We took the metro back. It was crowded with the rush hour, so she sat on my knees on one single hard bench.
Your teacher was impressed, I whispered, into the curled hair around her ear.
Yes, she said. I’m coming on in leaps and bounds.
But you can’t stop the lessons, I said.
Why not? she murmured. I have a better teacher now.
Jenny, I said, and turned her face towards me. You know none of this is real.
Isn’t it? she asked.
I rubbed my finger on her lip.
It doesn’t matter, she said. What matters is the music.
Do me a favour then, I asked. Give the music a break, for just one night.
Why?
Because. Sometimes it’s good to take a break.
And it upsets Mummy, she said.
Are you reading my mind?
Maybe, she said. And maybe Petra is as well.
The train swayed and a woman with an armful of onions pressed into me.
Try to forget about Petra.
I can’t, she said. Can you?
But she left the violin in its case that night, which was some kind of relief. I cooked for all three of us and the chopping of onions and the grinding of pepper took my mind off cellos and operas. I tucked Jenny in her bed and read another chapter about the disogred giant with the tender heart.
We have to leave, I said to Sarah, when I came back into the kitchen. She was sitting by the old wood table with a glass of wine and another cigarette.
Whyever, she asked, when it’s so peaceful here?
Do I have to count the reasons?
Riots, she said, at my dig. A child who talks to dead people. Are there more?
I’ve one case to settle, then I can close the office down.
Does it involve a drowned girl?
A funeral, I told her, that I have to attend.
Why?
I can’t tell you why, Sarah.
Jonathan, who can’t tell me why.
I was hired to find a girl. She’s being buried tomorrow.
You’re burying a girl. I’m exhuming one. Maybe we both should stop.
We will.
Tell me it will be better in London.
It will be, I promise.
Myrtle Drive. Wimbledon. You remember it?
Where your mother lives. Monkey-puzzle trees.
Maybe we can settle in Richmond.
Staines.
Clapham.
Blackheath.
Hackney.
Why are we reciting names?
Because it’s fun, I said.
But I was remembering the pink-tracksuited madam, and her place-name recitals. Anya, with her track marks.
Do they still exist, she asked, those places?
Maybe not, I said. Maybe it’s just us.
I could live with that, she said, and curled her hand around mine. Just us.
She drank too much wine that night and I had to help her to the bedroom. I held her steady by the French windows and took her clothes off, piece by piece. Her blouse first, with barely noticeable sweat stains under the arms. She turned, swaying, and I unclasped the bra, which she cupped, for a moment, in her elbows, like a bad schoolgirl. I unzipped her skirt and let it fall to the floor and had to hold her hand while she stepped beyond it. I lifted her then and carried her to the bed.
Do you remember, she asked me, how much fun it used to be?
Yes, I told her. I remember very well.