But Jennifer could not speak. She could not assimilate his physical presence here in her own world, his very real existence. His smile wavered, uncertain.
“I’m looking for Toby Gladwell, the film director? I believe he lives in this house. I’ve never met him but I’m a journalist from Le Monde and I happen to be on holiday in Australia and I am a big fan. Would it be possible to interview him about his latest movie?” He stepped forward, a little tentative in his movement.
“You want to meet Toby?”
“If that’s possible, I am happy to wait.”
Jennifer glanced up the street. There was no sign of Toby’s car; it might be hours before he decided to return. She looked back at the Frenchman; his skin was exactly the shade she’d visualized and his lips curved out in a bow she herself had created. He was hers, not Toby’s. Him standing there, outside her own house, was fate. A coincidence she had made happen. “And I am happy to wait with you,” she replied, then turned toward the house.