she goes on.“And you didn’t look back for even a second,” I say bitterly.“That’s not true. Not true at all. I couldn’t get Robert out of my mind, not in the taxi to the airport, not on the plane to London, not in my waking hours, and not in my dreams,” she says, and I wish I had asked her a different question.“So you were in London all those months when he was searching for you?” I say.“Every single second. Much safer than in the US, where he might have found me more easily,” she says.“And how did you know that Robert was searching for you so desperately, while all along you were hiding away in London?”“Murray,” she says, and twists her signet ring so that the crest is facing up.For a moment we stare at each other in silence.Then she sits up straight and adds, “One thing I will swear is that through it all, the entire time Robert searched for me and I listened to all the reports Murray gave me about him, I never once gloated that he was devoting so much energy to finding me, nor did I ever laugh at him.”I wish she hadn’t said that, because I know that if Robert ever reads her book—her grand excuse for an apology, an explanation, whatever the fuck it ends up as—the one thing he would never, ever forgive is if she ever laughed at him during that time.“I’ll bet Murray laughed at Robert, though,”
