Page 69 of Twin Flames
York, present day
Cara approached George’s workshop; her heart drummed so fast she couldn’t think clearly. She longed to see him but wasembarrassed to tell him how she felt. What if he didn’t want her anymore? What if she’d hurt him irreparably and he’d decided it was for the best to let her go?
No matter how difficult, she must now tell him she regretted running off as she did. It had been a mistake. The letter would have wounded him. It seemed stupid and cruel now. Why had she thought it was her only choice? Her heart was raw, and she’d been punishing him because she was angry about the piece in the newspaper.
She now understood it was pointless to try and break it off. Whenever she did, they were soon back in the same painful on-off cycle because they were destined to be together. They were both in so deep there was no turning back. If he still wanted her, she would allow him to be however he wanted. She couldn’t bear the thought of life without him.
Sylvia had tried to explain at the beginning, but Cara hadn’t been able to grasp the truth about the inevitability of their union. She was so used to making things happen; to pushing things along. No more. Now, she would let go. There was no strength left in her to push. She would surrender to unconditional love, and trust that things would work out for them as they were meant to. A sense of relief washed over her, and she was calm for the first time in days.
No. 20 The Shambles loomed before her. Despite her foggy mental haze, it struck her that the front door was a pale blue rather than the usualrich, glossy black. There was something different about the window too. The blinds were new, and there was a tall cactus plant in a blue pot, next to the doorway, which definitely wasn’t there on her last visit.
There was noCavendish Fine Manuscriptssign either, but Cara hadn’t noticed that yet. It’s one of life’s truths that people walk around not registering what’s under their nose. The thought flashed through her mind that George was obviouslygetting on with his life remarkably well without her. A dull ache settled in her chest. The weight of it trapped her breath, and she gasped for air. She paused a moment to pull herself together, drew her shoulders back and raised her hand to the brass knocker on the pale blue door.
Hold on; even the brass knocker looked unfamiliar.
A petite woman appeared in the doorway.
‘Yes?’ She smoothed her hands across her pleated skirt as if she didn’t know what else to do with them. Then she looked expectantly at Cara, a tight smile stretched across her lips.
‘Hello.’ Cara coughed. ‘I’m looking for George. Is he around? I’m sorry. . .I don’t know your name. Are you his assistant?’
‘Assistant? George?’ She looked confused. ‘No, I’m not an assistant, although my father may think otherwise.’ She let out a stifled, self-deprecating sound. ‘There’s no George here. This is a private residence. It’s my father’s house actually.’ She leaned closer to Cara as if to share a secret of great importance. ‘He’s not so good lately. I’ve come to stay with him for a week or two. Do my bit, you know.’
‘Right, yes, quite. I see.’
Cara did not see, but she had no idea what else to do or say. She seemed to be awake in her worst nightmare.
‘Thank you. I’ll be on my way. I must have got the address mixed up.’
‘Are you okay? You look a little pale.’
‘Um, yes I’m fine. Thanks again.’
Cara gripped the door frame to prevent herself from toppling backwards off the step; her legs were like jelly.
‘One more thing, please. How long has your father lived here? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Oh, let me think.’ The woman stared into space and then counted on her fingers.
Cara had the urge to scream at the woman’s slow movements, but she managed to maintain the fake smile pasted on her face. She thought she might die if she had to keep it going much longer, such was the panic that gripped her.
‘We lived here as children. I think my parents bought this house shortly after they were married. Let me see. . .’ Another show of counting—‘It must be close to forty years. Does that help at all?’
‘Oh, thank you, yes.’ Cara’s words barely made it through her dry lips; she squeezed each one out as if it cost a fortune. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I must go. Thanks again, and sorry for bothering you.’
Cara stumbled away. She was reeling. Her worst fear had been confirmed. George wasn’t here. She’d ruined it all. She’d killed him with her vain, reckless behaviour.
She threw herself onto a wooden bench and stared ahead. Groups of people buzzed around, going about their lives. People who knew nothing of George. They marched by as if nothing of any significance had happened; as if her whole world hadn’t collapsed with one innocuous conversation. She didn’t want to see anyone or anything. She wanted to disappear with George.
He must never have existed in this new version of the timeline.
A violent rage burned through her and she began to sob; loud, desperate sobs which poured out of her and shook her entire being. She couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. She sat there wailing long enough to cry out all the tears she’d been choking back for months, and until her throat was as dry as a teetotaller’s kitchen cabinet.
When she could cry no more, she stood up and walked home in a daze, not feeling anything but her own pain-filled heart. She thought this must be what dying was like. She pulled herself along, but her spirit had deserted her.
To lose one’s true love is dreadful in any circumstances. To have one’s true love die is to be grief-stricken, but to be confronted with the reality that the man she had loved for five hundred years no longer existed, struck terror into Cara’s heart.
George wasn’t alive. She’d known it the minute they were arrested; when she realised her timing for making the trip was off. But she prayed she had imagined it. George often teased her about her superstitious tendencies. That was one thing she’d brought with her from her old life. In Tudorville, everyone was superstitious. Superstition was the norm.
