well, I might need some time off. To reassess things. Sort out our affairs. So don’t expect me back straightaway . . .’
He frowns at that. ‘I understand, Lela, I am not the hard-hearted man. But if you could let me know how long? We are always busy, and Reggie — well, she is not the most even-tempered or reliable —’
‘Justine could fill in for me,’ I say quickly. ‘She said so this morning. If you were serious about what you said to her, that is . . .’
Mr Dymovsky freezes for a moment at his desk piled high with papers in English and his native, ornate Cyrillic script that I can’t understand. ‘That dancer?’ he says incredulously. ‘She really would like to work in my little coffee shop? I would not have thought . . .’
I nod. ‘She’s a good person, she really is. And she can’t keep doing what she does. It will kill her. One way or another.’
His face is grim as he recalls the scene outside the cafe yesterday. ‘God protect us from such people,’ he mutters. ‘God and Sulaiman will keep us safe. I know I was right to hire that man.’
I push my point. ‘And she’s aware of the uniform policy around here. Black. No sequins.’ I grin.
Mr Dymovsky smiles back tiredly. Today he seems more seventy-five than fifty-five as he shuffles documents from place to place with his big hands.
After a while, he says, ‘You tell Justine to come and talk to me, and we shall determine if a coffee shop is where she belongs.’
Satisfied that I’ve put a few things out there that will make it easier for Lela’s work colleagues to rationalise her sudden disappearance, I am turning away when I remember something.
I ask Mr Dymovsky for a blank piece of paper. On it I write:
I, Lela Neill, of 19 Highfield Street, Bright Meadows, leave all my worldly possessions, both present and future, to Justine Hennessy, dancer, also of Bright Meadows.
I sign it with an indistinct, made-up signature, print Lela’s name beneath it, and push the paper under Mr Dymovsky’s nose and ask him to sign it, too. And date it for good measure.
‘Put in the time, too,’ I say. ‘So there’s no uncertainty about when it was written.’
Mr Dymovsky does what I ask without question, but hesitates before he pushes the piece of paper back towards me.
‘Are you sure you know what you are doing, Lela?’ he says, his expression deeply troubled.
I nod and fold the paper over. ‘I’m sane, and I know what I’m doing, Mr Dymovsky. No one forced mto do this. Remember I said that. It’s an insurance policy, of sorts.’
For Justine, I think. For Justine.
He shakes his head at me uncomprehendingly.
‘It’s been a privilege working for you,’ I add. ‘Like balm for the soul. You’re a good man. Decent. I couldn’t have hoped for a better boss. And I wish you . . .’
For a moment, I am lost for words. The Latin is at my fingertips, but not its English counterpart, and the phrase tumbles out before I can catch myself.
‘Bona fortuna,’ I say. ‘That is what I wish for you.’
Mr Dymovsky’s answering smile is surprised.
‘Good chance, good fortune,’ he replies. ‘And to you, Lela. But you speak as if we will never meet again and that is not the case?’
I shake my head quickly and leave his office, not trusting myself to say any more.
Chapter 18
Ryan, I think, as I stand by the service area surveying the dining room, where are you?
I wonder if he looks the same. I wonder if he’ll recognise Lela, recognise me. If he’ll be able to adjust to the new face and form I’m wearing. I need to get to him before Ranald sees him. He can’t see us together.
It’s 10.53 am and there’s no one in here except Cecilia, Reggie, Sulaiman, and Ranald.
He looks up at me sharply when I slide back behind the counter to place the folded piece of paper into Lela’s rucksack for safekeeping, intending to hand it to Justine at the appropriate moment.
‘Do you want to check your messages?’ he says curtly. ‘There’s still time.’
Without waiting for my reply, he sets it all up for me, gesturing brusquely for me to sit as he gets up and heads to the bathroom. Given that he’s on his third double espresso for the morning, it’s a wonder neither Ronald’s bladder nor his heart have exploded yet.
I slide into the seat, made warm by his body heat, and there’s Lela’s profile page.
There’s a single comment posted on the wall beneath her photo and her name.
Lauren can’t wait to see you, and neither can I. They’re calling me to the plane right now. All that separates us is one day, Mercy. A day. Can you believe it? I’ll be there soon.
It was posted yesterday morning, and I think of Ryan taking the time to reach out to me at some anonymous airport computer termior safekend feel almost giddy.
Then there’s a flurry of movement outside — as if, by thinking it, I willed it into being — and the door opens. And Ryan’s standing there, a duffel bag in one hand. Wearing that beat-up leather jacket over layered tees, one blue, one grey, indigo jeans, scuffed boots. His dark hair is longer than I remember it. I suppose he hasn’t cut it since the last time I saw him.
He’s still lean, broad-shouldered, heartbreakingly beautiful; all the more so because it’s not what he’s about. There’s no vanity in him, just an instinctive athlete’s grace. His dark eyes darken further as they fall on me.
He’s dressed too warmly for the day, and he’s flown for hours just to get to me. His face is so pale with weariness that I move towards him instinctively, fingers outstretched, as if the touch of my hand might banish his fatigue. That familiar fringe of black hair falls into his eyes, and I reach up and brush it back as he looks down into Lela’s face and says softly, ‘Well, there you are.’
He seems so tall, taller than I remember him, even though Carmen is short and Lela is short and there shouldn’t be any difference in perspective at all. But something is different this time, because there’s no hesitation, no dancing around the truth. He just pulls me to him and murmurs, ‘Mercy’.
His arms about me feel so right, as if it’s always been this way.
But it’s never been this way. It’s only ever Luc who’s held me like this, whom I’ve allowed to hold me this way — arms about my waist, linked at the small of my back, chin resting atop my head, warm breath stirring my hair. So close, I can’t be sure whose heartbeat I’m hearing, his or mine.
Ryan tightens his hold on me, and I wonder how it is that I never even felt Luc’s iron grip over my heart loosen enough to let Ryan in. After all this time, out of all these lives, to find myself falling for someone when it’s the last thing I should be doing, when it screams forbidden? It’s terrifying.
In answer to everything unspoken that I’m feeling in the hard muscles of Ryan’s arms, I tentatively place Lela’s cheek against Ryan’s shoulder, and breathe in his achingly familiar, addictive, clean male smell before smiling up at him out of Lela’s navy blue eyes. And I know it’s the wrong response, it’s not what I want to do, but I don’t know if what we are together is even . . . allowed.
Ryan tips my face up to his, searching my eyes, wanting more. But I reach up with one hand and place a finger to his lips.
He sighs in resignation, kisses it anyway. And I pull my hand back from him so quickly — as if his touch has the power to burn — that he throws back his head and laughs.
He’s so tall, I think again, dazed. Somehow I imagined us being equals when we met again — in every sense — but this is the real world, and in the real world I look like Lela. There’s no getting around that, though I can’t help wishing that he could see me the way I really am. And I woder whether he’d approve and like me even more if I was wearing my own face, if we were eye to burning eye.
He swings me around gently, the better to look at me, to see me behind Lela’s eyes, to imprint this new face on his consciousness. And I catch a glimpse of Cecilia smiling widely behind her coffee machine, Reggie’s open- mouthed, gobsmacked expression, Sulaiman’s dark, unwavering gaze through the serving hatch that frames him.
