Tomorrow Is Far Away

Tomorrow is Far Away

by Ivar Rivaneas

Published as an ebook by Amolibros at Smashwords 2015

Table of Contents

About this Book

About the Author

Note

Dedication

Notices

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

About this Book

Harry Duvall and Max LeCroix were friends – they met at the age of twelve and parted six years later. Harry went to Cambridge and from there to an international pharmaceutical organization where he became finance director.

Max opted for a peripatetic lifestyle, travelling the world and exploiting what came his way; he was seldom concerned about the nature or the legality of his activities.

Sixty years later they meet again. Both are married, with children and grandchildren. Harry is pensioned off and spends most of his time walking the streets of London. Max has turned to writing after leaving the world of excitement behind.

Harry, routinely doing his rounds between museums, art galleries and coffee bars, begin to sense that somebody is stalking him. One day, when Harry and Max celebrate their reunion at a restaurant in Chelsea, the stalker shows up and introduces himself as Pilgrim.

Who is Pilgrim and what does he want? And what has he to do with the future demise of Max and Harry, when it certainly isn’t going to be murder?

Discover Pilgrim’s last assignment and the organisation he works for. And find out exactly what is the big decision both Max and Harry must make, in this leaf-turning cerebral thriller.

About the Author

Ivar Rivenaes was born in Norway. He is the author of three previous novels: Those Who Leave, At The First Fall Of Snow, and Annie Rae. He divides his time between homes in New Zealand and England.

Notices

Published by Amolibros at Smashwords 2015

Copyright © Ivar Rivenaes 2015 | http://www.norwegianauthor.co.uk

Published electronically by Amolibros 2014 | Amolibros, Loundshay Manor Cottage, Preston Bowyer, Milverton, Somerset, TA4 1QF | http://www.amolibros.com | amolibros@aol.com

The right of Ivar Rivenaes to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted herein in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Except for certain historical figures, all the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely imaginary.

This book production has been managed by Amolibros | http://www.amolibros.com

Note

They say that Hope

is happiness;

But genuine Love

must prize the past,

And memory wakes the

thoughts that bless:

They rose the first

they set the last;

And all that Memory

loves the most

Was once our only

Hope to be,

And all that Hope

adored and lost

Hath melted into Memory.

Alas it is delusion all:

The future cheats

us from afar,

Nor can we be

What we recall,

Nor dare we think

On what we are.

Lord George Gordon Byron

Dedication

To my wife and sons.

Chapter One

London, May 2011

Sunday morning

Harry Duvall got up from the kitchen table. He left the newspaper open. Apart from a couple of adverts, the entire page five of the broadsheet was dedicated to Max LeCroix’ latest article – headed: American Presidents – Grand Masters of Genocide.

The previous one – published two weeks ago – had been titled: Commercial Television – Literature’s Best Friend. There, in precise terms and mixed with LeCroix’ apparent ignorance of political correctness, he had claimed that the entire television industry was one monumental racket and that the steadily increasing number of repeats, and each program interrupted with more and more adverts, would gradually turn viewers into readers. The few new programs being made would continue to appeal to perverts and retards but – luckily – those two categories were still in minority and the rest of the population would once again appreciate the value of the written word.

The BBC did not fare any better; politically and morally corrupt, intellectually destitute and with supreme contempt for taxpayers’ money.

Harry switched on the espresso machine. The aroma wafted through the room. He poured a cup and went across to the window, moving slowly so as not to frighten the two pigeons on the windowsill, seeking shelter.

Grey clouds scudded across a low London sky but lightning no longer lit up the skyline. The rumble from thunder had become distant. Rain came down like sheets of polished silver. The forecast had predicted sunny spells from midday.

If I’d been facing a mirror now, I would have seen a twisted grin passing for a smile. Why is it that some memories become more attractive the further back in time their origin is?

Harry did not like mornings. Each new day required renewed efforts to shake off the after-effect of another long and restless night. Most of the time he sat up; a single candle burning and the flickering blue light from the television screen hurting his eyes as he aimlessly clicked from channel to channel, seldom finding anything worth watching. He was too tired to read but from time to time – a change more distracting than soothing – he went through the pages of one or more of his art books, staring aimlessly at the pictures that, when his mind was at comparative ease, always gave him pleasure; not only because he truly loved beauty, but also because his admiration for the genius of the great masters never failed to touch the corner of his soul where the remnants of his childhood’s innocence rested.

Usually, at around three-thirty in the morning – he’d always believed in programming himself whatever he did and however the situation required – he quietly went upstairs to his bedroom, dropped his gown on a chair, entered his bed and closed his eyes. He never knew when sleep came but he reckoned that he got an average of four hours per night.

Harry sipped his coffee.

Once, the world was mine. My dreams had wings and my future was without shackles. Greatness waited. And now, sixty years later, I spend my nights in the company of a candle, looking back at a life that promised so much and delivered so little.

What a waste.

He heard his wife coming into the kitchen and said without turning, Good morning, Gail. Slept well?

Yes, thank you. And you?

The usual, thank you.

I can’t even be bothered to lie.

They had separate bedrooms. Some years ago she’d concluded that he had become a restless sleeper and she couldn’t see why they both should suffer.

He had not mobilized a protest. Gail needed her beauty sleep and any objection would have been futile; Gail never gave in when she was right, which was, broadly speaking, all of the time. Her decision had hurt him but after a while – a short while, come to think of it – he discovered that the arrangement was a blessing in disguise. He was more relaxed on his own; happier, as it were.

Or was he?

Yes, of course he was.

At least most of the time.

Or was it some of the time?

Who are you trying to deceive, Harry? At night, alone in your bed in your separate bedroom, before you go downstairs, are you not yearning for her? Her scent is in your nostrils and won’t go away. You close your eyes and you see her body and you think: So much unused femininity and so much wasted beauty. In your mind you touch her hips as she lays on her stomach, relaxing under the duvet. You listen to her rhythmic breathing and you tilt your head, waiting for her to turn and when she does you can’t stop staring at her angelic face.

And then you think: she is only in her sixties, so why did Mother Nature step in, gradually removing Gail’s passions and then one day – far too early – there was nothing left?

And then you think: or maybe it is me she’s had enough of, even though she knows – she must know – that I love her.

You’re on the wrong track, Harry. The fact that you love her does not mean that she loves you. But once she did. I am certain she did. Maybe she still does, in a detached sort of way. Yes, that is probably how it is. The flame, once so roaring and all-consuming, has died and left are only a few smouldering embers. Nature has taken its course.

But in her mind she still cares for me.

Doesn’t she?

I wish I knew.

I wish I knew a lot of things.

He came back to the table.

Can I make you a cup of coffee? he asked.

Thank you.

She was reading when he put the cup on the table.

LeCroix again, she remarked.

Harry kept quiet.

Have you read this article? she went on.

Only the first couple of paragraphs, he lied.

This looks interesting, she said, but I’ll never forgive him for what he said about David.

Gail was a full-blooded Tory, as was her family during the generations, all of her friends and most of her acquaintances.

Harry didn’t mean it when he said, That was perhaps a bit over the top.

"A bit? I am still surprised that David didn’t take action."

Gail had met Cameron several times. So far, she took care not to characterize the prime minister as a friend, but they were certainly close enough to be on first names; something she thought seldom failed to make an impact on whomever she talked to.

Harry had more than once resisted the temptation to inform her that practically nobody used surnames anymore; the custom was close to extinction thanks to the new wave created by liberalized mindsets sweeping old-fashioned etiquette into oblivion and giving birth to a new culture – another gift from God’s own country across the Atlantic – that did not include something as irrelevant and outright archaic as tact, manners and a modicum of elementary respect.

She was also in the process of trying to develop a friendship with his wife; one of Gail’s maxims in life was that it was important to know the right people. Few things were more essential to one’s standing in society than belonging to a circle of men and women of quality.

I forget, Harry said, although he didn’t. What were the words LeCroix used?

Gail straightened in her chair and put her palms on the table. He had the audacity to describe David as similar to Tony Blair – narcissistic, glib, deceitful, unprincipled, a pathological liar, a promise-breaking opportunist, a politician who put his own career ahead of the interest of the country.

And a bit more than that, Harry thought; he also said that Cameron, with his gleaming forehead and pursed lips, is the better actor of the two and, like his predecessor, he is specious and with a steadily increasing taste for subjugation and an alarming inability to think things through. Like his spiritual twin, Don Quixote, Cameron believes in windmills, differing from the Spaniard only by seeing windmills as allies and not opponents – bless his pragmatism – and, like Don Quixote, completely disregarding realities. The fact that windmills are vastly uneconomical, noisy and ugly is conveniently ignored – what does not suit Cameron does not exist. However, the presence of windmills does suit his father-in-law, who is making a fortune by owning land upon which these monstrosities can play their symphony so adored by the disciples of wishful thinking. Also – not to be ignored – Cameron has his green credentials, smoothly blended with his indisputably righteous political correctness; nobody becomes a great statesman in the twenty-first century if he fails to do his bit for Himalayan glaziers and Chilean blueberries, coupled with a crusade against tobacco and reporters who have the audacity to imply that intellectual venality is rampant in political circles.

And Max LeCroix had also touched what most journalists stayed clear of – giving an explicit and dialectic presentation of his view on gays and marriage. No prime minister had the right to treat this as a political issue – this was a cultural matter, inherently established in any one civilization at any one time in the history of mankind, and therefore a question for the British people to decide in a referendum. Should the majority acknowledge that the definition of marriage included homosexuals; in other words, that such institutional addition was not seen as a cultural and biological anomaly, then – and only on this basis – could such a ritual be incorporated.

Why did such a basic notion elude Mr Cameron? It didn’t – he just decided to pay no attention to it, as he pays no attention to anything that does not suit his exiguous conception of enlightenment.

Harry said, just for the fun of it, But, as far as I recall, did not Cameron solemnly promise a referendum on the EU?

Yes, of course he did, but only when the time is right.

When would that be?

When… Gail sipped her coffee, when it is in Britain’s interest to have one.

I think LeCroix said that it will never happen on Cameron’s watch, simply because he knows that a withdrawal would reduce him to a bit player, to someone who had to watch from the sidelines when the big boys got together. It would also eliminate Cameron’s chances of ever getting a plush job in Brussels when his tenure as Britain’s saviour is over. Conclusion: he will only object to an EU decision if he is convinced that the alternative spells political suicide. In other words, Cameron – the male Barbie Doll of British politics – has an ego that overshadows everything else.

That is preposterous.

Didn’t Cameron promise to get rid of political correctness when he was in opposition? I haven’t seen much of an effort since.

These things take time. By the way, how come you suddenly remember?

It’s just coming back to me.

Harry went back to the window. He leaned against the wall and glanced at his wife through half-closed eyes. Her lips had got thinner; they always did, when somebody had the cheek to oppose her. She pushed aside a lock of hair from her forehead and continued reading.

No, he thought, it wasn’t easy for a woman of Gail’s disposition to accept that her husband wasn’t an admirer of the political elite and, worse, if possible, that he was seen by most as a lesser sociable creature. He silenced a sigh. Once, they had been close, but, slowly, the difference in their psychological make-up corroded away the bond that once had seemed indestructible. After some fifty years of marriage they still managed to keep the façade, but when and why did even a bleak imitation of affection vanish?

Rays from the sun filled the room. He looked out. A few white clouds tinged with magenta moved idly by, like amorphous cherubs playfully chasing each other.

I’ll go for a walk in the park, he thought, and from there to the Portrait Gallery. That’s always amusing. Or maybe to the new exhibition in Albemarle Street.

Listen to this, Gail said, and I quote: ‘Abraham Lincoln, this greatest of American icons, had one ambition, unequivocally expressed by himself in August of 1862: …My paramount object in this struggle is to save the Union, and it is not either to save or destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave I would do it, and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that … He agreed with those who saw the black man as inferior to the white man, and he contemplated exporting freed slaves – sending them back to Africa became seriously tempting. The British had done so already from 1787 onwards, to their colony Freetown, and two of Lincoln’s predecessors – Thomas Jefferson and James Monroe – had both advocated the idea of black colonization. Abraham Lincoln had thus made it perfectly clear that his saving-the-Union cliché had nothing to do with slavery and everything to do with his personal ambitions. To reach this goal he had no compunction sacrificing the life of more than six hundred thousand soldiers and a hush-hush number of civilians – widely assumed in scientific circles to be around two percent of the population, the equivalent of six million today. Lincoln’s craving for power superseded everything else. Is the true picture of this ruthless and cunning megalomaniac of a demagogue depicted in American history books? No, it is not – once again the Americans have shown their capacity for re-writing history. Lincoln was no better than those presidents who broke every single agreement made with the American Indians and who did their utmost to annihilate one tribe after another; bloodthirsty, deceitful and disingenuous.’ Gail paused and seemed vaguely amused when she continued, The tenor of this article isn’t going to please those who believe that there is a special relationship between Britain and USA.

Gail was not one of them; she resented that the Americans did not treat Britain as an equal partner. All of her friends agreed that most Americans were basically a bunch of plebeians incapable of understanding, let alone respecting, Britain’s achievements during the centuries. Some months’ ago another of LeCroix’ observations had also met with approval from Gail and her friends; in an article dealing with eco-political balance and a greater need for mutual respect, he had claimed that America’s pathological desire for global control would eventually lead the world to the brink of disaster. The emergence of China as a new super-power and a stronger Russia would not be sufficient to prevent this course of events; only the acceleration of the ongoing disintegration from within of the United Sates could save the planet from returning to its original form as a molten rock.

That one had provided considerable mental nourishment for Gail and her politically astute circle.

Seems to me that LeCroix has done his homework, Harry said.

"I’ll grant him that – this time, I mean. Here’s another observation: ‘Harry Truman was a failure all his life; whatever he touched went wrong. It was his insignificance that made Roosevelt chose him as vice president; FDR saw Truman as harmless, as too ill-equipped mentally to become a political opponent. … When FDR died in April of 1945, Truman had been vice president for less than twelve weeks. With all of three months behind him as president, Truman went to Potsdam to meet Churchill and Stalin, admitting later that he felt like a sparrow among eagles. How did he compensate? By returning home and getting intimately acquainted with the Manhattan Project – the atomic bomb – of which he knew literally nothing until he became president; also here FDR had kept his vice president in the dark. Truman made up his mind; he was going to show Churchill and Stalin and the rest of the world what he was made of, unaware that his inferiority complex – a trait he was too limited to understand – was the driving force behind his order to drop the bombs.

‘But – once again – the Americans have re-written history, claiming that an invasion of Japan would cost tens of thousands of American lives, presumably killed by chopsticks since there was hardly anything left of Japan’s military power; no oil, no fleet, scarcity of weapons, limited infrastructure and the remnants of the army scattered all over the Pacific. The result – hundreds of thousands of human lives burned to death and decades of after-effects – makes Harry Truman one of Second World War’s worst criminals, a politician whose crimes against humanity will forever remain a blood-red stain on the history of the United States. And how did President Truman describe the dropping of the bombs? Quote: This is the greatest thing in history. As opposed to Einstein, who said: It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity. And then he added, The unleashed power of the atom has changed everything save our modes of thinking, and thus we drift towards unparalleled catastrophes.

‘Did Truman listen to these observations? Evidently not. When the Nuremberg Trials began, Truman once again stayed true to his only principle – have none – and secured that four thousand Nazi war criminals escaped justice by converting to the ethical values of the United States.

‘Five years later, Truman’s yearning for more butchery instigated the Korean War, a decision he took without bothering to inform Congress … One can’t but wonder about those who still swallow the Americans and their capability of turning black to white; their self-righteousness, their jingoism, their inherent dishonesty, their depravity and their unique ability to confuse chauvinism with patriotism.’"

Gail’s smile was cryptic. I think I’ll cut out this article and ask the club to discuss it. Should be fun.

Gail was a prominent member of the local conservative club. They met once a month in order to analyse and rectify what was wrong with the world. Since the club was seen as one of the bluest in the country, they had the privilege of a visit by a representative from the Conservative Elite four times a year; the mission of the sage being to fertilize their minds with exhortations recently conceived by Leader Cameron’s brilliant brain.

Harry had never attended.

The blue-and-white porcelain clock on the wall showed half past ten. He began to feel restless.

When are you leaving? he asked, knowing that she was having afternoon tea with some friends at The Connaught.

In about an hour’s time. I am going to the gym first. And you?

Oh, I’ll go for a stroll and maybe to some gallery or museum.

Right.

He knew what right meant; after years of having tried to persuade him to join her various clubs, charities or any other activity that had taken her fancy, she had long given up. Right translated to: I don’t really care.

He asked, Are there any other interesting observations in the article?

She waited a while, her eyes scanning the page. Ah, yes, she said, here is an amusing presentation. I quote: ‘… to take the odious Truman’s successors: Eisenhower – an intellectually circumcised clown, Kennedy – a drug-addicted reptile, Johnson – a venal bully, Nixon – a craven crook, Ford – a vacuous caricature, Carter – a cretinous mole, Reagan – an astrology-dependant non-entity, Clinton – an amoral buffoon, Obama – a supercilious empty shell. But – bless them – they all managed to arrange what all American presidents do better than anybody else: a display of bloodshed in the name of freedom and democracy somewhere else and, of course, doing their usual plundering and destructions under the banner of defending America against evil forces threatening the sacred values of God’s own country.’ Gosh, this really is good stuff.

Her eyes wandered. And here is another one. Quote: ‘Seventy years ago, President Roosevelt offered the nation his four goals: Freedom of speech. Freedom of worship. Freedom from want. Freedom from fear. Today, the first does not include anyone who dare criticize the United States. The second does not include Muslims or any non-Christian beliefs. The third has been deprived of oxygen by Wall Street and its close ally The White House irrespective of the political colour of its occupant at any one time. The fourth has become non-existent – America is now the planet’s most destructive and paranoid nation. The cherry in this cocktail of divine righteousness – of ideals, of ethics, of morality and of values – all as per American definitions – is that the CIA has emerged as the worst terrorist organization the world has ever seen, closely followed by its rival the FBI. The Founding fathers can sleep peacefully in their graves, resting assured that their perception of code of behaviour continues to be in the best of hands.’ Shall I continue?

Harry said, I’ll read it later. He wanted to go.

Gail got up from her chair, her movement slow and measured. Her eyes rested on his face.

Harry looked back. Incredible, he thought, those blue eyes still shine with undiminished light. Her golden hair is as rich as ever and the few strand of silver suits her. Her oval face – never touched by a surgeon’s knife or treated with Botox or anything else – could have belonged to someone twenty-five years younger. And her body – he fought not to swallow – her body was still a magnet for any man crossing her path. Diligence, he thought; she did pay a lot of attention to her physical well-being, but added was an extraordinary genetic generosity by the Great Creator. A pity the same designer hadn’t been equally generous when it came to Gail’s emotional composition.

Her lips parted. Why is there a line under LeCroix’ email address?

He hesitated, silently cursing his mistake.

She leaned forward. Well?

Then he relaxed. I’ll tell her the truth, he thought; it does not matter.

We used to be friends.

What? You and LeCroix? When?

Three questions – two of significance. He shrugged. Oh, it is almost sixty years ago. We met when we were twelve and lost touch at eighteen.

Her tongue moved from cheek to cheek. You are not contemplating getting in touch, are you? Don’t, Harry. No good will come out of it.

Why not?

It’s an old experience. Visiting the past, looking up somebody from way back, meeting one’s idol – it never works out. You’ll end up disappointed.

Would one disappointment more or less make much of a difference?

The lines on his forehead deepened. You are probably right.

I am not going to discuss it. This decision is mine.

He said, I am going for my walk. See you tonight.

A thin line appeared between her eyebrows. She nodded without commenting.

Gail was born and raised in Oxfordshire. Her father, Charles Stephenson, ran a chain of bathroom shops – eleven, altogether. He had since in his early twenties been a staunch supporter of the Tory party. As years went by and his financial status improved, he’d also become a valuable activist and fund-raiser. Her mother Elaine was an interior designer of repute and equally supportive of anything that could be defined as blue-blooded, conservative and refined – her favourite word. She was distantly related to a minor royal; a privilege occasionally mentioned in passing – never blatantly but with just the right degree of emphasis to be registered by whoever was listening.

Gail, her older sister and younger brother, grew up in a home where harmony prevailed. All three went to the best of schools, got good jobs and – following the example of their parents – mixed with the right people.

Gail and Harry met one Sunday afternoon at the Victoria & Albert Museum; by accident, as she was fond of relating – she had stumbled going down a stair and a firm hand had gripped her elbow and saved her from falling. She had looked into a freckled face radiating concern. The few words he spoke with his mid-Atlantic accent made her curious. He was on his own, as was she, and somehow she found herself walking next to him as they wandered through the corridors, looking more at each other than at the Mayan artefacts on display. His shy and reticent nature intrigued her. Little by little she managed to extract what she wanted to know about Harry, his background, his job and – this only with limited success – his plans for the future and, finally and even more vague, his dreams. Before the day was over she had made up her mind: this was the first but not the last time she’d seen Harry Duvall.

Her parents approved of the quiet American and accepted the nine-year age difference on the grounds that Gail was still a bit immature and Harry’s apparent emotional and intellectual stability could only do her good. Added to these qualities – certainly not to be overlooked – were the facts that he was Cambridge-educated and that his family evidently were well off. As Elaine Stephenson succinctly put it to her daughter: one’s background is important, dear.

Harry’s parents were even happier; it was high time their son settled down and produced another Duvall.

Charles Stephenson put on a magnificent wedding.

Gail saw him leave. She went into the drawing room, sat down in her favourite chair and put her feet on the table.

I feel so sorry for him, she thought, but what can I do? What can anybody do – Harry doesn’t open up anymore. He is well and truly ensconced in his own private universe; distanced from me, distanced from our daughters and our grandchildren; he comes and goes on his own and he has no friends.

A bittersweet smile appeared and vanished. Once, nobody was closer than Harry and I. We were in love, we worshipped each other and we could hardly bear being away from each other. He was such a handsome man, in his own rugged way, with his broad, freckled face and brown curly hair and that strong, athletic body of his.

The smile came back. But that’s the way he still is, she mused; the hair may be greyish and there are lines on his face but nobody can deny that Harry Duvall is a remarkable specimen. Men thirty years younger can’t compete with him in the gym and they would give a fortune to have a body like his.

A sense of weariness descended like heavy chains around her neck and shoulders. At least, she thought – at least I am not blaming him for anything. He didn’t turn our marriage into the bleak parody that it now is any more than I did. It just happened, like water flowing by and slowly but surely eroding away the river banks.

Did the deterioration begin when the children arrived? Yes, that was probably the start; I got preoccupied, perhaps concentrating too much on the child and not enough on my marriage. Within the space of three years I had two little girls to take care of and my sense of duty took on another dimension. That’s when my libido took a knock. At first, I ignored this new state of mind and body, but now, looking back, it was then that Harry began to treat me differently. It was as if I had become a Fabergé egg; fragile and almost too precious to be touched. Did I realize that he was actually suffering? No, I did not – I interpreted his attitude merely as consideration. It did not occur to me that he felt rebuffed, that he was hurt and confused and dejected.

I know that my situation was not unique; many of my friends told exactly the same story but not all have husbands of Harry’s quality.

Later, though, we kind of got together again; less passionate and not exactly on a frequent basis, but, I thought, the flower of youth had been replaced by maturity and it wasn’t a slow-down but just a natural biological process.

Still, I kept it going.

What I did not register, until much later, was that we’d begun to talk past each other; the will to understand and the flame of devotion seemed to walk hand in hand towards oblivion.

And I kept it going.

How many times has this chain of events gone through my mind? When will my acceptance of an immutable situation finally come to rest somewhere in the dungeon of my memory?

I wish I knew then what I know now.

She listened to the sigh reverberating through the room and pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes.

Did I take advantage of Harry?

No, that’s not how it was. He over-protected me. Whatever it was – finance, economy, legal matters or anything else – Harry took care of it. He always did his best to shield me from the mundane and trivial side of life; an attitude that is praiseworthy in itself but it also removed any sense I may have had of overall responsibility – it dulled my awareness of my obligations as a partner.

His mistake was that he put me on a pedestal. My mistake was that I allowed it to happen.

And now?

I no longer believe it can be undone.

After a while she got up and went over to the window facing north. She opened it and inhaled the air fresh from the morning rain. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed eleven times.

Whatever I did wrong, she thought, there is no denying that Harry has always been a solitary man and that is something neither I nor anybody else could do anything about. The cold fact of the matter is that we developed differently; over time we silently acknowledged that we had less and less to talk about and we simply drifted apart. Neither of us ever touched the delicate subject of divorce, to our credit; I think that he, like I, quietly concluded that we would be even more miserable if we split up. After all, we have managed to keep up the façade and that, surely, says something.

She massaged her temples with the tip of her fingers. Why was there rarely much of a distance between passion and pretence? A line she had once read – and could not forget – shot to the surface: We change, and our truths change with us.

As does everything else, she whispered with a resigned smile.

Gail moistened her lips and nodded; life goes on. She had always been gregarious and good at keeping herself busy, and she wasn’t going to slow down one split second before the forces of nature demanded a lower gear. And Harry? He had his art books and his Financial Times and his scientific magazines, his museums and his galleries and his long walks through the parks and the streets of London.

Books… She tried to fight a feeling of unease. She shouldn’t have advised him not to get in touch with Max LeCroix; even Harry needed someone to talk to, even if it was only a few times a year.

Gail was an avid reader of novels. Harry was not. He obviously had no idea that LeCroix also wrote fiction; she had read two of his books – this was before his articles began to circulate – and they were in their library but in the section Harry never visited. LeCroix certainly had the courage of his opinions, he had humour, he was iconoclastic and many a section revealed an above average knowledge of the human mind. And if he and Harry didn’t click after some sixty years apart – so what? Not the greatest of tragedies – Harry would walk away with his trade-mark philosophical smile on his face.

She closed the window. The rays from the sun hit the glass like exclamation marks behind daring assumptions.

§

Harry left his house in the Boltons, walked across to Fulham Road, up to Sydney Street, and from there to King’s Road, heading for Sloane Street. It was his traditional route. Arriving in Knightsbridge, he found his favourite pavement café where he asked for a cappuccino. It was nice, kind of reassuring, to