The Giver of Stars

by Jojo Moyes

Perhaps conscious she was being watched, Margery turned to her and smiled, and Alice realized, with horror, that tears were sliding, unchecked down her cheeks. Margery’s raised eyebrows were a silent question. Just a little homesick, Alice answered. It was the truth, she thought. She just wasn’t sure she had yet been to the place she was homesick for.

And there it was again, this bizarre hope, irrepressible as a spring bud, that even at this late hour he might take her in his arms, swear that he couldn’t live without her, that this was all a hideous mistake and that they would be together, like he had promised. The belief, engraved deep within her, that every love story held, at its heart, the potential for a happy ending. She shook her head. And, without another word, he left.

mostly she would sneak glances at the way he was around Margery, the way he watched her move with quiet approval, the way his hand strayed to her whenever she was nearby, as if the touch of his skin on hers was as necessary to him as breathing. She marvelled at how he discussed Margery’s work with her, as if it were something he took pride in, offering suggestions or words of support. She noted that he pulled Margery to him without embarrassment or awkwardness, murmuring secrets into her ears and sharing smiles lit with unspoken intimacies, and it was then that something in Alice would hollow out, until she felt there was something cavernous inside her, a great gaping hole that grew and grew until it threatened to swallow her whole. Focus on the library, she would tell herself, pulling the counterpane up to her chin and blocking her ears. As long as you have that, you have something.

They exchanged a small smile. Almost without thinking, Fred lifted a hand and slowly wiped a droplet of rain from under her eye with his thumb. Alice was briefly stilled by the electric shock of his skin on hers, by the unexpected intensity of his pale grey eyes, his lashes soaked into shining black points. She had the strangest urge to take his thumb into her mouth and bite it. Their eyes locked and she felt her breath pushed from her lungs, her face colouring, as if he could read her mind.

‘I don’t ask you to love me always like this but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside of me there will always be the person I am tonight.’ F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night