Eighty Days Red (27 page)

At first, I thought it was a ridiculous idea.
I ought to just leave a note for him on the breakfast bar: ‘Gone for a walk. Come and find
me,’ with a map attached and an X marking my planned destination.
But the more I thought about it, the more the idea began to take root in my mind, like an acorn
quickly sprouting.
I had woken in the night to find him gone, his side of the bed cold and the covers flung off as
if he had left in a hurry. Dominik was eternally neat, and under normal circumstances he would
have pulled his side of the sheet up behind him.
I immediately felt a pang of anxiety. Thought that he might have woken up to find me
alongside him and felt that the bed was too full and he wanted to be alone. Sometimes, I felt that
way, still unaccustomed to us being together. Perhaps he’d gone to seek refuge at a hotel, or with
a friend, maybe asked Lauralynn to let him into one of Viggo’s guest rooms for the night. The bedroom, without him in it, had felt suffocating. I had pushed the covers off and quietly
padded down the stairs. That was when I saw the light on in his study, and as I approached,
heard the very faint clicking of his fingers on the keys.
He was writing.
The door was slightly ajar, and I creaked it open a little further and called his name softly, to
check if he wanted a hot drink, or a glass of water, but he hadn’t responded.
He had that familiar expression on his face, part joy, part furious concentration, the way he
gets when a new idea has dawned on him in just the right way, like an irregular visit from an
unpredictable muse, and I thought it best not to interrupt.
I’d poured myself a glass of milk and returned to bed, but I still couldn’t sleep. I sat awake for the rest of the night, thinking about the future, and what it might hold for us. Whether we would make it. Whether moving in with him so quickly would prove to be a
mistake.
Only time would tell.
My eyes had alighted on the Bailly which I’d left in the hall the evening before, and my
fingers twitched, longing to pick it up and play it until I wore myself out and tiredness finally
settled like a heavy cloak around my shoulders and dragged me into sleep, but even with the
door closed, I feared that my music would rouse Dominik from his creative trance like a siren
song and bring him back upstairs.
Sometimes I felt like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, because Dominik always followed the notes
of the Bailly. He used the sound of my violin as a barometer of my mood, and I noticed that, out
of habit now, he would glance at it wherever I left it to double check that it was still safe and
firmly tucked away before turning out the light.
I had listened to the story of the Angelique which he was using as the bread and butter of his
novel. I’d always been interested in the history of my instruments. Always wanted to know
which hands had held them and what stories they’d told before they came to me. But I wasn’t
quite as romantic about the whole thing as Dominik was, and teased him for his superstitions. The person wielding the violin had more power than the instrument, surely? Even Mr van der Vliet, my late violin teacher, had always taught me that the right player
could bring music out of anything, even by rubbing a stick against a woodsaw. But that got me started, thinking about the Bailly, romantic fairy tales and legends, and once
the kernel of the idea had planted its seed, I couldn’t escape it. Soon I had a fully hatched plan. I dressed quickly, in my old black velvet dress that I still used for performances sometimes,
the one that I’d bought from Brick Lane years ago, and had worn for Dominik at our first recital.
It felt poetic.
Then I’d picked up the Bailly, and realised the first stumbling block in my plan. I had to give
him some kind of clue. But what?
I clicked open the case and brushed my fingers over the almost orange-coloured timber, as
warm as a sunset, and hoped that the violin would provide me with an answer. The violin didn’t, but the case did. The pocket bulged, and I reached in and found a stash of
the Groucho Nights branded guitar picks that we used to fling into the audience to an often
frenzied welcome.
Perfect. Like a trail of breadcrumbs that I would drop along the way to the Heath, that would
lead to me, rather than a gingerbread house.
To be doubly sure that he would at least have a chance to work it out, I left a spare bow on the doormat, pointing in the direction that I was headed, where he would find the first guitar
pick.
Dawn was breaking as I made my way along the downhill road to the open reaches of the
Heath. The orange ember of the sun rising over the tree-lined horizon sent streaks of pink into the
sky like tentacles. I was rarely awake so early, and having barely slept at all, felt as though I had
stepped into a dream, a haze of chilled air punctuated by birds tweeting and the soft rasping of
the wind through the trees.
I was careful to drop the picks as I went, in all the places that Dominik would recognise. I
followed the same route that he had led me on the first time that I’d walked this trail. Again, I
was barefoot, and I smiled at the familiar feeling of spongy earth beneath my feet. Past the ponds, across the small bridge by the outdoor swimming area and up the path. I
winced as the sharp pebbles dug into my feet and was careful to place a guitar pick on a large,
black stone that stood out of place amongst the other smaller, pale rocks so that Dominik would
find it. By now, he should know for sure where I was taking him. I hadn’t walked the same route
since that day long ago when I had first played Vivaldi for him here, but the way was burned
onto my brain as fiercely as a treasure map.
Finally I reached the soft grass again, and sighed with pleasure as the dew nursed my stonebitten feet. Then I was under the canopy of trees that blocked the light like a curtain, before
emerging out into the open, within sight of the bandstand that sat atop its gloriously green hillock
as if it had sprung out of the earth like a tree made from wrought iron pillars instead of dirt and
wood.
I hadn’t bothered with the guitar picks for the last few hundred feet. Dominik would be able
to hear me by now.
If he came.
And I was sure that he would.
I stepped gingerly onto the stone steps that led to the bandstand’s small stage, and turned and
looked out onto the open field, and the line of trees from where Dominik would soon emerge. It was just me, the Bailly, the birds and the Heath. No doubt at least a few early morning
joggers would appear soon, disrupting my solitude, and that thought nearly put me off the next
plot point in my plan, but I resolved to do it anyway.
What was the point in playing a recital for Dominik, on the bandstand on the Heath, if I
wasn’t nude? It was my final message to him.
Maybe it was just the sleepless night talking, but by the time I reached the Heath, I had made
up my mind.
If he appeared, if he noticed the violin, and me, missing, and followed my clues to the
bandstand, then I would take it as a sign that we were meant to be together, and I would banish
my doubts and commit to making it work.
If he didn’t, if he carried on writing for the rest of the day, or found me missing and
presumed I had gone for a jog and left me to it, then I would move out, and put the whole thing
behind me. Start again. Single.
One final roll of the dice. Putting our fate into the hands of fate. It seemed a very Dominik
thing to do, the kind of thing that he would recognise and approve of. But that was the very
reason why I thought it would work, because I proposed to meet him halfway, by appearing
naked, and playing Vivaldi.
Just like the first time.
I kicked off my dress, closed my eyes, and launched into concerto number two, ‘Summer’. It was out of order, but I planned to finish on ‘Spring’, because it felt like a beginning, which
suited my purposes. Ending on ‘Winter’ would be too depressing.
The notes flew from the Bailly as soon as I touched my bow to the strings, and I was gone
with it, flying across the Heath on the wings of a song.
I was playing the final notes of ‘Autumn’, when I remembered my purpose, and opened my
eyes again, scouring the tree line for any sign of him.
Maybe he hadn’t come after all, and this was all a stupid idea. Maybe we’d made a mistake
and this was fate telling me to leave, to run away while I still could, before either of us ended up
getting hurt. But as I played on, I knew that in my heart I wanted him to come to me. My bow hand shook slightly as the enormity of my feelings surged, as I whispered a silent
prayer to Dominik.
Find me. Come for me. Don’t give up on us
. I felt a tear escape, sliding
down my cheek and landing on the smooth surface of the violin. And I knew, right there, as the
sweet notes of Vivaldi rose through the morning mist, I could not live without him.

I saw a silhouette, emerging from the canopy of trees, about a hundred yards away. It was impossible to identify anyone at this distance. My heart began to beat wildly, as I thought I recognised the old university athletics team sweatshirt, but I pushed the thought out of my head, closed my eyes again, and let the violin take over.

I thought I felt his presence hovering nearby, tiny shifts in the air around me, as I launched into ‘Spring’, the end of my recital, the first movement. Watching me, planning his next move, or maybe just listening to the music.

He grew impatient in the end, and disrupted my song.
First I felt his hot breath on my neck, as he leaned in as if to kiss me, but he didn’t.

Instead, as I reached the final chord, his hand gently took the violin from my grasp and he lowered me onto the cool stone stage of the bandstand.
I opened my eyes.
Dominik, grinning from ear to ear, with that familiar dark glint in his eyes.
‘But I haven’t finished,’ I whispered.
‘Vivaldi will forgive us,’ he replied.
And then we made love. In our own way.

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank our agent Sarah Such at Sarah Such Literary Agency, who did such a wonderful job in getting Eighty Days to market. A deep vote of thanks also goes to Jon Wood, Jemima Forrester, Susan Lamb, Emma Dowson and everyone at Orion, who have done so well in getting us onto the bestseller lists. A tip of the fedora to Tina Pohlman and Allison Underwood at Open Road Integrated Media. We also owe a debt of gratitude to Rosemarie Buckman at the Buckman Agency for all the foreign sales, and to all the countless foreign publishers who have taken the series on, as well as Hamish and Junzo at the English Agency (Japan), and Carrie Kania at Conville & Walsh. A final thank you to our eagle-eyed copyeditors, proofreaders and translators who worked tirelessly and at great speed.

Much of these books were written on the road and heartfelt thanks must go to our respective partners, family and friends whom we had to singularly neglect as we devoted our time to Summer and Dominik, as we roamed London, Paris, Bristol, Rome, Berlin, Edinburgh, New Orleans, New York, Chicago, Avignon and Sitges, with laptops and iPads in overdrive.

And a final thank you to Matt Christie for photography, to Vina’s employer for her support and encouragement, despite the many writing-induced absences from work, and to all the necessary anonymous sources who helped us with our research.

It’s been an exciting ride …

The turbulent romantic adventures of Summer and Dominik may have reached their conclusion, but the Eighty Days series continues with
Eighty Days Amber
and
Eighty Days White
, in which both Summer and Dominik will make an appearance, alongside Luba, Viggo Franck, the girl with the teardrop tattoo, and many other acquaintances, both old and new.

About the Author

Author photo ©
www.mattchristie.com

Vina Jackson is the pseudonym for two established writers working together for the first time. One a successful author, the other a published writer who is also a city professional working in the Square Mile.

Also by Vina Jackson
Eighty Days Yellow Eighty Days Blue

Copyright

AN ORION EBOOK First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Orion Books. This ebook first published in 2012 by Orion Books.

Copyright © Vina Jackson 2012 An Hachette UK Company
www.orionbooks.co.uk

The right of Vina Jackson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.