Rachael's Gift (34 page)

She took my hand in hers, coming in closer and stroking my cheek, her gaze softening. ‘Why do you have to be like this? Stay. It’ll be like before – perfect.’

I stared at her. I believed her. I really did. She really felt everything she said – she believed her own lies. But I saw her now for who she was: not my wife, not the mother of my child, but a stranger.

The clock in the hall chimed two-thirty.

‘Nothing’s perfect, Cam.’

The old man was right: you couldn’t save anyone. I could barely save myself. I walked into the hall, picked up my bag, shut the door to the apartment, and took the lift downstairs. The taxi was waiting across the road, engine humming, fag hanging out the window. I stepped over a stream of dirty water that ran down the gutter, rain sprinkling my hair and face. I climbed into the back of the cab and shoved my bag over.

‘
Et les autres?
’ the driver said. ‘And the others?’ he repeated in English.

I shook my head.

He pulled out into the traffic.

I tightened the rope around the top of my bag; it was stiff with old salt and seawater.

The driver stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray in the console, opened his window, and flicked the butt into the air. He began to natter, eager to speak in English. Something about transport workers protesting. He’d had it up to ‘here’ with all road closures. ‘Today is okay,’ he rambled, ‘but yesterday – no chance. Today we are moving. Lucky. I’ve had enough.’

I nodded, that was true. There was only so much a bloke could take.

‘Lucky for you. You make your plane.’

At the word plane, I physically contracted but then the numbness took over again.

The sky flashed by. Grey. I didn’t look for the sun. I knew it wasn’t there. Not the kind I wanted anyway: the huge blood-red one that hung so low in the sky you thought it was a trick. Salt water in my mouth. Rach, beside me, gunning through a set, beaming like her old man, and me, envious of her youth, hammering it out until our lips became purple. Afterwards, pulling her in for a bear hug, our hearts pounding with blood, hers and mine, in a syncopated quickstep. Blood, salt, water. We’d drive cliff-side back home where Cam’d be waiting. Rolling on in, our bellies empty, our skin covered in goosebumps and salt, our grins wide; she’d smother us in kisses, her perfect waves. Then she’d stop me with her hand on my arm, no need for words, just her golden face and a lazy long smile.

We went through a tunnel. I looked ahead, beyond the windscreen. Cars weaved and beeped, one way. We came out the other end. The broken white lines washing into one. I gripped on to the handle, picturing the car’s metal carcass, the steel bones, a splint for my own, and then later, again, the drone in the sky, moving south, carrying me home.

Thank you for your encouragement and confidence: Fiona Inglis, Alexandra Craig, Emma Rafferty, Ali Lavau and everyone at Picador, Pan Macmillan.

I am indebted to Jane Hayes for her tireless support from the very beginning.

To all those who inspired: Jill Dawson, Jenni Mills, Emily Pedder, Emma Sweeney and my fellow classmates at City.

Thank you to all who shared their valuable expertise: for stolen Jewish Art, Anne Webber at the Commission for Looted Art, London, and Johanne Lisewski at the Art Loss Register, London; for information on Parisian Art Gallery archives, Chloe Gouach at the Centre Pompidou, Paris. To Raphael Aubry-Marais and Christian Sola for correcting all my French and to Kate Halloran at the New South Wales Association of Independent Schools for child protection policies.

I am so grateful to my family – all the Camerons and the Campbells – my dear friends and colleagues who have endured years of talking about ‘the book’. To my parents who gave me my first book, showed me the delights of reading and nurtured an imagination. Especially my mother who still tells me stories.

Lastly, to Mike and Hamish for illumination, surprises and, of course, love.

About Alexandra Cameron

Alexandra Cameron is an Australian living in London with her husband and son. She has a BA in Film and French, and a background in film and television production and development. She studied novel-writing at City University in London and was mentored by author Jill Dawson.

First published 2014 in Picador by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000

Copyright © Alexandra Cameron 2014

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

This ebook may not include illustrations and/or photographs that may have been in the print edition.

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available

from the National Library of Australia

http://catalogue.nla.gov.au

EPUB format: 9781743518045

Typeset by Midland Typesetters, Australia

Cover design by Natalie Winter

Cover images: Laura Taylor photography; vierra / Shutterstock; Rachel Brunette / Shutterstock

The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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