—
Now, Simon tightened his Brown’s Hotel bathrobe. “Goddamn Thisbe,” he said. His eyes flashed and his shoulders tensed. If Sylvie believed in perfect, happy endings, Simon’s unresolved divorce drama would derail their love story. But Sylvie was good at pretending things were fine when they were not fine.
When Alexander had left his Alcoholics Anonymous books untouched for a week or two and seemed moody, Sylvie had avoided bringing up the topic of his sobriety. Sometimes, to preserve her sanity (or because she was just fuckingscared), she allowed herself to ignore painful truths. And so, she saw Simon’s fury and anguish, but did not invite him to share it.
Sylvie could not go on after her father died. She could not survive in the house with her wounded mother. She could not bear Alexander’s death, or moving on from his death. So she stood, and went into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and rubbed her hands with Brown’s Hotel lotion that smelled of rosemary and pears. When she returned to the living room, Simon looked even more haggard, more tortured by his hatred of Thisbe and what she had done to him…a hatred so intense, it could be love.
Was Sylvie’s method of bearing the unbearable—the method offorced ignorance—her greatest strength or most damning weakness?
Regardless, it was her way. She didn’t try to fix Simon or to win him. She got back into bed and openedMurder on the Orient Express,which she was rereading.Eventually, Simon’s demons retreated, and he joined her. He was rereading4:50 from Paddington.
“Do you think it’s strange that we’re preparing for a train journey by reading books about murders on trains?” said Simon. “Or in my case, a murder on a train platform?”
“Is it the same train station we’re going to?” asked Sylvie, not really in the mood to talk, her finger marking her place.
“No,” said Simon. “My murder happens at Paddington Station and we’re going to Victoria.”
“Not strange, then,” decided Sylvie.
“Oh, good,” said Simon.
They would trade books when they had finished.
2
Cleo
Cleo and Danny’s flight from JFK to London was smooth. When they landed, Cleo turned on her data, clicked whatever she had to click to get a connection in the UK, and sighed as her phone filled with texts and emails. There was, however, only one voicemail, and it was from Isaac:
Cheerio, my pet. That actually sounds creepy, sorry. Just calling to see how your flight was and to let you know that…well…I wish I was there. Give Sylvie a hug from me. It’s Isaac, by the way. In case you were fooled by my British accent. OK, bye Cleo. I’m here if you need me. Good luck with your mom.
“Well, here we are,” said Danny. “London town!”
Danny had never before been on an international flight. He’d come prepared with a neck pillow, eye shade, moisturizing spritzer, and prepacked healthy snacks. He’d purchased a leather notebookand had dutifully jotted notes in it before taking a pill and falling asleep with his head on Cleo’s shoulder. She’d worked throughout the flight.
At one point, Danny totally zonked, Cleo gingerly opened his notebook and read his “novel notes” with dismay: He had written, “Plane to London same as planes in America. Odd smells.”
At Heathrow, Cleo watched Danny as he handed his crisp, expedited passport to the customs agent. He was trying to be nonchalant, but Cleo could tell he was absolutely thrilled. Danny had come from poverty, poverty way beyond the middle-class coupon-clipping lifestyle Cleo had known back in Montana. His parents drove from their Iowa farm to a town nearby once a year, ordered a bucket of KFC, parked somewhere and ate it—and called this experience the annual family vacation.
Danny smiled as the guard stamped his passport. He stared at the stamp for a moment and then grinned at Cleo. His unshaven face was appealing to her in a way his overly groomed perfection was not.
“I don’t know if I cannot workfor a week,” said Cleo as they walked toward Baggage Claim. “I honestly don’t know if I can do it.”
“I don’t know either,” said Danny. “Do you even want to, Cleo?”
“What?”
“Do you even want to spend time with me?” said Danny, his voice tentative. “Sometimes I feel like the reason you’re so successful is just…you don’t want to be home.”
“Oh, Danny.”
“I think I used to be more interesting,” said Danny contemplatively.
Cleo didn’t know what to say. His allure had always been the impossibility of winning him. But now he was hers, and her desire for him was waning.
She felt a swell of empathy. Danny was terrified to lose her, or to lose her money, anyway. Here he was: a smart guy, his body and face honed to flawlessness, rushing to the carousel to get their bags, which he had packed. Danny was her trophy wife: She’d always detested the term, but was grateful for his assistance in keeping her fed and sharp.
She’d been able to rise to the level of her colleagues because she, like they, had a partner who handled everything else. If she wanted her success and children, a partner like Danny was what she needed.
