I give him a short nod, not having any energy left for words. I’ve forgotten how wordy politicians can be. They never say something in five words if it can be said in forty-five.
I used to be like that, too. Being around Brandon has changed me. You don’t have to talk to be understood.
Clive leans over to kiss me, catching the corner of my mouth. I don’t pull away because this will start another ‘talk.’ I just want him to go.
“I love you!” He says loud enough for everyone to hear.
Had I been in any mood, it might have been flattering that he’s so jealous of Brandon.
Brandon himself hasn’t heard; he doesn’t appear to be in the garden. I go back inside, but the kitchen and sitting room are both empty.
There’s so much to think about that my brain feels paralysed. It reminds me of when I was lost in Paris and looking at the Metro map, at all those stations, not knowing where to go.
The phrase ‘spanner in the works’ has never made so much sense. Clive has come into our home and thrown a hand-grenade into the middle of it.
Malinara crying reminds me she’s due another feed, so I bring her down to the kitchen, drag the rocking chair over, and sit down to feed her.
“Hey beautiful girl,” I whisper, playing with the soft curl on her crown. “Are you happy? Do you want to stay here in this beautiful house?”
She puckers her mouth and her eyes close, content while she drinks.
“Do you want to grow up here?”
It took me long enough to understand this island, but I finally feel like I belong. La Canette is my home. “Hey, sweet baby, how about we stay here and let you learn to crawl on the grass outside and play among the poppies? Or is it true that you need a father?”
Do I have the right to keep her from him? It was easier, so much easier, before he came. When he was just the man who didn’t want to know.
Something buzzes behind me, and I turn to find Brandon’s phone on the counter.
I try to ignore it, but it buzzes again a minute later, and again and again. It’s very hard to relax in a rocking chair when a phone demands to be answered. Finally, I pick it up,
It’s an oversees number +31. “Hello, Brandon Hazelwood’s phone.”
“Excuse me.” A male voice with a Dutch accent. “Is Mr Hazelwood available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not here. Can I take a message?”
“This is Harry Gruppen from the press office at the Royal Concertgebouw. We want to arrange a press release about his appointment, and we need to know if he has a start date yet.”
“I’ll make sure to pass the message on. Can he ring you back on the same number?”
I deal with the call, or at least the professional autopilot in me says all the polite things and takes the message. The rest of me feels cold spreading down to my feet.
He’s got the job.
And then another thought, even colder. Why didn’t he tell me?
The phone, still in my hand, buzzes again and I swipe to answer it a second before I see the name flash on the screen. Janey.
Not Jane. Not Jane Smith or Jane Robinson or whatever, no surname. Janey, an intimate musical curve on a first name. So, Clive wasn’t lying. There had been a very personal call.
“Hello,” my mouth says.
“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “Can I speak to Brandon, this is his phone?”
“Yes, sorry, he’s not here at the moment.”
“Who is this?” she asks on a rising note.
