Alexandra chattered, raised her eyebrows, and made small gestures as she recounted this and that. Her eyes crinkled at the corners now when she smiled. Catriona sipped her tea, and occasionally she nodded or said, “Is that so?” Meanwhile, she was thinking. Did Alex like her husband? Had she liked Georgina? It frightened her, to think about whether people actually lived how they truly thought and felt, or whether they spent their time living two lives: the one they performed, in public and their own homes, and the one that played out in their mind, in parallel to everything they said and did. Neither one, performed or imagined, struck her as more real than the other, so unless the two versions were congruent, one lived only half a life.
“Now I’ve prattled on and on,” Alexandra said. “What about you? Do you still play chess?”
Elias appeared before her mind’s eye, bare-chested with a coolly brooding expression as he studied the board. She bit her cheeks to stop herself from grinning stupidly. The last weeks of her life had been near perfect congruency. Every touch, every smile, every minute she had spent in his arms, had been in harmony with her inner desires.
“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes, I still play.”
“We had such fun playing it.”
“Indeed.”
Alexandra watched her over the delicate rim of her cup. “You have changed,” she said. “You shine.”
Catriona smiled, embarrassed.
“No, you do,” Alexandra said, “you are glowing. That’s why I thought you still look seventeen when I first saw you—you’re happy.” She leaned a little closer. “I’m curious, what was it that made you think of me? To meet me again?”
Catriona nodded. “I owe you this.” She took the check from her reticule.
“Goodness?” Alexandra looked at the paper slip with a puzzled frown.
“I took what you left under your bed, back in Bern. I’m sorry.”
Her friend’s smile was polite and bemused. “How kind of you to think of it.” Clearly, she had forgotten all about her stash in her stocking as soon as she had left Switzerland. She made to hand it back to Catriona. “You should keep it.”
“Ah, no. I spent it all.”
Alexandra shook her head. “What did you spend it on? You never bought anything. I had to force every purchase upon you at the haberdasher.”
“I escaped shortly after you left and needed to pay my way.”
Alexandra’s fine lips formed a scandalized pink O. “You escaped—how?”
“The wagon that brought the milk bottles in the morning.”
Alexandra moved her eyes and shook her head as though she was greatly excited by this. “You, a naughty stowaway,” she said. “Meine Güte, what fun. I used to have such fun. I used to be fun, too; you know I was.”
“You were.”
“Now my husband’s position is all about protocol. Dreary. Except the parties.” A feline smirk curved Alexandra’s mouth. “Catriona, you haven’t known debauchery unless you have been at an ambassador’s ball at two in the morning. Oh, all right, it isn’t half as exciting.” She laughed softly. “Save me, my scandalous friend.”
“Actually,” Catriona said, her gaze sliding to the left and then to her right. “I wondered whether you could assist me with something.”
They parted a short while later and both women were smiling. The conclusion of their meeting hadn’t exactly been a renewal of their friendship but rather the proper closure of it, and they might meet again as the new people they now were. Both were excited by Alexandra’s agreement to assist with Catriona’s unusual request, which shouldn’t cost her much effort but would greatly hurry Catriona’s ambitions concerning the artifacts along. Catriona floated around among chocolates and jars of Fortnum & Mason’s delicacy section like an escaped balloon at first, free but without direction, adjusting to the sudden absence of a weight that must have dragged on her unconsciously.
Soon she became purposeful and descended the stairs to the Lower Ground Floor, which was effectively a high-end covered market. Voices echoed off the tiled walls here. Strong smells clashed: raw meat, seafood on ice, baked goods, flowers. Shallow breaths.
She approached one of the neatly dressed clerks. “Where may I find the cookbooks?”
“What type of cookbook would you be looking for, ma’am?”
“Levantine cuisine.”
“We’d have one on Indian cuisine, ma’am.”