“What do you mean?”
“I mean, taking a close interest in every aspect of her life. What dress she wears, what perfume she uses, who she sees, how she manages her work, how she decorates her flat . . .” I use a soft aspirated voice, mirroring him, and I’m reminded of the quiet hissing that swans do, before they get angry.
He leans back in his chair, inhaling as though he’s stifling a yawn, then, looking into my eyes, he comes forward and places his hand on mine. It takes all my willpower not to pull away.
“You’re wrong to be suspicious of me, you know. Those character traits of mine that you don’t like, they’re innocent— Don’t smirk like that. It’s not sinister to care about organization and order. . . . In a clean, uncluttered room you can think; you can be your true self. It’s the same with worries and anxieties, keep them under wraps, and you’re free to excel in activity that matters, whether it’s the strategic management of capital, or something creative, like acting.”
He pulls his hand away, and I’m relieved, at the same time registering some change in him. Something I can’t quite place.
“Really?” It comes out hypercritical. “You like it that Tilda’s an actress?”
In a humoring voice, like he’s trying to calm a dog, he says, “Yes, Callie, I do. She’s a very talented actress, and I’m proud of her. And the more clarity and structure in her home life, the better she’ll be able to focus on her acting.”
“Huh! I suppose you think that if I was more organized and structured at home I wouldn’t be working in a bookshop . . . I’d be a brain surgeon or a high court judge or something.”
Still the pacifying voice: “I’m saying that you might be doing something a little more exciting than working in a bookshop—yes.”
I want to tell him that he doesn’t fool me. At the same time, I don’t want to interrupt his flow, so I offer: “Does Tilda agree?”
“We both know that your sister tends towards chaos and drama. You could say that we’re opposites—but we complement each other. I help her take control of her life, and she prevents me from being obsessive about it. She’s good for me.”
I note a soft tone when he talks about Tilda, and it shakes me up because it sounds genuinely caring and affectionate. I’d become so focused on his violent sex with my sister and his control over her, that I’d forgotten he might actually love her.
Elbow on the table, I lean my head on my hand. “Okay, so let’s assume that I’ll let you sort me out . . . What do you suggest—as a first move—to resign from the bookshop maybe?”
“No, resigning is never a first step. Much better to sit yourself down with a blank sheet of paper and start writing down all the elements of life that are important to you, and those you could easily drop. That way you can begin to work out the journey you want to go on . . .”
“Going forward?” I say, and we both laugh.
A waiter tops up the glasses and asks whether everything is all right. Felix says, “Excellent, thank you.” And I nod my assent.
I’m sounding almost carefree now. “Working with nice people is high up . . . and not being stressed. I couldn’t do your job—all that gambling with other people’s money. But you’re right about the bookshop, I guess, because, although I love Daphne, and books, I don’t want to be there forever. I should try and figure out what to do next.” As I speak, I’m thinking about being in the garden with Wilf, how the time flew because I was so into my digging and enjoying being outside.
“I like communing with nature.” I grin with embarrassment.
“Where did that come from?”
“Oh, I don’t know . . . Felix, can I ask you something?” I need to get back to the questions I had planned to ask. Not to fall into the trap of liking him.
“Of course.”
“Do you have any family? I mean, you don’t seem to have any roots, or friends, or old flames, or anything. It’s always just you and Tilda.”
“You’re a funny one. . . . Of course I have family—a mother called Alana who writes children’s books, and a dad, Erik, who lectures in economics in Boston. They’re still together, so no terrible breakup traumas to report . . . and I call home every week, and always end the call with a love you . . . How about that? That’s not how you think of me, Callie, is it? The good son.”
“What about siblings?”
“I have a brother, Lucas. We don’t always get along—we’re very different and somewhat competitive. While I trade strange, ungraspable financial instruments, he works in bricks and mortar, solid materials . . .”
Somehow I know that Lucas isn’t a real estate agent, like Wilf.
“Lucas is a talented architect,” he says drily. “He lives and works in France, near Nice, and I took Tilda to meet him when we were on holiday there. . . . He has an ex-girlfriend who lives nearby—Sophie. And Lucas is father to their baby. Lily.”
“She didn’t tell me that—Uncle Felix . . . it’s hard to imagine. What about your old girlfriends? Where are they—here, or in America?”
“I knew I was going to get a grilling.” He wipes his lips with a napkin. “And it’s fine. I realize that you have this obsessive thing going on, looking out for Tilda. And I know that I don’t usually talk about myself. I’m a private person. Isn’t that the term for those of us who find it difficult to share every little thing?”
“I’m a private person too.”
He looks directly into my eyes for a moment. “So we have that in common. And yes, Callie, I do have an important ex-girlfriend. She’s American like me, but lives in this country and her name’s Francesca. We lived together for three years, and we broke up because she wanted to be married and I didn’t want to marry her. . . .”
At this point I look down at his hands. It’s instinctive. I had half noticed something before, but only now is it striking me properly.
“Shit, Felix! Why’s that ring on your wedding finger? Do you always do that, or has something happened?”
“I wondered when you’d notice.” There’s an element of nervousness in his voice. “When we were in Martinique I asked Tilda to marry me, and we had a little ceremony on a beach. Nothing that’s binding in law. But that will happen . . . pretty soon.”
For a second I’m totally numb.
“Oh God . . . I knew things were serious—but this . . . I didn’t expect it.”
What I want to say is This is awful.
“Why didn’t Tilda tell me?”
He smiles coyly, pleased to be imparting his news. “We’ve been enjoying our secret. Not going public. But I thought that, since you want to know every little thing about me, I’d better tell you. It seems fair, in the circumstances. Now, sit up straight and breathe—have a sip of your wine.”