Leave it alone! Sara! Sara! A lifetime and sadness are waiting for you! It’s what you want. You don't know anything different. You've never known anything else.
Sara stopped walking. They had reached her hotel.
She clasped Gillane's hand. In the lobby, the elevator, the corridor leading to her room. Gillane opened the door.
In a language that belonged to them, they loved. Gillane did not speak. Sara dared not speak. Inside of him. This was who she was.
The sheets drenched, they lay there, holding, caressing, touching.
Sara filled a glass with water. An oasis in a desert. Her thirst quenched, she offered the glass to Gillane. He preferred to do without.
He pulled her towards him and kissed her. She was his oasis.
"I should go," he murmured, his lips against hers. "Back to the gallery before they close."
He pushed the sheet away and sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing her. Sara found his watch and handed it to him.
"Five o'clock," he said putting it on, "Five o'clock, Sara."
Sara lay her head on the pillow watching him dress. The shirt, the socks, the jacket, the trousers.
"I'm leaving for France in the morning. How long will you be in Florence?"
He was standing at the window, looking out onto the street.
"Until Sunday," she replied.
Sara sat up and slipped on her dressing gown. The gods had granted her wish. Now there was nothing left to comprehend, analyse or question.
Gillane embraced her, his lips lingering on her neck, her eyes, her mouth. He stroked her hair and then he was gone.
******************
David returned from his day trip to find Sara still in her room. His gentle knock on the door had gone unanswered. He opened it anyway to steal a glimpse of the sleeping beauty. Instead he saw her standing at the window. He regretted not having his camera. A ray of sunlight glimmered against her white dressing gown. Her head bowed, her hands resting on the windowsill.
In the single ray of sunlight, he saw a crystal drop. And another. She was crying.
"Sara. Sara," he whispered.
His intrusion went unheard.
She pressed her face against the glass. She was seeing something down below in the street. She drew her hand up to her hair and down again, punching it violently against the windowsill. Her fist clenched, she screamed. A muffled deathly wail. The sound a mother would make hearing that her child had died. Or a wife, her husband.
David retreated from the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
An hour later and fresh from a soak in the bath, David knocked on Sara's door. He heard her walk across the bare wooden floor.
She opened the door, wearing a beautiful cotton dress, her hair swept up, her face cut with a smile.
"I thought it was you," she said pulling him into the room. "Tell me all about your trip."
The ray of sunlight had disappeared, as too, had any trace of what he had witnessed.
"Sara," he stammered. "You're so much better..."
She seemed taken aback by his observation.
"I'm fine, it was just a bad headache. Come on, let’s eat. I'm starving!"
**********************
On September 23rd, at 4.00 pm at a registrar in Greenwich, Sara and David were married. A sumptuous reception followed at Imeldi's.
They had chosen the date carefully in order to ensure that everyone could attend. Jane, Fiona, Tim, Philip and the children came. David's colleagues from his Law Chambers arrived, nicely bronzed from their holidays in Barbados, Florida and other far-flung destinations. Sara's parents, David's parents, brothers and sister, the Maestro and the Maestro's flavour of the month, friends from the Art Society.
The dinner and dancing continued late into the night.
Before the wedding, Sara and David had reached an agreement. He would move into her five bedroomed house. Sara had sensed that David was disappointed. He accused her of shunning his house because it was not in a smart enough area. In the end, Sara convinced him that because her house was the bigger of the two, it would be foolhardy to downgrade to something smaller.
They returned from their two-week honeymoon in Australia that had included four days camping in the outback. Sara had hated every minute of the swarming bush flies and the lack of a flushing toilet. David, on the other hand, had revelled in what he called "roughing it." He thoroughly enjoyed eating out of a can and going without a bath for the four days. His bright smile never faded, even when Sara complained loudly of "four days spent in hell."
Back in London, Sara could not shake her irritability. David decided to rent his house, which annoyed her. She castigated him for expecting their marriage not to work. When he moved in to her house, he brought very few things with him, mostly law books. She complained that there was nowhere to put them. David preferred to eat out every night and showed no interest when she suggested they stay in and cook a meal together.
Whereas Sara got home at 5.00 pm, David worked late. He would ring around 7.30 to say where they should meet for dinner or to let her know he had already grabbed something to eat and was on his way home. The lull in the cycle of restaurant dinners was achieved by force. Sara stubbornly refused to go anywhere during the weekend which involved eating. David obliged by watching her prepare dinner.
Sara's loyalty to the Maestro was also beginning to wane. She was disturbed by his talk of moving to Switzerland permanently and becoming a tax exile. She got worried when she found letters from his accountant and lawyer outlining the best way for him to transfer his assets and reduce his tax liability in Britain, in preparation for his "relocation." When she confronted him, he replied that she would probably be too busy soon with babies to want to work anymore.
Astounded, Sara had learned that she was not indispensable.
The days were growing short and dark. It was nearing Christmas, she had been married for almost four months and yet, she felt as if she had nothing to celebrate.
On December 24th, it arrived. A small, white envelope with the familiar writing. She had waited for it patiently. For nine months. Forever. A year ago, she had felt the same paper between her hands...
"Sara? Anything for me?"
David was coming down the stairs behind her. She slipped the envelope into her dressing gown pocket.
"Yes, darling. Here." She handed hi
m the bundle of post.
David took her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.
"Happy Christmas, darling."
"It’s not Christmas yet, silly. Only Christmas Eve."
She could feel his thigh crushing her envelope and longed to push him away.
"Every day is Christmas Day with you, Sara."
David hugged her again and held up the bundle of letters.
"Shall we read these together over breakfast?"
Sara followed her husband into the kitchen. She was desperate to see the contents of the envelope but David needed her attention. He had brought home the smoked salmon and organic eggs the night before, for "their first Christmas Eve breakfast."
She looked at David busy extracting the butter and cream from the fridge, his blond hair all ruffled. Sara liked him best like this, calm and unrushed, preoccupied with something other than work. Sometimes he was perfect.
David was rummaging noisily under the stove, looking for a saucepan.
"I'll do that, darling," Sara intervened. "Why don't you make the juice?"
"Rightee-O," David replied enthusiastically, reaching for a large knife.
She heard him slice the oranges and pass them through the juicer. Sara dropped a knob of butter into the pot and watched it melt slowly. She was grateful for the "whirrrh" of the juicer which eliminated any chance of talking.
The newspaper fell through the front door with a thud and she went to retrieve it.
In the hallway, she examined the envelope once more. She pressed it against her cheek.
"David should never see this," she whispered, placing the envelope in her handbag for safekeeping and until she could read it in peace.
The "whirrh" in the kitchen had stopped.
"Sara! Your butter's burning!"
For now, Gillane would have to wait.
******************
Later that morning, they caught a bus for Oxford Street. Sara had not thought of buying David a Christmas present until he had handed her a small box exquisitely wrapped in turquoise coloured paper, tied with a silver ribbon.
"Now, you mustn’t open it until tomorrow morning darling. It’s with all my love."
Sara was embarrassed that she did not have one to give him in return. It was always going to be like this, him initiating, her reciprocating.
The double-decker bus ride provided a bird’s eye view of the traffic ahead. Sara thought of the robin at Downswold, his friendly little face.
"I think we should get off here and walk the rest of the way," David announced. "Sara, did you hear me? This bus is not going anywhere."
They were stuck in Knightsbridge, opposite Harrods.
"Tell you what, let’s clean out the food hall!" David shouted as he jumped off the bus.
An hour and a half later, David decided that they had just about everything they needed. Two bags in either hand, a total of eight carrier bags stuffed with food.
Arms weighed down by the bulging bags, they groaned in unison as they attempted to walk a few steps forward.
"I can't see myself getting too far with this lot," said David, his face wrinkled up disparagingly.
"Nor with all these people," replied Sara. "Is there anything else we need?"
David shook his head.
It was the cue Sara was hoping for. On her own, away from the house.
"Why don't you take a taxi home?" she suggested. "I've still got some shopping to do. I won't be long, a couple of hours."
"It’s for the best." David concurred, setting the bags down on the pavement. He reached for Sara's handbag. "I need your keys. I've left mine at home."
"Quick! There's a taxi!" Sara ran off across the street forcing David to cancel his search for the keys.
Overloaded with all eight bags, David struggled to join her at the waiting taxi.
"Sorry, darling. It was empty. I had to get it for you. Here are the keys."
Sara handed him the keys before disappearing into the crowd of Christmas shoppers.
She caught the 107 bus to Oxford Street. Marks & Spencer, Debenhams, Selfridges, garlanded with decorations. Selfridges. She jumped off the bus and made her way inside, down to the cafe where she remembered, they served wine.
The cafe was full to overflowing. The familiar scent of cigarettes and alcohol. Foreigners, tourists, young and old, wedged between the day's shopping. Sara was lucky to get a minuscule table straddling the emergency exit.
She lit a cigarette waiting for her wine to arrive. She propped the envelope against the pepper mill and stared at it. Postmarked the 23.12. Goldarn.
"Can I get you anything else?"
She waved the waitress away and took a sip of the wine.
The butter knife slid under the flap. Inside a card and a separate sheet of paper. On the front of the card, a drawing of a stone cottage, covered in snow. Nine months of silence.
"Dearest Sara, While we live, let us live. Yours, Guillaume."
Sara unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a programme from the exhibition in Florence. A listing of the paintings, numbered one to twenty two. At the bottom of the page, Gillane had written: "All but one sold. Will exhibit here again 21 - 30 March."
Sara turned card, envelope, programme over and over, scrutinising each letter, each word.
"You disappoint me, Gillane." she muttered, "But then, all of the men in my life have disappointed me."
He had given a sign of life. That she should rejoin him at the same place, at the same time. A subtle invitation or the plea of a man wracked with longing?
The strange words in the card. Yes, we should live whilst we have life. Surviving is a curse. Living is a blessing. The words and their meaning were profound, yet obvious. To be interpreted a thousand different ways, depending on who was reading them.
And what if she went to Florence? To spend one afternoon together? Nine months and then another meaningless card.
"I am drawn to him. He is in every part of my being. Inside me is only him. Will always be of him." she heard herself say.
"Can I get you another?" inquired the waitress.
"No. Thank you. Just the bill please."
Sara looked at her watch. 2.15. She had left David an hour ago. She slid the card back into the envelope and glanced at the programme.
Number 14 stood out from the rest. La Veuve toute en blanc. The Widow in white. Even more bewildering was the description underneath:
"The artist’s wife on her wedding day."
Chapter Eighteen.
"If you're ready to leave Madam, I'd like to offer this table to another customer who is waiting."
Sara looked at the waitress in disbelief. She acquiesced nonetheless and paid for the wine including a generous tip.
"Good grief!" was all she could think of as she strolled into Marks & Spencer, "Gillane and Sarah were married!"
"Surely not," she rambled on, choosing a leather briefcase for David. "That odd phrasing, The Widow in white. How could Sarah be a widow if Gillane were alive and she was not?"
"Merry Christmas, Madam."
Sara extracted her American Express card for the cashier.
"Put it on this. Er.. Merry Christmas to you too."
"Would you like it gift-wrapped, Madam?"
"A widow? He must mean that figuratively she died."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yes, yes, wrap it please...."
"We don't wrap it at the cashier. Over there. I have to give you a chit..."
"Well then, give me the chit."
Sara retrieved her card and went in search of the gift-wrapping counter. Number Four was free in the Shoe Department.
"Your chit, Madam."
Sara handed her the briefcase and chit together.
"Any particular colour?"
"Red. No blue. That silver paper would be fine."
"And a bow or ribbon?"
"Jesus! You decide, will you?"
Sara had returned to the business of living and it was wearing her down.
****************
David was sound asleep by the time Sara got home. Sprawled across the living room sofa, newspapers fanned out over the carpet at his feet.
Sara placed his present under the Christmas tree then woke him up.
"Sara. What time is it?"
"Almost five. I took the tube back. It took forever. Have you had anything to eat?"
"Just a cheese sandwich," David replied, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
"Why don't we have an early dinner? I didn't have any lunch."
All of their purchases from the food hall were still sitting on the kitchen counter.
"Dear me." Sara grinned at David. "I think we may have gone overboard."
"I'll fatten you up yet, my little goose!" David replied, hugging her.
Sara hugged him back.
"Oh, no! Don't you dare say that!"
They looked at each other laughing.
"How about, we gorge ourselves and watch a video?"
"Deal!"
Sara extracted herself from David's arms and smiled at him. "Why," said a voice in her head, "can't it always be like this?"
Together, they loaded the tray. Pâté, bread, cheeses, cold roast chicken, grapes, potato salad, chocolate log, walnuts and butter.
David popped open a bottle of champagne which exploded noisily, apparently not yet recovered from its recent taxi ride.
Sara hadn't recovered either but for now, she was experiencing something close to happiness.
***************
In the middle of January, Sara discovered she was pregnant. Although David was overjoyed, Sara felt perplexed at the prospect of becoming a mother. The baby was due to arrive in September, around the date of their first wedding anniversary.
Sara observed that ever since the news of her pregnancy had been broken, David had become keener to take on bigger assignments and had started travelling abroad more frequently.
Admittedly, she was painful to be around. The mornings were spent retching and vomiting. She usually couldn't even think until midday. Nor could she stomach the sight of anything except peanut butter, bread or mashed potatoes. Dinners at their favourite restaurants were therefore out of the question.
When David was around, it was only for a couple of days at a time. He would return home from work, rarely before 10.00pm, preferring to eat out with his colleagues, rather than face a grumpy wife. Sara did her best not to notice. In any event, she was normally in bed by 9.00pm, her energy sapped by the foetus inside her.
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