“Home,” she replied. “With you.”
How odd it was, he thought. It felt as if someone had cut into him quite painlessly and all of his life force were pouring out. It was the strangest sensation in which blood, bones, and sinews transformed into a palpable deluge which flowed from his heart to encompass her. Caught in the midst of it, he saw her clearly, felt his own body’s presence, but couldn’t speak.
She faltered under his gaze, seemed to think she had made an error in judgement. She said, “Or you could drop me in Onslow Square.
You’re tired. You won’t be in the mood for company. And no doubt my flat could use a good airing out. Caroline won’t be back yet. She’s with her parents-did I tell you?-and I ought to see what sort of state things are in because-”
He found his voice. “There are no guarantees, Helen. Not in this. Not in anything.”
Her face grew soft. “I know that,” she said.
“And it doesn’t matter?”
“Of course it matters. But you matter more. And you and I matter. The two of us. Together.”
He didn’t want to feel any happiness yet. It seemed too ephemeral a condition in life. So for a moment he stood there and merely let himself feel: the cold air washing from the Backs and the river, the weight of his overcoat, the ground beneath his feet. And then, when he was sure that he could bear any reply she might make, he said:
“I still want you, Helen. Nothing’s changed there.”
“I know,” she said, and when he would speak again she stopped him with, “Let’s go home, Tommy.”
He loaded their suitcases into the boot, his heartbeat light and his spirit soaring free. Don’t make too much of it, he told himself roughly, and don’t ever believe your life depends on it. Don’t ever believe your life depends upon anything at all. That’s the way to live.
He got into the car, determined to be casual, determined to be the one in control. He said, “You took quite a chance, Helen, waiting like that. I might not have come back and found you for hours. You might have been sitting in the cold all day.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She drew her legs up beneath her and settled companionably into the seat. “I was quite prepared to wait for you, Tommy.”
“Oh. How long?” Still, he was casual. Still, he was the one in control.
“Just a bit longer than you’ve waited for me.”
She smiled. She reached for his hand. He was lost.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ELIZABETH GEORGE’S fi rst novel,
