“I am certain of it, ma belle. Now, I must ask before I forget—are you coming to the reception on Sunday evening? I told Daniel that he must invite you.”
“I told you, Mimi—Heather is going home that morning.”
“Of course. Yes, you did tell me. Such a shame.”
“I could change my flight home,” Heather said impulsively, and only after the words were out did she decide she absolutely would change her flight. It would probably cost a bomb, and she would have the mother of all credit-card bills next month, but she was going to do it. “I’ll sort it out as soon as I get back to the hotel.”
They set off for a walk through the gardens as soon as Miriam had finished her coffee, and although Heather would have loved to visit the gift shop, it was clear the older woman was running out of steam. Daniel flagged down a taxi as soon as they passed through the exit gates, one of the big black ones that seemed to have room for about ten people inside, and they set off for Hampstead.
“Are you sure?” Daniel whispered in her ear after a few minutes had passed. “About your flight, I mean.”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ll probably only have to pay a change fee. It really isn’t a big deal.”
“If you say so. I will warn you that most of the guests at the reception will be members of my family. Cousins galore, and Mimi is insisting that everyone bring their children. It’ll be a miracle if the reception ends without some sort of alarm being triggered.”
They saw Miriam upstairs, and after ensuring she was comfortable in her chair, Daniel prepared her a coffee, steadfastly ignoring his grandmother’s insistence that he overlook the canister marked décaféiné.
“It’s decaf or nothing, Mimi,” he insisted. “Otherwise you’ll be up half the night.”
Heather approached Miriam so she might say good night and have her cheeks kissed, promising again that she would change her flight home, and then she retreated to the far side of the room so Daniel might speak to Miriam. He crouched beside her, and he let her fuss with his hair, smoothing it off his brow, and the look of love on his face was enough to crack Heather’s heart in two.
“Si t’as besoin de quoi que ce soit, tu dois m’appeler,” he said. “Tu connais mon numéro.” Call me if you need anything. You know my number.
“Oui, oui. Et maintenant, je veux que tu ailles d?ner avec Heather. Ton intelligence va l’épater—” Yes, yes. Now go and take Heather to dinner. Wow her with your intelligence—
“？a suffit, Mimi—” Enough, Mimi—
“—et ton charme.” —and your charm.
“Tu sais que je t’aime. Même si tu me gênes devant Heather.” You know I love you. Even though you’re embarrassing me in front of Heather.
Heather tried not to listen, but they weren’t lowering their voices, and short of walking out the door or putting her fingers in her ears there wasn’t much she could do. All the same, she had to tell him that she’d heard and understood. She waited until they were outside and walking up the hill to the Tube station, having agreed on the way downstairs that a cab would take forever that late in the afternoon.
“I guess I should tell you that my stereotypical Canadian-ness extends to speaking French. I’d have said something, but I didn’t want to intrude.”
“You weren’t intruding. I just hope you didn’t mind being talked about as if you weren’t there. Normally I’d have switched to English, but when she gets tired she prefers French.”
“I didn’t mind at all. And I do find you charming and intelligent. Just so you know.”
“I’ll file that away for future reference. Before we go much farther, though, where would you like to eat? Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”
“Anything at all.”
“I’ve a place in mind. Italian food, hasn’t changed in years, and not so very far from your hotel.”
It was hard to talk much on the Tube, which was packed tight for rush hour. Daniel took hold of her hand as he led them from one train to another, and in far less time than she’d have thought possible they were emerging into the early evening sunshine.
“Where are we?” she asked, blinking in the golden light.
“A bit south of Clerkenwell. That’s where we’ll find the Victory Café.”
Had Heather been on her own, she’d never have found the restaurant; and had she happened to walk by, she’d probably have dismissed it out of hand. The sign was faded and hard to read, the front window was steamy and disguised the interior, and the menu, posted outside, was handwritten and of a haiku-like simplicity. But the smells drifting out the door were divine.