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who looked scarcely older than Juliet walk out of Gerhard’s front gate, shouldering a tote bag as she did so.
    Anna folded herself back inside the BMW and watched the teenager slouch off down the road. God, he likes them young now, she thought savagely.
God …
    The intensity of the pain surprised her. That was all over so long ago. The thought of another woman in Gerhard’s arms still had the power to affect her like a blow to the stomach, and she hated herself for that.
    But it wore off quickly, she found. The past might be able to hurt her; it could not keep her in thrall. She had David now—David whom she loved more than any other man in the world. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine his strong arms around her, hear his patient voice whispering in her ears.
    She got out of the car again and went up the path.When she rang the bell, to her surprise June opened the door; loyal, efficient June, who had been Gerhard’s receptionist ever since he put up his brass plate, but whose hair sadly no longer matched the plate’s sheen. June, untrue to her name, had turned autumnal.
    “Hello, my dear,” she said.
    “How lovely to see you again. I wasn’t expecting that, at the weekend.” Suddenly a great light dawned across Anna’s horizon. “Does he work Saturdays now?”
    “Not often. There’s this kid he’s been assigned by the court, you know, one of
those.”
    So Gerhard wasn’t into teenagers yet, then. Why be relieved about that, Anna thought?
Idiot!
But: “Oh, yes,” was all she said. “Those … can I go up?”
    “Of course.”
    She knew her way; she had visited this aggressively red-bricked house off Keats’ Grove many times. Gerhard refused to be separated from his beloved Hampstead; even when young, and comparatively poor, he had found an attic somewhere under the eaves of Fitzjohn’s Avenue to practice as a psychotherapist. She had known her way there, too. She felt as though she had always known where to find Gerhard Kleist.
    Anna climbed the oak stairs, relishing their dull gleam as a sign of homecoming, and pushed open the door to his room.
    It was like entering the studio of a seventeenth-century master, Pieter de Hooch, perhaps, or Francken the Younger. Anna knew those names because Gerhard had used them to describe the effect he was after. Light poured into this south-facing room through high windows, onto a herringbone parquet floor the color of honey. Beneath the windows stood a long table of paleoak, on which were the half-finished model of a Spanish galleon and the canvas-backed plans for it, weighed down by a lump of abura, Gerhard’s favorite carving wood. Gauge, pinchuck, callipers and glue were neatly aligned, as always. The priceless Laux Maler lute rested in its usual place, against the side of the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that ran the length of one whole wall. Yes, everything was just so; she had time to absorb that comforting knowledge before his voice coiled out to caress her:
    “Hello.”
    Anna walked toward him, her shoes tap-tapping across the varnished wooden floor, and Gerhard rose. He had decided to wear white today, wanting to project the cleanness of new beginnings: linen shirt open at the collar, white shoes, even the belt holding up his white slacks was white. He stood with legs slightly apart, hands in pockets, watching her. His casual stance belied the stew of intense, conflicting emotions that sluiced around inside him, but he was already sensitizing himself to the nuances of her mood.
    “You look like Coco Chanel,” he said. “In those photos of her when she was young.” His voice broke. For a moment he could not go on: she seemed so beautiful still, so much the woman he’d always wanted. “Chic personified, only softer.”
    All the breath went out of her and then she laughed. “You really know how to lay it on, don’t you!”
    “Yes.” He smiled, hoping his nervousness wouldn’t manifest itself in a tic. “But it takes practice.”
    “It’s been