shillings a week, enough for her to move from the YWCA into her own bedsit in Earl’s Court. Best of all she had started to write herself, and had experienced for the first time a feeling of such relief, such pleasure it felt almost cellular. She’d found—or was it stumbled into?—what she knew she wanted to do with her life.
She dreaded seeing William again—their relationship had become so soiled and complicated. She wrote to him asking if he could post the keys, but he’d refused.
So why, given all these new and wonderful opportunities in life, had another vagrant part of her leaped hungrily into life again at the thought of seeing her parents’ things?
In certain moods she could barely remember what her family even looked like. Time had blurred those agonizing memories, time and the relative anonymity of boarding school and, later, London—where, at first, she had known nobody. Indeed, one of the things she most liked about the city, apart from all its obvious attractions—the theater, the galleries, the exhilarating walks by the river—was that so few people ever asked you personal questions. Only two ever had: first, the form-filler at the YWCA, querying the blank she’d left after “Family’s place of residence,” and then Fran, the plump friendly typist in the next bed in her dorm. She’d told them both they had died in a car accident years ago in India; it always seemed easier to dispose of them both at once. She didn’t tell them about Josie at all. You don’t have to say was something she’d learned the hard way with William.
He was waiting for her outside the grand Greco-Roman façade of the Oxford and Cambridge Club when she ran up the steps around a quarter to seven. As usual he had arranged his backdrop carefully, placing himself on this occasion between two imposing Corinthian columns, his thin hair lit by the golden glow of lamps from the luxurious rooms behind.
A fastidious man, he was wearing the pin-striped suit she had last seen folded over the arm of his chair in his flat in Westminster. She remembered how he’d lined up his sock suspenders on top of his underpants, a starched collar, his silk tie.
“You’re looking well, Viva.” He had a sharp, slightly barking voice, used to great effect in the Inner Temple where he now worked as a barrister. “Well done.”
“Thank you, William.” She was determined to stay calm. She’d dressed herself carefully for this occasion: a coral silk dress—one of Miss Driver’s cast-offs—the silk delicate as tissue. A purple rose covered the scorch marks on the bodice, the reason for it having been given away.
She’d got up early to wash her hair under a cold tap because the geyser was on the blink again. It had taken ages and a shilling’s worth of coins in the meter to dry. She’d dampened down its glossy exuberance and tied it back with a velvet bow.
“I’ve booked us a table.” He was steering her toward the dining room, which smelled of roast meat.
“There was no need to do that,” she said, moving away from him. “I could take the keys and leave.”
“You could,” he said.
A waiter led them toward a table set for two in the corner of the grand dining room. Above them, hung in a straight line, portraits of distinguished academics looked down on her gravely, as if they, too, were considering her plans.
William had been here earlier. A bulky envelope—she presumed it held the keys—lay propped against a silver pepper pot.
He settled his pin-striped knees carefully under the table, smiled at her blandly, and told her he had taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Château Smith Haut-Lafitte, a vintage, he told her in that prissy, self-satisfied way she now recoiled from, of which he was particularly fond.
The waiter took their orders, brown soup and lamb cutlets for him; grilled sole for her, the simplest and quickest thing on the menu. She was ashamed of herself, in spite of everything, for feeling hungry.
She glanced at him. Still a commanding presence with his impeccable clothes, his air of slightly impatient authority. Still handsome in a bloodless sort of way, although a bad go of malaria during his tour of India had left his skin a permanently waxy yellowish color.
A few stiff pleasantries, then William glanced around the room and lowered his voice.
“Are you sure you really want these?” He closed his hand over the envelope.
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She had made up her