Soul

Carla slipped out of bed, semen running down the inside of her thighs. Julia’s Lexus was clearly visible under the street lamp. Carla could see the light reflecting off Julia’s long black hair, the hollows of her face as she stared across at the house. Their eyes met; terrified, Carla dropped the curtain.

‘She saw me. But it didn’t look like Julia; she’s changed,’ she whispered.

Klaus pulled her into his arms. ‘She has changed. We’ve all changed.’

‘You don’t understand—she told me about something that happened in Afghanistan…’ Somewhere in the distance a car alarm went off. Carla shivered. ‘There was an ambush and Julia killed a man.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘She claimed it was self-defence.’

‘Julia killed a man? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s not capable of such a thing.’

‘I’m only repeating what she told me: the convoy was ambushed, her escort was killed, she was pulled out of the car and there was a struggle, and she stabbed the guy.’

‘She would have told me. Maybe she’s exaggerating—there was probably some kind of tussle, maybe someone got killed.’

‘Julia doesn’t exaggerate. I only know because she had to tell someone here—to make it real, she said.’

‘But I saw her straight after the trip, at the airport. She didn’t seem traumatised.’

‘That’s the whole point—she wasn’t. Klaus, are we safe? Really safe from her?’

He stared at her. ‘Carla, this is Julia. Naturally, she’s upset; naturally, she wants to see me, even you—but she’ll calm down, I promise you. In a year this will all be history.’

The phone was ringing. Throwing the house keys down, Julia rushed to answer it.

Silence. The crackling of somebody waiting on the other end of the line.

‘Klaus?’

The caller hung up. Frantically, she punched in star 69: the number came up as unlisted. Intuitively, she knew it wasn’t her husband.

She switched on the answering service. Klaus’s voice sounded out into the room: Hi, we’re not in at the moment. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so after this ridiculous bleep. Julia tried to remember when he’d recorded it; at least twelve months before. She hadn’t bothered rerecording the message, as if by erasing his voice she would exorcise any possibility of his return.

Julia collapsed on the sofa and stared out at the magnolia tree now in full blossom. Whether she sat there for ten minutes or thirty she couldn’t tell. Carla’s startled face stared back at her from between the branches. Fear, that’s what Julia had seen in her eyes. It had only been a moment, a catching of the faint pale shadow of nudity beyond the curtains of Carla’s bedroom. But Julia would never forgive those eyes, the momentary expression of furtiveness. She rewound the message. Five repeats later she pulled the phone out of the wall socket.

27

Mayfair, 1861

LAVINIA, THE COLONEL, Lady Morgan and Hamish Campbell drove very slowly and flagrantly along St James’s in the opulent splendour of a landau, the Huntington lozenge visible on its doors. Wi

th Aloysius at its helm, and four attendants in silk knee breeches and livery, the coach proceeded down Piccadilly past the great mansions ablaze with light, powdered footmen at their doors.

Lavinia, her stays pinching at the waist, the steel undercarriage of her dress settled precariously around her, sat in a scented cloud of jasmine and orange blossom, strands of both woven into her elaborate hairstyle. The dress’s décolletage displayed her flawless breasts to advantage (much to Lady Morgan’s disapproval and envy) and a necklace of gold and pearl—a courtship gift from the Colonel.

The coach had been designed in an era when women’s gowns were far less voluminous, and the lack of space had squeezed the two men into opposite corners.

‘This new fashion makes us part-machine,’ Lady Morgan commented.

‘Indeed.’ Lavinia pulled her gaze away from the spectators that had stopped in the street to gawk at the promenade of wealth. ‘I suspect Charles Worth had the hot-air balloon in mind when he designed the crinoline. Certainly there have been days when I feared I might be swept up by the wind and set afloat.’

‘There was that dreadful story about a woman who was swept cleanly off the cliff at Eastbourne. One can only pray that she reached Calais,’ Lady Morgan said with relish.

‘And yet you both subscribe to the fad,’ the Colonel pointed out.

‘Would you rather we abandoned the fashion?’