Valentina felt as though she were drowning. She could not draw a breath; she was pressed by people on all sides. All thought of going into the tube station vanished. She wanted only to get out of the crowd. Elbows and backpacks jabbed her. She heard the buses and cars going by a few feet away. People muttered their annoyance to themselves and each other, but to Valentina all the noise seemed muted.
There was a surge in the direction of the tube entrance. Julia was pushed forward, Valentina backwards. Julia felt Valentina's hand pull out of her grip. 'Mouse!' Valentina lost her footing and fell sideways into the oncoming people. A man said, 'Whoops! She's down! Stand back, please!' in a jocular tone, but no one could move. It was like being in a mosh pit. Hands groped for Valentina; she was put back on her feet. 'All right, then, luv?' someone asked. She shook her head; she could not answer. She heard Julia calling her name but couldn't see her. Valentina tried to catch her breath. Her throat closed; she tried to suck in air very slowly. She was walking, the crowd pushed her forward.
Julia stood outside the crowd, panicking. 'Valentina!' No answer. She dived into the crush again but could only see the people next to her. Ohmigod. She saw a flash of bright hair and lunged towards it. 'Watch it there.' Valentina saw Julia and put her hand to her throat. I can't breathe. Julia grabbed her, began to elbow and push at the people in front of them. 'She's having an asthma attack, let us out!' The crowd tried to part. No one could see what was happening. At last the twins spilled out onto the Oxford Street pavement.
Valentina leaned against a brightly lit shop window full of cheap shoes, gasping. Julia ransacked Valentina's purse. 'Where's your inhaler?' Valentina shook her head. I don't know. A concerned knot of bystanders watched. 'Here, use mine.' A teenaged boy, long hair occluding his face, skateboard in one hand, proffered an inhaler with the other. Valentina took it, sucked at it. Her throat opened slightly. She nodded at the boy, who stood with his free hand slightly extended, as though he might need to catch her. Julia watched Valentina breathe, tried to make her breathe by breathing deeply herself, willed Valentina to breathe. Valentina took a few more puffs on the inhaler, stood with her hand pressed against her sternum, breathing. 'Thanks,' she said eventually, handing it back to the boy.
'Sure, any time.'
The little crowd that had been watching dispersed. Valentina wanted to hide. She wanted to get out of the cold. Julia said, 'I'm going to get us a cab,' and strode off. It seemed like hours before Valentina heard her calling, 'Mouse! Over here!' and she could climb gratefully into the warmth of the black cab. Valentina plopped down on the seat and began scooping the contents of her handbag onto her lap until she found her inhaler. She sat with the inhaler clutched in her hand, weapon-like. Despair blossomed in her. This is crazy. I can't spend my whole life as a Mouse. Valentina glanced over at Julia, who was staring impassively out of the window at slow-moving traffic. You think I need you. You think I can't leave you. Valentina looked out at the unfamiliar buildings. London was endless, relentless. If I had died in that crowd ...? She imagined Julia calling their parents.
Julia looked at her. 'You okay?'
'Yeah.'
'We should get you a doctor.'
'Yeah.'
They rode back to Vautravers in silence. 'You want to look at that website?' Julia asked as they let themselves into the flat.
'No,' said Valentina. 'Never mind.'
THE DIARIES OF ELSPETH NOBLIN
VALENTINA AND JULIA were puzzled by an empty shelf in Elspeth's office. Since the office was jam-crammed with every conceivable kind of book, knick-knack, writing implement and other things useful and useless, space was in short supply - therefore the existence of a pristine, thoroughly empty shelf was a conundrum. It must have held something once. But what? And who had removed it? The shelf was twelve inches deep and eighteen inches wide. It was the third shelf from the bottom in the bookcase next to Elspeth's desk. Unlike the rest of the office, it had been somewhat recently dusted. There was also a locked drawer in the desk, for which they could find no key.
The former contents of the shelf were now sitting in Robert's flat, along with all the other things he'd removed from Elspeth's, in boxes on the floor next to his bed. He had not touched anything in the boxes except Elspeth's jumper and shoes, which he had placed in their own drawer in his desk. Now and then he would open the drawer and pet them, then close it and go back to his work.
He had placed the boxes on the side of his bed away from the door, so it was possible for him not to look at them for days. He considered putting the boxes in the spare bedroom, but that seemed unfriendly. Eventually he would have to explore the contents. Before Elspeth died he had thought he wanted to read her diaries. He thought he wanted to know everything, be privy to all her secrets. Yet for quite a long time he put off touching the diaries or bringing them into his flat. Now they were here, and still he did not open them. He had his memories, and he did not want them altered or disproved. As a historian he knew that any trove of documents has incendiary potential. So the boxes sat like unexploded ordnance on the floor of his bedroom and Robert did his best to ignore them.
BIRTHDAY GREETINGS
IT WAS 12 March, a grey, lowering Saturday; Marijke's fifty-fourth birthday. Martin woke up at six and lay in bed, his mind flitting from happy anticipation (she would expect him to call and must surely answer the phone) to anxious consideration of his birthday tribute to her (a dauntingly complex cryptic crossword in which the first and last letters of each clue made multiple anagrams of her full name and the solution was an anagram of a line from John Donne's 'A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning'). He had given the crossword and her present to Robert, who had promised to send it express. Martin had decided to wait until two to call. It would be three o' clock in Amsterdam; she would have had her lunch and would be in a relaxed, Saturday-afternoon mood. He got out of bed and began to make his way through his morning routine, feeling like an only child waiting for his parents to wake on Christmas morning.
Marijke woke up confused, late in the morning, in weak sunlight that came through the shutters and onto her pillow. It's my birthday. Lang zal ze leven, hieperderpiep, hoera. She had no plan for the day, beyond coffee and cake with some friends that evening. She knew Martin would call, and hoped that Theo would - sometimes Theo forgot; he seemed to deliberately cultivate a protective layer of obliviousness. She always called Theo to remind him of Martin's birthday; perhaps Martin did the same for her? She had dreamt about Martin, a very aangename dream of their old gezellig flat in St John's Wood. She had been washing dishes and he had come up behind her and kissed the nape of her neck. Memory or dream? She imagined his hands on her shoulders, his lips brushing her neck. Mmm. Marijke had been policing her erotic imagination since she'd left Martin. Usually she was quick to boot him out of her mind when he tried to sneak in, but this morning, for a birthday treat, she let the dream-memory unfurl.
The package arrived around noon. Marijke put it on her kitchen table and spent some minutes hunting for a Stanley knife as the package was almost completely covered with tape and beseechments to HANDLE WITH CARE. It looks like it's from an insane person. But he's my insane person, my very own. She ferreted through the plastic packing and pulled out a fat envelope and a pink box. The pink box contained a pair of cerulean-blue leather gloves. Marijke slipped them on. They fitted perfectly; they were soft as breath. She ran her gloved fingers over the invisible hairs on her arm. The gloves disguised her knobbly knuckles and age spots. She felt as though she'd been given new hands.
The envelope contained a letter and a crossword, with the solution in another, smaller envelope. Marijke opened the smaller envelope straight away; she had no talent for crosswords, and Martin knew this. She could never have begun to solve the masterpieces he made for her each year, and they both understood these birthday crosswords for what they were: a demonstration of devotion, the equivalent of the intricate, eye-popping jumpers Marijke knitted for Martin on his birthdays. Inside the envelope were
two stanzas of the Donne poem: If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two,
Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th'other doe.
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth rome,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And growes erect, as that comes home.
Marijke smiled. She opened the letter and a tiny package fell into her blue-gloved hand. She had to take the gloves off to open it. At first she thought it was empty - she shook the package and nothing came out. She probed with a finger, and found two bits of metal and pearl clinging inside. They spilled onto her palm. Oh, oh! My earrings. Marijke carried them to the window. She imagined Martin hunting among the boxes for days, excavating layers of plastic-embalmed possessions, just to find her earrings. Lieve Martin. She closed her hand around the earrings, closed her eyes and let herself miss him. All this distance ...
She raised her head, looked at her one-room flat. It had been the hayloft of a livery stable in the seventeenth century. It had pitched ceilings, heavy beams, whitewashed walls. Her futon occupied one corner, her clothes hung in another corner behind a curtain. She had a table with two chairs, a tiny kitchen, a window that overlooked the little crooked street, a vase of freesias on the windowsill. She had a comfortable chair and a lamp. For more than a year now this room had been her haven, fortress, retreat, her triumphant, undiscoverable gambit in her marital game of hide-and-seek. Standing there, clasping the earrings in her hand, Marijke saw her snug room as a lonely place. Apartment. A place to be apart. She shook her head to change her thoughts and opened Martin's letter.
Lieve Marijke,
Happy birthday, Mistress of my heart. I wish I could see you today; I wish I could embrace you. But since that isn't possible, I send you surrogate hands to slip over your own hands, to lurk in your pockets as you walk through your city, to warm you, to remind you of blue skies (it's grey here too).
Your loving husband,
Martin
Perfect, Marijke thought. She arranged the gloves, the earrings, the crossword and the letter on her table like a still life. It's almost too bad he's going to call and ruin it.
*
Martin stood in his office with the phone in his hand, watching the clock on the computer count up to two o' clock. He was wearing a suit and tie. He was holding his breath. When the clock hit 14:00:00 he exhaled and pressed 1 on his speed dial.
'Hallo, Martin.'
'Marijke. Happy birthday.'
'Thank you. Thank you.'
'Has Theo called yet?'
Marijke laughed. 'I don't think he's even awake yet, hmm? How are you? What's new?'
'I'm fine. Everything's fine.' Martin lit a cigarette. He glanced at the list of questions on his desk. 'And you? Still no smoking?'
'Yes, no smoking. It feels amazing, you should try it. I can smell things. I had forgotten what things smell like, water, freesias. There are so many beautiful smells. Those gloves you sent, they smell like the first day of winter.'
'You like them?'
'Oh, it was all perfect. I can't believe you found my earrings.'
'The Americans have a new word for that: regifting. It seemed a bit miserly to send you your own earrings on your birthday, but having found them ...' Martin thought of Julia putting the earrings into his hands. Marijke thought of the occasion upon which Martin had originally given her the earrings, which was Theo's birth.
'No, I was so happy ... And the letter, and the crossword ...'
'Have you worked it out yet?' he teased her.
'Ja, I sat down and did it straight away, twenty minutes.' They both laughed.
There was a contented pause. 'What are you going to do for your birthday?' he said finally.
'Mmm, coffee and cake with Emma and Lise. I've told you about them.'
'Oh, right. And dinner?'
'No - I'll eat at home.'
'By yourself?' Martin was inspired. 'That's no good. Listen - let me take you out for dinner.'
Marijke frowned. 'Martin--'
'No, listen, here's how we'll do it. Pick a restaurant, somewhere nice. Make a reservation, wear something beautiful, bring your mobile. We'll talk on the phone, you have a lovely dinner, it will be almost as though we're together.'
'Martin, those kinds of restaurants don't allow mobiles. And I would feel conspicuous eating by myself that way.'
'I'll eat too. We'll eat together. Just in different cities.'
'Oh, Martin ...' She weakened. 'What language?'
'Whatever you like. Nederlands? Francais?'
'No, no. Something unusual, for privacy ...'
'Pali?'
'It would be a very short dinner, then.'
Martin laughed. 'Think about it and let me know. What time shall we dine?'
'Half eight your time?'
'Okay, I'll be here.' He thought perhaps he shouldn't have reminded her of that. 'Don't forget to charge up your mobile.'
'I know.'
'Tot ziens.'
'Tot straks.'
Martin put the phone in its cradle. He had been standing in the same spot for the duration of the conversation, leaning over the phone on the desk. Now he straightened and turned, smiling - and his hand flew to his heart. 'Oh!'
Julia stood in the doorway, a dark form against the dim light. 'Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.'
He lowered his face and closed his eyes, almost as though he were going to hide his head under a wing; he waited for his heart to slow. 'That's all right. Have you been there long?' He looked at her. She stepped into the room, and became only herself.
'No. Not very long. Was that your wife?'
'Yes.'
'Did she like the gloves?'
Martin nodded. 'Come into the kitchen, I'll make tea. Yes, she liked the gloves very much. Thank you for choosing them.' He followed her through the aisle of boxes that led across the dining room and into the kitchen.
'Um, Valentina actually picked them. She's the one with clothes-sense.' Julia sat down at the table and watched Martin getting out tea things. He put on a tie to talk on the phone with his wife. For some reason this made Julia a little depressed.
'You're like an old married couple, you and Valentina. You have everything divvied up, all the talents and the chores.' Martin glanced at her as he ran water into the electric kettle. There was something different about her. What's wrong? She seems wrong. 'Did someone hit you?' There was a bruise rising over Julia's cheekbone.
She put her fingers on the bruise. 'Do you have any ice?'
Martin went to the freezer and shifted things around until he found an ancient bag of frozen peas. 'Here.' Julia clamped the bag to her cheek. Martin went back to his tea-making. Neither of them said a word until he had finished pouring out.
'Choccie biccie?' he offered.
'Yeah, thanks.'
'Would you care to talk about it?'
'No.' Julia stared at her teacup, her expression hidden behind the peas. 'She didn't mean it.'
'Nevertheless.'
'How long have you and your wife been married?' she asked.
'Twenty-five years.'
'How long has she been gone?'
'One year, two months, six days.'
'Is she coming back?'
'No. She isn't.'
Julia leaned her elbow on the table, leaned her face into the peas so that she was regarding him at an angle. 'So ...?'
'One sec.' Martin walked to his office and gathered his cigarettes and lighter. By the time he returned to the kitchen he had worked out his answer. 'I'm going to Amsterdam.' He lit a cigarette and smiled, imagining Marijke's surprise.
Julia said, 'Great. When?'
'Oh, erm, soon. When I'm able to leave the house. Maybe in a week or two.'
'Oh.' She looked disappointed. 'So, like, never?'
'Never say never.'
'You know, I've been doing some research. They ha
ve drugs for OCD. And there's behavioural therapy.'
'I know, Julia,' he said gently.
'But--'
'Part of the condition is refusing treatment for the condition.'
'Oh.' She took the peas in both hands and tried to break up the big clumps. Martin thought the bruise had become darker, though the swelling had perhaps lessened. The peas made a crunching sound that Martin found distressing. 'It's not your problem, my dear. I'll get to Amsterdam eventually.'
Julia gave him a small smile. 'Yeah. Okay.' She sipped her tea, then put the peas against her cheek.
'Are you going to be all right?'
'What? Oh, sure, it's just a little sore.'
'Does that happen often?'
'Not since we were little. We used to hit and bite and spit and pull hair and everything, but we kind of grew out of it.'
Martin said, 'Will you be safe when you go back to your flat?'
Julia laughed. 'Of course. Valentina's my twin, she's not some huge monster. She's actually pretty timid, usually.'
'Mmm. Timid people can surprise you.'
'Well, she did.'
Martin smoked and thought about Marijke. What will she wear? He imagined her getting out of the cab, walking into a restaurant, flowers, white tablecloths. Julia thought about Valentina, who had locked herself in the dressing room. Julia had stood by the door, listening to Valentina sob, waiting. Maybe I should go back. She stood up.
'I'm going to see how she is.'
'Why don't you take these?' Martin handed her the packet of chocolate digestives. 'A peace offering.'
'Thanks. May I borrow the peas? We don't have any ice cubes.'
'Of course.' He stood up, smiling, and led the way through the boxes. Peas, peace, piece, please, pleas ... Say something. 'Somehow I always thought Americans were obsessed with ice, all those iced drinks and such. You don't have a herd of little glaciers in your freezer?'
'No, they evaporated ... You know, we're half-English. Maybe we're not totally average Americans, you know?'
'I'm sure you're not average at all,' Martin said. Julia smiled and went downstairs. Peas, peace, pleas ... He looked at his watch. Three hours and twenty-eight minutes to kill before dinner. Just enough time for a shower.