Читать книгу Where You Belong - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where I’ve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely, flowing feeling which appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.

But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, I’ve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I can’t quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.

It’s not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesn’t. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London where he lived.

I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; I’ve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness which propels me into the street, as early as dawn sometimes.

The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. Firstly, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; secondly, being outside in the open air, amongst crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits and helps to diminish my depression.

Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.

It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment grief was held at bay.

Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well being, and if Jake happened to be present he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived here for the same reason as I did.

I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. ‘London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,’ he would remark, and wink at Jake.

I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times, the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lord’s, football at Wembley, and Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.

Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments ago, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses I walked on purposefully.

It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.

There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighing me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.

Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.

It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks which had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.

Destiny, I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character…and who and what he was as a man.