… our very sorrowes weepe,
That joyes so ripe, so little keepe.
To Amarantha, That she would dishevell her haire
Richard Lovelace (1618–1657)
TRAFALGAR SQUARE WAS PACKED with tourists enjoying the gift of a mild evening in January. It was surprisingly warm and the sky was a deep, soft midnight blue. The road was busy: cars and buses congealing into a seemingly never-ending stream of traffic.
Justin swore lightly under his breath and glanced at Isa. ‘Sorry about this, I should have taken a different route.’
‘Are we in a hurry?’
‘I made a reservation—’
He swore again and stepped on the brakes as a girl with a pom-pom hat and a black miniskirt crossed the road directly in front of the car. Justin jabbed his hand at the horn. Without missing a stride, the girl flashed an impudent smile and blew him a kiss. Isa watched her as she disappeared into the crowd, the red pom-pom a brave splash of colour moving farther and farther away.
She looked back at Justin. ‘I’m sure they’ll keep the table for us.’
He sighed. ‘If not, we’ll have to settle for McDonald’s. All the restaurants will be booked solid by now.’
It was another thirty-five minutes before they arrived at the restaurant, but their table had indeed been kept for them. It was the kind of place Justin liked: small and intimate, with pretty tablecloths, soft lighting, and attentive waiters. A serious menu with serious prices. The gloss of wealth without the vulgarity of excess.
He had ordered a bottle of champagne and she smiled and nodded at this attempt at festivity. He was making it easy for her. He was behaving as though nothing was wrong, as though last night’s aborted embrace had never happened. He was keeping up a light flow of conversation: safely banal, amusing at times. But underneath the quiet tone of his voice lurked something that had not been there before.
She wasn’t feeling particularly well. After her broken night she had spent most of the day sleeping—or rather, oversleeping. She had woken up late in the afternoon with her mind clogged and sluggish, a faint headache nagging behind her eyes. As for wind chimes, open windows and missing photographs—maybe she had imagined most of it. She had, after all, been half-asleep at the time. There was a rational explanation, she was sure. And if she repeated this to herself often enough, she might even start to believe it.
The waiter had poured too much champagne into their glasses and some of the liquid splashed over the rim. Isa watched a tiny translucent drop travel down the side of Justin’s glass; down, down until it reached the tablecloth, where it spread into an ever-widening stain, much too large for such a tiny drop of moisture.
‘What are we drinking to?’ she asked.
‘Well, this is a bit late in the day, but maybe we should toast our New Year’s resolutions.’
‘I don’t have any.’
‘You should. It’s expected.’
She looked at him and thought silently: if only I could make things right again.
‘Come on,’ he quizzed. ‘Surely you can come up with something.’
‘I don’t have high aspirations. To be happy, that’s enough for me. I know it sounds trite—’
‘It’s not trite. It’s hugely ambitious. I’m not even sure it’s not verging on hubris.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘But I’ll second it. Be brave and challenge the gods—why not?’
‘And yours?’
‘Oh,’—he paused—‘not to take anything for granted. That’ll do.’ His voice held the same detached inflection she remembered from the previous evening. At least I know where I stand now. How quickly things had changed. Only yesterday there had been a connection between them that felt true; now he was a friendly stranger.
The food was excellent and on the surface everything seemed fine. They made pleasant conversation, but it grated on her. Too much between them remained unsaid and the weight of those unspoken words was almost palpable. ‘Don’t you understand,’ she felt like saying. ‘I did not turn from you. I did not reject you. But Alette was there with us. Surely you felt her presence?’
It was still early by the time they left. As they walked to the car, she felt a sense of bleakness stealing over her. All she wanted to do now was to get to bed and sleep for a hundred years.
He opened the door of the car for her and said, ‘Are you in a hurry to get home? There’s something I’d like to show you.’
‘What?’
‘A special place. I’ll take you there.’ He did not say any more, and they did not speak during the lengthy drive. She was starting to feel apprehensive. When he finally parked the car in an almost empty park, she did not exactly know where they were. It was dark here, and deserted. But in front of her was the Thames and on the other side a panorama of cool, glamorous light. She recognized the tower at Canary Wharf, an immensely tall finger of glittering glass. And there, looking like a toy, was the Docklands Light Railway.
They carefully negotiated a series of steps leading downward. Around them the darkness was soaked through with the smell of the river. An intense smell: a smell of rotting leaves and the tang of salt. The water seemed black as pitch; the smears of light streaking across its dark surface transitory and ephemeral.
‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ He was staring at the water as if mesmerized.
She didn’t answer. As children, she and Alette had often slipped out after their bedtime. Sometimes they had visited the river that curled through the farm like an enormous brown snake. Alette loved the water, but Isa had sensed something ancient and primal and not very friendly lurking in its warm, loamy depths. During the day the river awed and overwhelmed. At night it became something that defied comprehension. Something beyond imagining. She had the same sense of disquiet now as the cold wavelets of the Thames slopped against the pebbles at her feet.
She hugged herself and looked around her. They were alone. There was no one else on this stretch of pebbled embankment and no light shone from the few barges moored close by.
Justin was standing with his back towards her, his shoulders hunched slightly forward. His eyes were fixed on the huge column of the Canary Wharf tower.
‘Did you know,’ he said suddenly, ‘that migrating birds run the risk of smashing themselves to death against skyscrapers?’
The remark was so inexplicable, she had no idea how to respond.
He nodded as if to himself. ‘It always happens at night. And then the next day you find these dead and dying birds at the foot of tall buildings. Most of the birds die from the force of the impact. Those who survive are usually horribly maimed, with broken beaks and bloody feathers. I lived in Toronto for a while and during the migration season there would be volunteers searching the streets every morning for mangled birds.’
Another long pause. ‘But you know what’s the most amazing thing about it? The birds never fly into dark, unlit buildings. Never. You’d think that would be the reason, right? That somehow they can’t see these structures at night? Not so. It’s the tall, lit buildings that are hazardous. The birds fly straight at them, smashing themselves to pieces against those brightly lit yellow windows.’
‘Like moths burning up in a flame.’ Her voice sounded strange to her ears.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Like that.’
‘Justin.’
He kept his eyes on the far side of the stretch of water.
‘Look at me.’
He turned on his heels, facing her now, but in the darkness she saw only the whites of his eyes, not the expression.
‘Tell me about Alette.’
Just saying Alette’s name out loud felt daring, as though she was tempting fate.
For a few moments it was silent between them. Then he said simply, ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Tell me what went wrong.’
She thought at first he wasn’t going to answer her. The silence ran on and on.
‘Do you know what first attracted me to Alette?’ He sounded almost surprised. ‘Her walk. She had this way of walking as though she didn’t give a damn. She looked so free, so unfettered …’ He paused and it was quiet again.
He balled his hands and pushed them into his pockets. ‘It went wrong between us because the pact didn’t work out.’
‘What pact?’
‘The pact you make when you fall in love. You know how when you’re first attracted to someone, you always present only a certain side of yourself? The best part of you, your most attractive qualities? It’s like this game we all play.’
She nodded.
‘Well, inevitably things move on, and you’re getting ready to hand over your trust as well as your heart. Point of no return. The time for complete honesty. At this stage you have to put everything on the table and show who you really are. All the flaws, the insecurities. If you don’t … if you persist in faking it, you violate the pact.’
‘But if you love someone, you love them regardless.’
He turned away from her and stretched out his hand as though he might actually be able to touch that distant column of glass and light.
‘I thought so, too,’ he said, ‘but I was wrong.’
His voice was filled with such sadness, it tore at her heart. She walked over to him and placed her arms around him from behind, hugging him close.
‘I don’t want to talk about her anymore,’ he said, his voice muffled.
‘Then we won’t,’ she said. ‘We won’t talk about her.’
They stood like that for a long time. It seemed to her as though the darkness around them had deepened. The heavy smell of the river was in her nose and inside the narrow confines of her ribs she felt the sad beating of bruised and bloodied wings.
When he finally turned around to face her, she placed her hand on his cheek and found it wet with tears.
‘Come home with me,’ he said.