Maestro (19 page)

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."

"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. 

David began singing a tune that Sara did not want to hear. His excuses for his long absences centred around the same refrain. Mergers and acquisitions were big projects which made him more visible. The more he got noticed, the better the chance of becoming a partner.  

Listening to David, Sara could only shrug her shoulders in despair. She could not help feeling that her "super achiever" days were far behind her. She was also fearful that once the baby arrived, she would be left to bring it up alone as David jettisoned from one big project to the next. 

By the first week of March, the eighth of March to be precise, she would remember the date forever, the nausea and vomiting had stopped. She managed to venture out of the house and meet David for dinner. 

David had suggested Imeldi's where they had held the reception for their wedding, to celebrate "her coming out," as he put it. He was already waiting for her as she arrived. 

"Hello, darling," he said, kissing her on the cheek, "How do you feel?" 

"Fine. Thankfully, I might add. How was your day?" 

"The usual. Can you have a glass of wine?" 

"Just the one." 

To be safe, Sara chose the blandest thing she could find on the menu: poached salmon without the hollandaise sauce. David tucked into lobster ravioli, followed by Osso Buco. 

"Strange," Sara thought watching David, "how Carl ate the same thing, the last time we were together. The day I ended it." 

"Sara, I've got something to tell you." 

David proceeded to ruin the evening by getting straight to the point. 

"I've agreed to a posting in New York," David began, not bothering to look at her, "on secondment. It should run for six to nine months. I want you to come with me. That way, the baby will be born with Dad around. You know, I'll be able to attend the birth..." 

"Is there any way, you can get out of it?" Sara interrupted. 

She missed her cigarettes and Scotch which she would usually rely on when her exasperation with David became acute. 

"Sara, why don't you understand? If I want to make it to partner, I have to stretch myself. Besides, a posting means double my salary..." 

"I don't know if you hadn't noticed but money is not a problem in our household," Sara asserted through clenched teeth. "And if you insist on going, you can commute. It's only five hours flying from New York..." 

"Ah, yes! Yes! Commute! As it is, I'll be working well into the night and on top of that, I'll have to find the energy to commute..." 

"Why should I move to New York to wait for you to come home in the middle of the night? Answer me that, will you?" 

David did not reply.  They sat there in a Mexican Standoff, neither attempting to justify their position any further, nor to compromise. 

"When do you have to go David?" 

"Any day now. Discussions have been going on for quite some time." 

That was the last straw.  

"I'm not prepared to go. I'm sorry. The baby will be born in London and I intend to keep working until the last minute. As for the birth, I'm sure Messieurs Bruges and Goldman will understand where your priorities are." 

David's face turned white as a sheet. 

Sara reached across the table and squeezed his hand. 

"It'll be fine. I just can't compromise my life away, that's all. And neither should you." 

********************