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  Kleist lowered his head, but Barzel felt increasingly certain what was going through his mind. The man feared exposure and disgrace, yes; but more than anything he wanted to see Anna again, and here was the opportunity he had secretly been praying for.

  In better times, the thought of that anguished paradox might have moved Barzel to pity. Now, the only emotion he felt was fear and a pain in his gut: Could Kleist handle it?

  “I’ll need time,” Kleist said at last. “It may take months to reestablish that kind of trust, the necessary degree of dependence…. I need at least three months.”

  “I know. And I feel sorry for you.” Barzel studied the photo one last time, flicked it, put it back in his pocket. His heart was beating very fast. At the start of this conversation he had felt it was hopeless, but somehow he’d succeeded in igniting a spark. Don’t weaken, he reminded himself; you could still end up in a Berlin jail…. “Sorry, too, for Ilsa.”

  “Why?”

  “Because instead of three months, you have only a fortnight.”

  THE FIRST WEEKEND

  CHAPTER

  3

  “How did you do?” Duncan Broadway, Q.C., inquired of Anna Lescombe as she trudged into the clerks’ room.

  “Oh, lost.”

  “Bad luck. The judge got it wrong, did he …?”

  “Bless you, darling; you’re better than a large scotch any day. Roger …”

  The senior clerk looked up inquiringly.

  “Roger, am I still okay to take the first three days of next week off?”

  “Yes, I’ve kept the diary clear.”

  “Thanks.” Anna skimmed through the messages waiting for her. “Who’s this, Roger?”

  “A Mr. Christ phoned.”

  “I knew things were bad, but—”

  The clerk was too busy sorting out next week’s schedules to acknowledge her attempt at humor. “Said would you ring him back, not urgent, social.”

  Then it clicked. “Did he leave a first name? It wasn’t Gerhard by any chance?”

  She looked at the number Roger had scribbled down on the yellow Post-It slip. Yes! Anna felt a marvelous upsurge of energy. She went to her room, where she paused only to fling wig and gown onto a chair before snatching up the phone. Thank God it was Friday; the two men who shared an office with her had already gone home for the weekend.

  “Gerhard? Anna. I can’t be-lieve it!”

  “Hello.”

  He sounded a touch bored, she thought; no, don’t think like that, snap out of it, something’s going right today. “God, you pick your times to call! I wasn’t expecting you to ring till next month, at the earliest.”

  “Am I early? I can always ring off.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Something wrong, lovey?”

  “Oh, Gerhard!” She perched on the desk. “It’s years since you called me that.”

  “Mm, two. How’s tricks?”

  “Shitty. More shitty than usual. Juliet’s being a pain.” She paused. “I’ve just lost a case.”

  “You should know how difficult children can be, by now. And as for the case: you have to lose some. At least, I thought you did.”

  “My fault, this time.”

  He laughed, a rich blend of mellow sounds that still had the power to loosen all the muscles in her stomach, his roller-coaster laugh … “Always your fault, yes? Anna Lescombe, the big failure.”

  “Oh, you …!”

  “Sorry. Look, I’ve got some time off at last and so I took my courage in both hands and thought—”

  “That you’d phone. I’m so glad you did.” Anna simultaneously took a deep breath and a momentous decision. “What are you doing this weekend?”

  “I’m free most of tomorrow. But it’s a Saturday, aren’t you and David—”

  “He’s off on one of his seminars, bless him. He often is, these days. He won’t be back until the end of next week, I shouldn’t think.”

  The pause was a long one. “Gerhard? Hello, are you there?”

  “I’m here. You sound … I’m concerned.”

  Another jagged pause. Anna stared out the window. “Things have been better,” she said at last. “You know …?” And she laughed, trying to pass it off as nothing, because she always made an attempt to be cheerful nowadays, when there was so much to be cheerful about.

  “We can talk tomorrow. Come to the house. Come early. Lunch. At the usual place.”

  “Oh, Gerhard.” How had he guessed what was going through her mind? “Will you phone Seppy or shall I?”

  Again that wonderful laugh, pulsating down the line. “Leave everything to me. Until tomorrow, then …”

  As Anna replaced the receiver she gleefully told herself that as well as a much-needed holiday, she had tomorrow to look forward to now. One whole day in the presence of Gerhard, without distractions or worries.

  No, there would be worries. As she steered the BMW through London’s rush-hour traffic, so her mind wove its way through a maze of potentially disastrous conversations that might evolve when she met him.

  It would be their first meeting since Clara’s death. She could not picture Gerhard as a widower, somehow. What would it be like, going to the Hampstead house and not feeling that it was another woman’s domain?

  By the time she reached Islington, however, she had the thing under control. Spending the day with him might be a mistake; if they hadn’t met for two years, that was for a reason. Each moment she spent away from him represented a tiny moral victory, further proof that she could do without his therapy, and without him, too. But by going to his house tomorrow, and remaining untouched, at least she would prove to herself just how far she had come.

  Anna liked to remind herself how far she had come, and grown. A matter for quiet pride.

  As she went up the steps to the front door she savored an anticipation that had nothing to do with Kleist. The first thing she did was flick through the mail. Circulars. No Cornish postmark, no familiar hand. Nothing from her daughter. Anna, experiencing the sullen letdown of disappointment, made a face. There was something terrible about the power mail had. It got to the point where she was afraid to look.

  She had sent her daughter a sweater. A month ago now.

  Anna checked the answering machine, then made herself a large gin and tonic before deciding to have a bath. As she lay in the foam, glass conveniently nearby, she found herself dwelling on the day’s events. She had lost a case and she was to blame. This year, she’d lost more than she’d won. Not all of them were her fault. This one was, though.

  And what about the other case—the one where the clients were suing her for negligence? No. This is wrong. Think positive. Tomorrow is another day. Everybody makes mistakes. You can only do your best. Look forward to the next good thing: a weekend followed by three whole days off …

  Gerhard had taught her the tricks, how to cope, when all of life had been one long cope.

  By the time she’d finished dressing there was a smile on her face again. She looked at her watch. David had promised to ring at eight, forty minutes away. How she longed to hear his voice again! But… I’ll put the time to good use, Anna thought. Juliet’s my daughter, by God, and if she doesn’t care about me, I love her, and she’s only sixteen, and if I want to phone her, I will. Even though—oh God, admit it—the only person I really want to talk to is David.

  But it was such a rigmarole. That dreadful girl who ran the commune and always answered put up so many barriers. At last, after much negotiation and some old-fashioned pleading, Anna heard the familiar snuffly voice.

  “Lo.”

  “Hello, darling. Mummy.” The pulse of sheer, naked love that flared through Anna rendered her breathless for a second. “How are you?” she managed to say at last.

  “‘Mall right.”

  Pause.

  “I hadn’t heard from you for such a long time, I just thought I’d ring to see how you were getting on.” Help me, darling.

  Silence.

/>   “I sent you a sweater a few …” (she was about to exaggerate and say “months,” mentally altered it to “days,” then compromised) “… weeks ago. Did you get it?”

  “Mm.”

  “Is that mm yes or mm no, darling?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it all right?”

  “Mm.”

  Sometimes Anna wanted to scream at Juliet when she was like this, but tonight she just felt sad. She was trying to think up a way of salvaging things when Juliet said, “Dad came down.”

  Anna heard the note of accusation in her adolescent voice and for the second time today knew herself to be on trial, this time, not as a barrister, but as a mother.

  “Oh, yes? How is Eddy, then?”

  “‘Sail right.”

  “Good.”

  “Why don’t you phone him?”

  “Did he say that, darling?”

  Silence. Then: “You never phone him. Never. Why don’t you?”

  “There’s not much I really want to say to Eddy, I’m afraid.” Anna gritted her teeth, but before she could stop herself the words were out, “Why don’t you phone me, darling? You know how much I worry.” She moved the phone from one hand to the other, wiped her forehead. “Couldn’t you just once—”

  “The sweater’s too big. I gave it to Fergie. Look, I can’t talk anymore now.”

  “Juliet, please don’t—”

  But the purr on the line meant that her daughter must have hung up. I will not cry, Anna told herself. And I must not drink any more, either, because that will … not … help.

  She kept to her resolve until eight-thirty. By that time David still had not rung, so she poured another double, to give herself Dutch courage, and called him.

  While the phone rang she entertained herself by planning all the things she was going to say. How was he? How had his day been? Were things going well? Yes, they must be going well because his seminar was so important and he had to triumph … then she would tell him about losing the case, but lightly, not in such a way as to worry or distract him…. And then he would say …

  Someone picked up the phone. Anna asked to speak to Mr. David Lescombe. It seemed ages before he came to the phone. She was aware of a comfortable buzz of conversation in the background; something about it told her that David wasn’t going to be pleased, and the longer she waited the more chance her heart had to sink from its euphoria of a moment ago.

  A clung, then a brisk voice said, “Hello.”

  “David? Anna.”

  “Hello, love. Yes?”

  “Have I interrupted anything? Are you busy?”

  “I am, rather. Sorry. Can you make it quick?”

  “You promised to ring me, that’s all. When you didn’t, I was worried.”

  A long pause. “Oh, damn.” He sounded dispirited. “I am sorry. I forgot.”

  “Not going well?”

  “So-so.”

  “Me too.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, I lost a case today, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Not important.”

  “I see. Look, Anna …”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you do something for me? I’ve made a hash of things, rather.”

  “Yes, of course.” She picked up a pen. “Shoot.”

  “It’s the marina. They’re expecting us tomorrow. I ordered fuel and one or two other things before I knew about this blasted weekend. Can you phone in the morning after nine-thirty and cancel? Only I don’t want them to charge us, you see.”

  “No problem.” Suddenly she felt so happy to be of use. “Anything else you’d like me to do?”

  “No, that’s it. I’m really sorry I forgot I was supposed to phone you.” His voice seemed softer, the tension in it had faded somewhat. “But … well, it’s a bit embarrassing to be called out of committee by one’s wife, actually.”

  “Mustn’t keep you, then. I love you, David.”

  “I love you too, darling.”

  “Bye.” Anna quickly put down the phone, even though she knew he had started to say something else. She was worried that it might take away from the power of “I love you too, darling,” and she couldn’t bear that, not tonight of all nights, so she cut him off.

  Afterward, there didn’t seem to be anything to do except make herself a cup of soup and go to bed. Lying propped up on the pillows, she reran her conversation with David, savoring it, wishing she could have brought him greater comfort. She needed to cushion him. Why did she always feel that way?

  Anna had never told David that she’d spent years in psychotherapy. She’d wanted to, but Gerhard had always talked her out of it. Tonight she felt the habitual vague feelings of guilt that beset her whenever she considered the omission. Perhaps tomorrow she would ask Gerhard about it again. Yes. It was time David knew.

  The last thing she did was appropriate Juliet’s pajama case, the one in the shape of a pussycat with a zipper up its stomach, and lie down hugging it to her. She liked its smell. Juliet’s smell.

  On Saturday she got up early and agonized over what to wear. In the end she chose a dark blue suit and—an impulse, this—a rather bold hat, hoping that the contrast in styles would end up transmitting only nonsensual messages.

  She felt virtuous about her early start, but she soon discovered that virtue, as well as being its own reward, can also exact a special kind of price. She parked the car and was just stepping onto the pavement, when she glanced up in time to see a girl who looked scarcely older than Juliet walk out of Gerhard’s front gate, shouldering a tote bag as she did so.

  Anna folded herself back inside the BMW and watched the teenager slouch off down the road. God, he likes them young now, she thought savagely. God …

  The intensity of the pain surprised her. That was all over so long ago. The thought of another woman in Gerhard’s arms still had the power to affect her like a blow to the stomach, and she hated herself for that.

  But it wore off quickly, she found. The past might be able to hurt her; it could not keep her in thrall. She had David now—David whom she loved more than any other man in the world. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine his strong arms around her, hear his patient voice whispering in her ears.

  She got out of the car again and went up the path. When she rang the bell, to her surprise June opened the door; loyal, efficient June, who had been Gerhard’s receptionist ever since he put up his brass plate, but whose hair sadly no longer matched the plate’s sheen. June, untrue to her name, had turned autumnal.

  “Hello, my dear,” she said.

  “How lovely to see you again. I wasn’t expecting that, at the weekend.” Suddenly a great light dawned across Anna’s horizon. “Does he work Saturdays now?”

  “Not often. There’s this kid he’s been assigned by the court, you know, one of those.”

  So Gerhard wasn’t into teenagers yet, then. Why be relieved about that, Anna thought? Idiot! But: “Oh, yes,” was all she said. “Those … can I go up?”

  “Of course.”

  She knew her way; she had visited this aggressively red-bricked house off Keats’ Grove many times. Gerhard refused to be separated from his beloved Hampstead; even when young, and comparatively poor, he had found an attic somewhere under the eaves of Fitzjohn’s Avenue to practice as a psychotherapist. She had known her way there, too. She felt as though she had always known where to find Gerhard Kleist.

  Anna climbed the oak stairs, relishing their dull gleam as a sign of homecoming, and pushed open the door to his room.

  It was like entering the studio of a seventeenth-century master, Pieter de Hooch, perhaps, or Francken the Younger. Anna knew those names because Gerhard had used them to describe the effect he was after. Light poured into this south-facing room through high windows, onto a herringbone parquet floor the color of honey. Beneath the windows stood a long table of pale oak, on which were the half-finished model of a Spanish galleon and the canvas-backed
plans for it, weighed down by a lump of abura, Gerhard’s favorite carving wood. Gauge, pinchuck, callipers and glue were neatly aligned, as always. The priceless Laux Maler lute rested in its usual place, against the side of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that ran the length of one whole wall. Yes, everything was just so; she had time to absorb that comforting knowledge before his voice coiled out to caress her:

  “Hello.”

  Anna walked toward him, her shoes tap-tapping across the varnished wooden floor, and Gerhard rose. He had decided to wear white today, wanting to project the cleanness of new beginnings: linen shirt open at the collar, white shoes, even the belt holding up his white slacks was white. He stood with legs slightly apart, hands in pockets, watching her. His casual stance belied the stew of intense, conflicting emotions that sluiced around inside him, but he was already sensitizing himself to the nuances of her mood.

  “You look like Coco Chanel,” he said. “In those photos of her when she was young.” His voice broke. For a moment he could not go on: she seemed so beautiful still, so much the woman he’d always wanted. “Chic personified, only softer.”

  All the breath went out of her and then she laughed. “You really know how to lay it on, don’t you!”

  “Yes.” He smiled, hoping his nervousness wouldn’t manifest itself in a tic. “But it takes practice.”

  “It’s been rather a long time.” Her voice sounded artificially bright in his ears, like that of a bereaved widow preparing to say, “Won’t you come back to the house after the service …?”

  “I’ve been terribly busy,” he confessed. “And—”

  “No apologies. Not today. But June said you’d been working, are you sure I’m not in the way?”

  “Of course not. Relax.”

  “Oh dear. Now you’ll be categorizing my insecurities again.” She surprised him by raising a hand in the solemn gesture of one who intends to take an oath. “Freud said … or are you Jung? I never could remember.”

  “I’m Pisces, actually.”

  “Two fish swimming in opposite directions, how appropriate.”

  And they laughed, glad to find the spell broken, although, yes, of course she knew he was Pisces, and what’s more, Gerhard knew that she knew; his birthday fell on March 3. There were some things Anna would inevitably transfer from one year’s diary to the next, no matter how redundant they might seem to her, and that indisputably was one of them.