Chapter 7

Kaira had met Henri at a small café in Manchester, Le Chien Marbre, while completing her PhD. She had quite a different lifestyle then, much more solitary and filled with self-doubt than her carefree undergraduate years. The initial excitement of being in a new place had faded, many of her friends from university had moved on, and Kaira often longed to be a part of something bigger than herself. She found an outlet in music. Her mother had started teaching her to play the violin when she was five years old, and after many years of keeping that part of her life in the shadows, she decided to join the university’s string orchestra. It was a way of feeling home, and she no longer felt embarrased about it. This is also what drew her to Le Chien Marbre, which hosted musical performers every Tuesday night. Kaira loved planting herself in the back and taking in everything around her; it was one of the only times that she truly felt at peace.

Henri, too, was a regular patron at the café. He had known the French owners for many years, bonding over their shared expatriate status. Always clad in an immaculate jacket, with silver-flecked hair and deep crow’s feet extending from his eyes whenever he smiled, Henri had an elegant, convivial demeanour. When he first invited Kaira to join him at his table, she was uneasy and suspicious of his intentions. However, his gentle and respectful way of speaking, both with her and with everyone around him, immediately won her over. Despite their age difference – he was probably her father’s age – Henri became one of her closest friends. He told her that he had been very depressed when he first moved to England as a young student and that he identified with something in her face. Delighted by their shared interests, he wanted to take her under his wing. She remembered how surprised he was when she told him her career plans. “But you are a thinker! And a musician!” he protested, “Why would you give that up?” She never wanted to admit her disillusionment with academia, or the fact that she wasn’t really sure how she ended up doing a PhD anyway. Over time, her admiration for Henri grew heavy. It weighed on her whenever she was with him, and even more when she was apart from him. Kaira wrestled with her growing infatuation, made all the more potent by Henri’s lack of awareness.

Two years ago, he hosted a birthday dinner for her at his home and invited all of his friends to make up for the lack of numbers among her own.  They were musicians and filmmakers, professors and poets, burlesque dancers and gourmet chefs. One had baked an enormous cake and another group, a brass quartet, played while the whole room sang to her in candlelit darkness. At the end of the night, the party had whittled down to a group of four and Kaira decided it was time to leave. Henri had offered to drive her home, but she had been adamant that a taxi would be fine. She could not take him away from the remaining guests and they did not seem ready to leave. As he walked her to the door, her whole body felt heavy. Her head was swimming from a combination of nervousness, champagne, and disappointment that the night had come to an end. While Henri called for a taxi, Kaira fished in her bag for the letter that she had written the day before. The envelope felt too light for the words contained within it, she thought. She had rewritten it many times, trying to find the perfect language to convey the depth of her feelings.

“What’s this?” he asked brightly, taking it from her extended hand.

“For you,” she blurted, “Just some things I’ve been meaning to say for a while.”

He had placed his hand over his heart. “Merci beaucoup, Kaira. How very kind of you.”

Kind. Henri really had no idea, she thought to herself, suddenly panicking. Or if he did, he wasn’t about to let it show. She started finding it difficult to breathe. Part of her wanted to reach out and snatch the letter back, but the taxi had arrived and Henri was already moving towards it. Kaira did not hear from him for two days. It was a long, anxiety-ridden weekend that she spent wrapped in a quilt in front of her TV; it was the only thing that provided her with sufficient distraction and she did not dare turn it off.  When Henri finally called, it was a Sunday night and she was in the kitchen, making her twelfth cup of tea that day.

“I wanted you to know that I read your letter,” he paused, “I’m very flattered.”

She remembers how her cheeks had burned as she listened to Henri explain, softly, calmly, that he could not reciprocate her feelings, but that he cared about her, profondément, that he wanted the best for her, and that her friendship was very important to him. Kaira had said she understood, forcibly disguising the sickness and hurt that she felt by talking louder than usual and awkwardly citing the whistling kettle as the reason why she had to hang up. 

*

They had spoken only a few times since that conversation. Kaira had been racked with shame and repeatedly dodged Henri’s efforts to maintain contact. Moving to London had always been her long-term plan, and she pursued it with a new urgency over the following months, desperate to leave Manchester and start fresh. Henri eventually stopped calling and their communication became limited to short emails exchanged only on special occasions. Nevertheless, as they spoke now, she felt as if all the distance had evaporated. Perhaps this is how Lex had felt upon seeing her?

“Je suis désolée, Henri. It’s unfair of me to impose on you like this, out of the blue. I know I’ve been terribly rude. I just… I didn’t know who else to call.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Kaira. C’est pas grave. I’m happy to hear from you, and I’m glad you called.”

She had decided not to tell him about Lex and Paul, or any of her suspicions. No, it had become clear to her as soon as she heard Henri’s voice; she had been waiting for a reason to reach out to him, to reconnect, and the break-in had provided her with just the cover she needed. Not that Kaira hoped for anything more than forgiveness from Henri – she knew that ship had sailed, and it had taken her a long time to move on – but she had always regretted, ironically, the loss of his friendship. 

“Kaira, you must report it to the police. Even if nothing was taken. I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do, but for your safety, you must. I'll check on you tomorrow.” 

"You really don't have to do that. I mean it, I'll be fine. I'm just in shock, that's all."

"It's no trouble for me. Otherwise I will worry about you. I'll call tomorrow - I promise."

His continued concern for her well-being comforted her immensely. Kaira smiled to herself as she realized how the breaking of a long silence by one lost friend had led her to repeat the same with another. She knew what she had to do next. She walked back to her bedroom and picked up Paul’s letter, the envelope now rippled but fully dry, to scan it one more time. Then she made a second phonecall.

“Lex? Yes, I told you I would call. Listen, can we have dinner tonight? At my place. There’s something I need to show you.”