CHAPTER 48
Joanna
London
On her way to meet Toby, Joanna stopped for coffee in Covent Garden. Seeing Martin, seeing the house – it hadn’t been easy, and she was relieved it was over. Time to move on, she thought. Again.
When she checked her phone she saw she’d had an email from Nicholas Tresillion. She opened it with anticipation.
Dear Joanna, she read.
It was my work that took me to Lisbon. I approach clients – certain pre-selected outlets – that might be interested in stocking my sister-in-law’s jewellery.
She and my brother-in-law are based in Rome – which is where I am now, but not for much longer.
I’m not here for work, and not specifically to see them, though we have fitted in some meetings too, but for a family get-together organised by my ex-wife Rachel to celebrate our daughter’s forthcoming marriage. Ouch . . .
It sounded, thought Joanna, as though Nicholas was still very involved with his ex’s family.
She supposed that was what it was like when you had children – even grown-up children.
It was very different to how she felt about Martin.
It was even possible – and she flinched at this thought – that she might never see him again. She read on.
It turns out that Rachel’s getting married too – to an Italian guy who is obviously far more her style than I could ever be.
Hmm. Did he feel sad about that? Joanna wasn’t sure.
Do I sound bitter?
Ha. She chuckled softly.
I’m not, though a double wedding is a bit insensitive and tasteless, don’t you think? Families, eh?
A double wedding . . . Joanna shook her head. Poor Nicholas. That would certainly make it hard for him to celebrate his daughter’s special day.
But yes, I did enjoy my visit to Lisbon, and I suppose you’re right – the man I saw who looked like your man by the mulberry tree must be a coincidence; one hell of a coincidence, I’d say. Though do you ever get the feeling that all this is being orchestrated in some way?
Funny, that. Yes, she thought, I do.
I don’t want to say more in case you think I’m a complete nutter.
Join the club, thought Joanna.
I’m sorry to hear that your bridge walks have come to an end with Prague, he continued. And no, sadly I have no plans to visit that city, though out of curiosity alone, I’m very tempted . . . But I would like to hear about Prague and what you saw there.
Joanna thought about what she’d seen and what she’d thought she’d seen.
When she’d finally turned around from staring down into the river that morning, there was John of Nepomuk still there on Charles Bridge, a half-smile on his face.
But Joanna remained sure of what she’d seen.
Once again, she had gazed down into the Vltava .
. . Nothing. But like the other visions, hallucinations, or whatever they were – in Venice, in Lisbon – this one too had dematerialised and slipped away.
It was imprinted on Joanna’s mind, though.
Puzzling out the meaning might help her understand the connection between herself, Emmy and Rufus; she was convinced it was another piece of the puzzle.
And I’d also like us to continue writing – if it’s OK with you.
Joanna smiled. It was. She didn’t want give up this correspondence – at least not yet. Nicholas Tresillion interested her.
Maybe we could even meet up sometime, if that isn’t too presumptuous?
Joanna raised an eyebrow. Well, now . . .
I assume you’re based in London and I spend some of my time there too. Of course, I quite understand if this is a step too far!
Yours, Nicholas
No, thought Joanna, it wasn’t a step too far. Once again, she thought of Harriet and her online dating. It was surprising how much you could find out about someone from emailing alone. She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. Would Nicholas still be in Rome or was he back already?
She made a quick decision. She pulled her laptop out of her bag, logged into the café’s wi-fi and typed a rapid reply.
The double wedding idea sounds crass, she began. I hope for your sake that Celie and your ex have had second thoughts . . .
She continued to type, the words coming as easily as ever.
I’m not based in London, she wrote. But I am here right now.
She looked out of the window of the café. The sky was darkening, though it wasn’t even four o’clock.
So, if you happen to be around in the next day or so, if you’re flying back from Rome . . .
*
‘What do you think about the walk pieces?’ Joanna asked Toby. ‘I mean, really?’
She had been slightly apprehensive about this meeting.
Toby hadn’t said much about the copy she’d sent him – mostly just suggested bits to develop and bits to leave out.
There was no one like Toby for cutting to the quick.
But he must have noticed the more surreal stuff.
Did he think Joanna was losing her touch?
‘All good, sweetie.’ Toby bit into his slice of pistachio and honey cake.
They were in their usual café in Covent Garden.
Outside, the market was as colourful as ever; a juggler was throwing silver skittles into the air and a busker was doing a hearty rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’. Both had attracted quite a crowd.
‘And I like the stuff you’re putting in the column these days too,’ he added. ‘It’s more sparky and upbeat.’
Joanna exhaled. That was good. She needed to get as much work as she could.
‘You’ve got the right balance in the walking material,’ he went on, pushing the wing of newly bleached hair that flopped over his high forehead further back and out of his eyes. ‘Not too preachy, not too much like a tourist guide. Different. But lots of interesting info, yeah.’
‘Thanks.’ She cut her cake into squares and popped one into her mouth.
‘They’re fun. Quirky.’
‘You think so?’ Joanna took a sip of her Earl Grey. That was exactly what she’d been hoping. Although Toby didn’t know the full extent, did he? He didn’t know about Nicholas Tresillion. Or Emmy. ‘So, no complaints?’
‘From who?’
‘Er . . .’ From people who had failed to see a mirage in the Venetian canal, for example?
From those who had somehow missed the children playing in the mulberry tree, and not noticed the martyred saint leaping off the Charles Bridge at dawn – though to be fair, this one hadn’t been published yet. ‘Anyone?’ she said.
‘On the contrary.’ Toby took another large bite. ‘The tourist offices love ’em. I told you before. They’re flying off the shelves.’
‘Great.’ Joanna ate another square. The cake had a lovely edge of citrus while the honey had caramelised the pistachios, turning them golden and delicious. She knew Toby well enough to recognise the exaggeration. But she didn’t care. Any praise from an editor was sweet.
‘You even created a love affair by all accounts,’ Toby added.
‘What?’ How on earth did Toby know about Emmy and Rufus? She stared at him. She hadn’t written about them – had she?
‘Yeah, this woman was doing the Lisbon walk and she bumped into some guy who happened to be doing it at the same time.’
Joanna blinked at him. Ah. ‘Really?’ She licked the crumbs from her fingers.
‘Yeah, she wrote you an email – I need to forward it to you. They’re an item now, apparently.’
Joanna shook her head. She was lost for words.
‘So maybe we’ll do another set? Bridges again, d’you think?’ Toby lounged back in his chair.
Joanna wondered what it would be like conjuring up bridge walks when she wasn’t following in Emmy’s footsteps. It was hard to imagine somehow.
‘Where do you fancy?’ Toby asked. ‘Paris? Barcelona? Rome?’
Nicholas was in Rome. Joanna took another sip of her tea.
‘There’s the Seine,’ she pointed out, rather unnecessarily.
But not for much longer, he had said. Was he coming back in the next few days?
And what would it be like to meet him? She hoped it wouldn’t spoil things.
She rather liked the feeling of their words meeting when they did not.
Or was she being fanciful again? She supposed she didn’t want to be disappointed.
She wanted the man who also saw visions in mulberry trees to be a bit special, she supposed. Which was silly.
‘Paris in springtime would be perfect.’ Toby rubbed his hands together. ‘Clichés are only clichés because they work so well and always have. We’ll leave Rome as we’ve already done Venice. But Barcelona would work, then maybe Budapest or Berlin?’
‘Sounds great.’ Joanna closed her eyes for a moment, suddenly feeling weary.
‘Are you sure you’re up for it, Jo?’
She snapped her eyes open again. Thought about all the work that needed doing at Mulberry Farm Cottage. Her share of the house in Crouch End wouldn’t leave much over by the time she’d found somewhere else to live. ‘I’m up for it,’ she said.
Toby eyed her seriously. ‘No chance of a marital reconciliation then?’
Joanna shook her head. ‘The house is on the market. It’s definitely over.’ She sipped her tea. How many more times would she have to say those words? To Steph, to Lucy, to other friends and colleagues who would all be eager to know.
Toby patted her hand. ‘Sorry it didn’t work out, sweetie.’
‘Thanks.’
‘But if you’ve really got the travelling bug . . .’ Toby was still regarding her intently.
‘Yes?’ She was enjoying it. But that didn’t mean she didn’t also want a home. Somewhere to call a base.
‘How about a book?’
‘A book?’ Joanna finished the last square of cake. She hadn’t told Toby about that old dream of hers to write a novel. That dream was covered with dust these days, but she still hoped that one day she might feel like getting out a cleaning rag.
‘Yeah, you know, one of those things with pages covered in print that we read before we fall asleep at night.’
‘Very funny. What sort of a book?’
Toby sat back in his chair. ‘A travel book – with a difference.’
She should have guessed. Toby was a single-minded person. He did like the brochures – he really liked the brochures. But now he was thinking ahead to the next logical step – that with the right kind of travel book they could do even better. Which was appealing. Sort of. ‘Set where?’ she asked him.
He spread his hands. ‘Where do you want to go?’
Was it that simple? The world was a big place. It was incredible, she thought, how the patterns of her days had changed following the catalysts of Martin’s adultery and Emmy’s letters. And now . . . she was living a completely different life. She laughed.
‘What?’ Toby grinned back at her.
‘Well . . .’ Joanna hesitated. She still hadn’t told anyone about Emmy.
The person she’d most wanted to confide in was Nicholas Tresillion, but it had to be face to face – she couldn’t bear it if some almost-stranger laughed at her.
And something had made her hold back, not wanting to break the spell . . .
But Toby had read the copy and hadn’t flipped out.
So, she told him about the Venetian bridge painting and Emmy’s letters. ‘The first one was written from Venice with love,’ she said. ‘That’s what got me started.’ It felt odd to be talking about it, this secret that she’d been hugging to herself for the past weeks and months.
‘And you haven’t discovered who she was yet?’ Toby asked when she’d finished.
‘I don’t have a clue.’ And she was no nearer finding out. ‘I don’t even know her full name.’
He pushed his empty coffee cup away and signalled to the waitress that he’d like another. ‘It would be easy enough to find out, I would’ve thought.’
‘Would it?’ Was she missing something here? ‘The signature on the painting’s almost illegible and she just signs her letters Emmy.’
‘It’s a decent painting, though, you say?’ He frowned. ‘And she did other stuff. It wasn’t a one-off?’
Not a one-off certainly – there were the other bridges for starters. Joanna considered. ‘Yes, I think in a small way she was a fairly well-established artist. But she was a woman and—’
‘Then get it off the bloody wall and take the thing to Sotheby’s,’ Toby said.
‘Sotheby’s? Would they—’
‘They’re bound to have heard of her.’ Toby’s coffee arrived and he loaded in some sugar. ‘If she has any kind of artistic reputation, they’ll know about it, and they’ll recognise her style. How many women do you think were painting watercolours of foreign bridges before the First World War?’
‘Well . . .’ Now that he put it like that . . . He was probably right. Why hadn’t this occurred to her? She felt a surge of excitement. ‘I’ll ring them and make an appointment.’
‘Good plan.’ Toby stirred his coffee. ‘And don’t forget about the book idea, Jo. Think of something that’s never been done.’
They both laughed. Joanna knew as well as he did that everything had been done – you just had to change the angle.
‘Cycling over the Himalayas?’ she suggested.
‘Jet skiing in the Gobi Desert?’
She grinned. ‘I’ll think of something.’ It wasn’t a novel, but she liked the idea; she liked it a lot.