“But if not you, then who?”
She nodded hesitantly, her expression troubled and pensive. “All right,” she finally said with a sigh. “Please, dear, sit.” I slid back into the chair as the muscles in my stomach tensed and the pain I’d felt earlier returned, but this time, more intensely. Still I kept my eyes focused on Bonnie’s, not wanting to miss what she was about to say.
“Mr. Baker was married once, a long time ago,” she began. “Shame on those women. They were cruel to her, too.”
I shook my head as the tears welled up. Suddenly Frank’s moods, the unexplained distance—it all started to make sense. In London, I was a fantasy, but in California, only a square peg that, try as he might, didn’t fit into the round hole—the gaping hole—left by the woman in his past. I was not her, and would never be. Nothing I could do or say would be good enough. “But, Bonnie, why didn’t he tell me?”
“Dear one,” Bonnie said, pulling me to her ample chest. “He would have, when he was ready.”
I tried to picture her, this woman I knew nothing about, other than the fact that she once occupied the bed I shared with Frank. Was she beautiful? Accomplished? Did she break Frank’s heart? I wanted to ask Bonnie a thousand questions, but I chose only one.
“Does he still love her?” I closed my eyes tightly, as if instinctively protecting myself from what Bonnie might say. I’d gone from being casual about Frank’s love to desperately needing it. And I needed it more than ever when the pain in my stomach radiated to my lower back, releasing a slow trickle of warm liquid that ran down my legs.
“Eloise,” she continued as I noticed a patch of bright crimson soak through the edge of my dress. Blood. “Diane died five years ago in a car accident. She was pregnant.” She paused, swallowing hard as I clutched my belly. “Frank was at the wheel.”
“You ready?” I say, poking my head into Liza’s flat the next morning. We’d agreed to set out for Regent’s Park at nine, and I wait in her doorway as she laces up her sneakers.
It’s a sunny day, and the park is only a ten-minute walk, so we set out on foot. “I packed a blanket and picked up some treats from Café Flora this morning. We can have a picnic.”
“Great,” Liza says. “I’m starving.”
As we walk, she points out various places, including her ex-boyfriend’s flat (his name is Earl and she despises him), along with her favorite pubs, and an old church with a pointy steeple that she tells me she’ll get married in someday—when she finds the man of her dreams, of course. I smile to myself as she chatters on about this and that, until we find the entrance to the park. A gravel, tree-lined pathway deposits us on the edge of a large lawn, buzzing with activity, mostly children playing and a handful of people flying kites. The scene reminds me of Mary Poppins’s mythical chalk-art excursion.
“Look at the photographers over there,” Liza says, pointing ahead. “It might be a celebrity.”
I eye the photoshoot in progress, where a blond woman sits on a stool in a pink sequined evening gown, which looks jarringly out of place against the backdrop of the park, but maybe that’s the idea? Her hair is swept up in a loose bun, and when she turns in our direction to adjust her necklace, I recognize her immediately—but not because she’s the celebrity Liza had hoped. “Wait, I think I know that person.”
“You do?”
I nod. “It’s…Fiona. She’s the girlfriend of this guy who came into the store recently—Eric.”
Liza shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve met him.”
I watch as a stylist smooths a flyaway from Fiona’s temple. “He grew up coming to the bookstore. He knew my mother. Anyway, his girlfriend, Fiona, isn’t really a reader, and he is, so he asked me to help him find something to entice her.”
“That’s adorable,” Liza says. “I’m telling you, a man who thinks of special things like that is rare in this world.”
“Well, I hope she found the book as special as his gesture.” We continue on, but when Fiona waves at me, I pause and walk over to her.
“Valentina, right?”
“Yes,” I say. “And this is my friend Liza.”
“Hi,” she says, her expression feigning embarrassment, though it’s obvious that she’s someone who likes the attention. “How funny do I look in this gown in the middle of the park?”
“It’s…gorgeous,” I say.
“Well, when D Magazine asked to feature me in a cover shoot, I had no idea it would entail freezing my ass off in a ballgown.” She smiles at the photographer.
“D Magazine?”
“Design Magazine,” she says. “It’s the most important interior design publication. Everyone reads it. Oh but, right, you’re not in the design world—duh!”
“Right,” I say, smiling mechanically. “Well, congratulations, on the cover. That’s a…a huge accomplishment.”
“Thank you,” she says as the stylist dusts her nose with a makeup brush.
“Oh, Eric came in the other day looking for a book for you. Did you—”
“Eric and his mission to have us be a couple of old bookworms together,” she says with a sentimental eye roll. “I mean, is he adorable, or what?”
“It was sweet of him, yes. I hope you liked The Time Traveler’s Wife? It’s a favorite of mine. The way the author weaves the past and present is—”
“Wait,” she says, interrupting me with a little laugh. “You actually think I’ve already read it? With a schedule like mine?”
“Oh, I…I just thought that—”
“Eric thinks I read it, and that’s all that matters. But, just between us girls, he has no idea that I saw the movie years ago.”
“Fiona, sorry to interrupt,” the male photographer interjects. “We need to set up a bit farther down. The light isn’t quite right here.”
“We won’t keep you,” I say quickly. I wave politely, but our interaction has left me conflicted. Who would lie to their significant other about anything, much less whether they’ve read a book or not?
“She’s a piece of work,” Liza says when we’re a good distance away.
I shrug. “I’ll admit, she’s not my favorite.”
“What, you don’t know D Magazine? The most important publication of the modern era!”
I laugh as we make our way to the other side of the park. “Enough of that. Let’s go find Matilda!”
The fountain isn’t far, just around the bend, and when I see the iconic statue, I instantly understand my mother’s infatuation with it.
“She’s…beautiful,” I say, eyeing the woman made of bronze. Her dress is delicate and feminine, and her face is so lifelike—even if it’s cast in metal and not flesh. She holds her hand to her forehead, perhaps to block the sun, but I can’t help but wonder if she’s searching for something—or someone—just like me.
Liza senses my curiosity and follows the trajectory of the statue’s eyes, which seem to gaze out at a patch of grass ahead.