Van Praag - The Witches of Cambridge

A mandine closes her eyes as the clock ticks past midnight. She tries to ignore the tug of the full moon and the flutter in her chest as its gravity squeezes her heart. Instead, Amandine focuses on her husbands soft snores and wonders, as she has every night for the last few months, why she feels so numb.

When they met thirteen years ago, she thought him the most beautiful man shed ever seen. Amandine Bisset was so passionate for Eliot Walker then that tiny silver sparks flew from her fingertips when she touched him. When they made love, her whole body filled with light so bright Amandine believed she might explode. Now she wonders, when was the last time sex was like that? Before the babies were born?

Now they have two rambunctious, full-blooded, glorious boys and hardly enough energy left at the end of the day for a goodnight kiss, let alone anything else. And any intimacy had quickly evaporated, like wet kisses scattered across warm skin. Thirteen years ago, when they were both undergraduates at Cambridge, Amandines skin had shimmered at the sight of him. The first time Eliot Walker entered her world she was standing in the foyer of the Fitzwilliam Museum gazing at The Kiss by Gustav Klimt and wondering if, among all the glistening gold, shed ever be blessed enough to feel the passionate desire depicted in that painting.

A moment later, the thought still lingering in her head, Amandine had heard laughter as bright and brilliant as moonshine. She turned to see Eliot standing alone in front of a van Gogh, his laughter flooding the painting and filling the room. Seized by a sudden urge she couldnt explain, Amandine found herself walking towards him. When she reached him, she didnt extend her hand and introduce herself.

Why are you laughing?

Eliot turned his smile on her. What?

She asked again and he shrugged.

I dont know. Theres a quirky joy about it, the sky rolling like waves, the moon and stars like little suns. I think the artist wanted us to smile.

I dont think so, Amandine said, feeling the need to contradict him. Van Gogh was a depressive. This painting was the view from his sanatorium window. I doubt he was smiling at the time.

Eliots own smile deepened, tinged with cheeky triumph. But he didnt paint it there, did he? It was done from memory, years later. He might have been laughing then.

Amandine frowned, not because he was wrong indeed she knew for a fact that he wasnt but because he was so sure of himself, slightly arrogant and argumentative. Just like herself.

Before or after he cut off his ear?

Eliot laughed again. You dont like to be wrong, do you?

Amandines frown deepened. Does anyone?

Not me, he agreed. But that doesnt matter, because I never am.

Amandine laughed, despite herself. Everyones wrong sometimes.

Something you know more than most, I imagine. Eliots eyes glittered.

Amandine was just about to fight back when she realised he was flirting. So she reined herself in, suppressing a smile and giving a nonchalant shrug.

Im as wrong about life as anyone, I suppose, but Im rarely wrong about art, she said. And youre not even studying art, are you? I havent seen you around Scroope.

Law. Finalist. Trinity. He gave a little bow with a flourish of his hand. Eliot Ellis Walker-Jones, at your service.

Ah, so youre one of them. Amandine raised a teasing eyebrow, her glance resting for a moment on his thick dark hair. I should have known.

One of whom?

A lawyer. A double-barrelled name. A snob.

The first charge I already confessed to. The second, I cant deny, Eliot said. But how can you claim the third?

Your accent, your name, your knowledge of art even though its not your subject. Amandine smiled, feeling a sparkle on her skin as it began to tingle. You probably play the piano disgustingly well and row for Trinity. And I bet a hundred quid you went to Eton

Winchester.

Amandine rolled her eyes, finding it harder and harder not to look into his: vivid green with flecks of yellow, bright against his pale skin and dark hair.

So, youre an art historian then? Eliot asked, shifting the tone.

Amandine gave a little curtsy, fixing her eyes on the floor, hiding her desire to know this man more deeply, though she knew him hardly at all.

Amandine Franoise Hlose Bisset.

Pretty name.

Merci.

Eliot met her eyes. You dont have an accent.

My parents are French, but I grew up here.

Well, Im glad about that, Eliot said. Your growing up here, I mean. Well, that you live here right now, anyway

Amandine stifled a smile. Yes, me too.

They stood for a while, both glancing at the floor, then back at the painting.

Its very Eliot trailed off.

Amandine waited.

And you youre, youre very

And, although he didnt finish his sentence, this time Amandine knew what hed wanted to say, because she felt the wave of his feelings fill the air like smoke. Joy. Passion. Desire.

She could feel what Eliot felt just as she could feel what van Gogh had when he painted The Starry Night in 1889. Every artist painter, writer, musician put their spirit and soul into their work, along with their emotions, and Amandine had always been able to feel exactly what the artist had when she looked at a painting or read a book. Music was trickier because the emotions of the musician always mixed with those of the composer, and she was confused and cloudy when confronted with conflicting or unclear emotions.

And, amazingly, though he clearly wasnt a witch, Eliot had been right about van Goghs Starry Night, though Amandine was loath to admit it. Besides, she couldnt say so without also telling him her deepest secret. And she had absolutely no intention of doing that. Even her father hadnt known about her mother. Hlose Bisset had kept her true nature from her husband and so Amandine had always assumed that it wasnt safe to share such things with people who were purely human. It was likely, if nothing else, to shock them so much that theyd never see you in the same way again.

I dont suppose ? Eliot began, tentative for the first time.

What? Amandine asked, though she already knew the answer.

I dont suppose you fancy taking a cup of tea with a snobby lawyer? My treat.

Well, Amandine pretended to consider, since youre not a lawyer yet, I suppose I could make an exception. And if you like van Gogh, you cant be so terrible.

Ah, high praise indeed. I should ask you to write my references, Eliot said. And when I am a lawyer, what will you do about fraternising with me then?

They began to walk past the paintings and towards the door.

Well still know each other then, will we? Amandine swallowed a smile.

Eliot paused for a moment in front of The Kiss.

Oh yes, he said. In ten years or so Ill be a London lawyer and well be married with two kids. Both boys.

Amandine raised both eyebrows. Oh, really?

They began walking again.

But I dont want children, Amandine said, so Im afraid that might put a little crimp in your plans.

You might not now, Eliot said, but you will.

Amandine laughed. Now youre taking arrogance to a whole new level. But Im afraid youre wrong this time. I admit I might change my mind in many ways in the next ten or twenty years, but not about that.

Ah, but I told you, Eliot said, still smiling. Im never wrong.

And then, with one bold move following another, he reached out and took her hand. Amandine almost flinched, thinking perhaps she ought to be shocked, affronted at his arrogance again. But she wasnt. So she let her hand soften in his and, as they walked together, Amandine wished that her mother had given her psychic powers along with extraordinary empathy, so she could know whether it was possible that this man might be right.