The Witches of Cambridge (20 page)

“It’s lovely to see you again,” Theo says, leading her into the kitchen, past endless shelves of books. “How long’s it been? Feels like forever.”

“I don’t know,” Héloïse says, though she’s been trying to figure it out since yesterday. “When did you retire?”

“About a decade ago, when Maggie first got sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear…”

“Thank you,” Theo says. “I was sorry to hear about François too, of course, Ben told me.”

The kitchen is as crammed with books as the corridor, though it hardly seems possible. A dozen shelves are screwed into the bright yellow wall, weighed down by about five hundred cookery books. Héloïse studies the titles as Theo opens the fridge.

“I’m afraid I can’t bake anything decent,” he says, pulling out a plate adorned with a large chocolate cake. “I’m okay to cook, but baking isn’t my thing. Maggie loved it, so I was simply the happy recipient of her creations. This one’s courtesy of the supermarket down the street.”

“It looks perfectly yummy,” Héloïse says, wondering if, one day, she’ll be able to talk about François like this: with love and without sorrow. “Thank you.”

“It’s funny that we never had tea before,” Theo says as he sets the cake down on the table and switches on the kettle. “We’ve always had so much to talk about, books and all that. Earl Grey or English Breakfast?”

“Earl Grey, please.”

“Or would you prefer coffee?” Theo asks. “Sorry, it’s an English arrogance, assuming that everyone always wants tea.”

Héloïse smiles. “I’ve been here so long I think I’m an honorary British citizen,” she says, glad that François can’t hear her, since he was always far more patriotic than she, insisting they celebrate Bastille Day every year with champagne in bed and fireworks in the garden.

“Two Earl Greys it is, then,” Theo says, pouring boiling water into their cups. “Milk? Sugar? Both? Neither?”

“Neither,” Héloïse says, “so perhaps I am still a little French after all.”

“I thought so,” Theo says as he makes a detour to the fridge for milk and a cupboard for sugar. “You’ve always been far too glamorous to be British.”

Héloïse feels herself blush. She tucks a curl of hair behind her ear and twirls her pearl earring between thumb and forefinger. When Theo sits down next to her and begins slicing the cake, they fall into silence. Héloïse wonders if it’s an awkward silence, or if that’s simply her interpretation, generated by nerves and secrets.

“I hear you’re quite the adventurer.”

“I get into my fair share of scrapes,” Theo says, glancing up from the cake with a smile. “Or a little more than that, perhaps.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever done anything truly adventurous.”

“That depends on your classification, I suppose.”

Héloïse gives a little shrug. “I’d suggest that tracking down whaling boats on the Atlantic Ocean is significantly more adventurous than teaching the social and political theory of Simone de Beauvoir, in anybody’s opinion. Wouldn’t you?”

Theo smiles again. “I can’t argue with that, I suppose. Cake?”

He slides the plate over to Héloïse.

“
Merci
.”

“Your accent is marvelous,” Theo says. “I could close my eyes and have you read the phone book aloud and listen for hours.”

“
Merci beaucoup
,” Héloïse says, softly, blushing again.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious.”

“Not at all,” she says. “You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Okay.” Héloïse smiles. “Maybe just a little.”

Theo takes a large forkful of the cake and Héloïse follows suit with a smaller bite while he chews.

“What do you think?” Theo asks as he swallows.

“About what?”

Theo smiles. “Life, death, the universe, everything—”

“Oh, well, I don’t—”

“No, sorry, I was just teasing, I meant the cake.”

“
Alors
, well, it’s rather…”

“Revolting.”

Héloïse laughs. “I didn’t want to be rude, but—”

“Don’t worry,” Theo says, “I’m sure the multimillion-pound supermarket can take the hit. However, since I’ve now let you down so significantly on the baking front, will you let me cook you dinner to make up for it?”

Héloïse starts to smile, then she remembers.
Non. No, I can’t. It’s too soon. I’m sorry.
Héloïse opens her mouth.

“Yes,” she finds herself saying. “That would be lovely.”

—

Noa hurries along Downing Street. She’s a little late for her date with Santiago, having fallen asleep while reading a book on Brazilian art. She’s so tired lately (probably because she too often stays up late with Santiago) and often finds herself falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon. She finds him in the foyer of the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology, studying a collection of Viking spears.

Noa stands behind him. “Sharp,” she says.

Santiago turns, a soft smile on his lips. “You came.”

“Sorry I’m late, I fell—”

“—asleep. It’s no problem. I like being here. It gives me inspiration.”

Noa stares at him. “How did you know?”

Santiago doesn’t answer but takes her hand. “Follow me.”

They walk up a narrow wooden staircase and come into another room full of artifacts enclosed in glass cases. An enormous totem pole stands in the center of the room, higher than any tree Noa’s ever seen, carved with the faces of animals and birds. Next to it stands a vast wooden bear, his mouth roaring and his paws raised as if about to strike. Noa shivers and looks away.

“Have you ever been to Africa or South America?” Santiago asks as they cross the room, weaving between glass display cases.

“I’ve never been anywhere outside Europe.”

“Oh,” Santiago says, “then you must see this.”

They pass a case of tribal masks. Bright white eyes stare out at Noa from dark wood, long white teeth, pierced noses and ears, framed with wild white hair made of feathers and wool.

“We have masks like this in my country too,” Santiago says. “We have incredible festivals to celebrate the Catholic saints and Macumba spirits. We dance and drink all night, on the beach, under the stars.” He laughs. “Most of us usually end up in the sea.”

Noa glances over at him, realizing exactly what it is about him that so attracts her. It’s not simply the way he looks, though he is exceptionally beautiful—his big brown eyes framed with long black lashes, a beauty spot under his right eye, flawless olive skin—or his talent as a painter; it’s the way he is: self-confident and strong, someone without fear. This is what pulls Noa to him, because she feels that way when she’s with him.

“Wow,” she says. “That does sound incredible.”

“Check these out.” Santiago brings Noa to a glass case of tiny figures, brightly colored in various costumes.

“Sweet,” Noa says, “like little dolls.”

It’s a moment before she notices that every figure is faceless, having a skull stripped of flesh and bare bones where their face and limbs should be.

“They’re skeletons.”

“Yes,” Santiago says with a smile. “Aren’t they fantastic? They’re from Mexico, toys used to celebrate
El Dia de los Muertos
.”

“What?”

“The Day of the Dead.”

“Gosh,” Noa says, a thought of her own suddenly bursting forth, “how gruesome.”

“No, not at all!” Santiago laughs. “It’s a glorious festival. We celebrate it in Brazil too, though not as magnificently as they do in Mexico. They create altars in their homes, on the streets, in graveyards. They honor their dead, framing their photographs with bright yellow flowers, cooking their favorite foods and leaving the dishes as offerings. It’s a time when the whole country comes together to remember those that others might otherwise have forgotten.”

Noa listens, thinking she detects something else in Santiago’s voice—a tinge of sorrow—suggesting he’s lost someone he won’t forget.

“Ah,” she says. “Well, yes, that does sound very…special.”

Santiago turns to Noa, clasping her hands tightly.

“You’re special,” he says.

“I am?”

“Very. And you have absolutely no idea how powerful you are.”

“Powerful?”

Santiago nods. “You’ve got the strength of a shaman running through your veins.”

“I have?”

“Oh, yes.” Santiago gazes at her. “Tell me what you want.”

“What?”

“What do you want, right now, more than anything?”

Noa looks into Santiago’s deep brown eyes, trying to figure out the answer he wants to hear but, although that’s usually too easy, all she can think of right now is that night, the night he painted her, of being naked and beautiful and eating the sweetest honey she’d ever tasted.

“No, not that.” Santiago gives a wry smile. “You can have that whenever you want. That’s far too easy. What about your other dream?”

“The National Gallery?” Noa asks.

“Yes, exactly.” Santiago nods. “But, in fact, I’ve been thinking of an alternative option…what about Sotheby’s?”

Noa frowns. “Sotheby’s?”

Santiago smiles. “Yes, wouldn’t you like that?”

An odd sensation tickles the back of Noa’s neck, but it’s soft and insignificant. She shakes it off.

“Well, yes…” Noa says tentatively. “I suppose, yes, of course I would.”

Santiago grins. “Well, that’s wonderful, because I may just be able to help you with that.”

Now Noa smiles, suddenly flushed with anticipation. “Really? Wow. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome, my dear.” Santiago’s smile deepens. “You’re so very welcome.”

—

Noa sits cross-legged on Santiago’s carpet, watching him collecting various objects from his shelves. She wants to ask what they are about to do, but she’s a little nervous. His home seems slightly different from her memories, darker and denser somehow. The air is thick and heavy with the smoke of snuffed candles, even though all of the twenty-eight candles in the room are lit. The colors of Santiago’s sunsets—dark reds, deep purples, and royal blues—on the walls are darker too and almost seem to be shifting and swaying, as if she’s watching the night sky reflected in the sea. Some of the collection of mysterious foreign objects from around the world on the shelves are new too, she’s sure: jars of dried herbs and flower petals, collections of feathers, bottles of liquids in various colors, and a bowl of overripe fruits. So now the room doesn’t so much resemble an exotic antiques shop as a cornucopia of Chinese medicines.

Santiago carefully places everything he selects into a wooden box he carries in his left hand until finally he walks back to Noa and sits on the floor next to her. The candles flicker and sway as he sits, as if just blown by a gust of wind. Once more, Noa wants to ask what they are doing, at nearly two o’clock in the morning, but she’s afraid he might actually tell her the truth, so she keeps her mouth shut.

Santiago picks a large dark red porcelain bowl from the floor and begins dropping pieces of his collection into it, while muttering a nearly unintelligible chant:

“Eu chamo aos espiritos das trevas do grande mar e das florestas. Peço-vos que venham e tirem a voz desta mulher, tirem o poder da sua vontade, o seu espirito e a façam subordinada a mim. Este é o meu pedido e por isto vos darei o meu sanque…”

Noa fixes her gaze on what goes into the bowl, reading the labels on the jars which are all in Latin: the tail feather of a white peacock, four drops of midnight rain, a pinch of
Pelargonium,
a snap of ginger root, nineteen cherry stones, three laurel leaves, a splash of a Parisian sunset, a dusting of dried pig’s blood, six lobelia leaves, and a sprinkling of verbena oil.

Santiago holds out the bowl to Noa.

“Now you must say the words of what you want.”

Oh, crap, Noa thinks. What am I getting myself into? But she does as he says.

As Noa’s wish settles into the bowl, mixing with the strange set of ingredients, Santiago stands and walks slowly around the room, counterclockwise, blowing out each of the candles in turn, whispering the chant once more, then sits down next to Noa and kisses her cheek.

“Well done.” Santiago smiles. “That is all. And now we must wait.”

—

With the exception of the annual Christmas party, Amandine never visits Eliot’s London offices. She’s always so busy at college or with the boys that she rarely has time to run down to London at all. In the old days, when they were dating, they’d often take the train to Covent Garden to hang out at the markets, or to Bloomsbury to visit the British Museum. They’d spend endless hours—when time split so an hour passed in a second and a second was infinite—walking, hand in hand, and talking, about everything and nothing all at once.

Now Amandine visualizes Eliot doing all this with another woman, a younger, simpler, more beautiful woman. For, despite what Héloïse saw, Amandine finds it impossible to imagine anything else. Her teeth hurt at the idea of her husband holding hands with another woman. She can’t even entertain the thought of anything more.

Amandine walks up and down Carnaby Street eleven times before she stops at Eliot’s offices and pushes open the heavy glass doors. She can’t procrastinate forever, since she’s aimed her visit for lunchtime, since it will be the most likely time for Eliot to be out. If he’s having an affair, he’ll certainly be out for lunch, in a ridiculously expensive restaurant or…somewhere else.

Amandine takes the lift up to the fourteenth floor. She bites her lip. She walks across the thick cream carpet until she reaches Lauren at the reception desk. They’d met six months ago at the Christmas party. Lauren had known her name on sight, probably having been given a file of colleagues’ spouses to commit to memory the week before.

“Mrs. Walker!” Lauren’s already bright face illuminates at the sight of Amandine. “How perfectly lovely of you to visit us. Are you doing some shopping on Oxford Street?”

Amandine shakes her head. Lauren had been a possible candidate for the affair when Amandine was going through the roster of every female she knew who worked with Eliot, but now she scratches Lauren off the list. Although what she feels emanating from Lauren isn’t genuine happiness at seeing her, it certainly isn’t horrified shock or hatred.