Your Perfect Year(44)

Hannah swallowed hard. The way Simon described it, it sounded dreadful.

“I hear everything you’re saying, but I’m not going to leave you.”

“You don’t have to.” He dug into the side pocket of his sports jacket, took out his wallet, and removed two fifty-euro bills, which he laid on the table. “I’m leaving you. I’m sorry.” With these words he shoved his chair back and stood.

“You can’t do that!” Hannah also rose, so forcefully that she almost tipped the table over. In a single leap she was by him and threw her arms around his neck, clasping him tightly to her. “I love you!” There was no stopping her tears now; they fell, uncontrolled, over her cheeks.

“I love you too.” Simon wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him. He gently stroked her hair, bent his head down to hers, and kissed her ear softly. He was crying as much as Hannah, shaken by sobs and hugging her more tightly to him, so that she was convinced the spell would never be broken and he would never let her go.

But he did.

After a few minutes he drew away from her gently but firmly. He looked at her sadly, wiping his face with a hand before brushing Hannah’s tears away too.

“I want to go home,” he said.

“Can I come with you? Please!”

“No, Hannah. I need to be alone.”

“You don’t have to, you—”

“Please,” he repeated. “Today’s been bad enough.”

“And I’m making it worse?” She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice.

“Yes,” he said, but he immediately withdrew it. “No, of course not. But . . .” He sighed. “Don’t make it so hard for me.”

“But I want to make it hard for you!” She tried to smile. “You can’t expect me simply to accept it and let you go.”

“Give me a few days, okay? Everything’s all over the place in my head. I need some space, some peace and quiet.”

“And then you’ll take back what you said about separating?”

“Oh, Hannah!” Once again he drew her to him and kissed her on her brow. “Hannah,” he murmured. “My crazy, sweet, wonderful Hannah.”

She pushed him away a little, raised her head, stood on tiptoe, and gave him a long, tender kiss. “We’ll get through it,” she said softly after drawing apart from him.

Simon said nothing.

“I’m convinced you shouldn’t give up. Once you’ve recovered from the initial shock, we’ll find out how to help you.” Hannah heard herself starting to babble nervously, but she couldn’t help it. “And of course you’ll survive the coming year! You have at least fifty good years ahead of you, I’m totally sure of it! Oh, what am I saying? ‘Good’ years? I mean wonderful, perfect years!”

Simon still said nothing.

“For instance, I could—”

“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll take you home and then go lie down.”

“I told you—I want to come with you!”

Now he smiled, for the first time. “I know. But I’m taking you back to your apartment, you stubborn little mule! We’ll talk about it all another time.”





21

Jonathan

Wednesday, January 3, 4:44 p.m.

Darkness had almost fallen by the time Jonathan steered his car into the driveway in front of his house. He switched off the engine and sat for a moment, feeling ashamed of himself.

After walking aimlessly through the city and making a few minor purchases (he’d run out of low-carb bread and turkey slices), he had sat on a bench in the Planten un Blomen park, opened the Filofax, and whipped out his pen.

He’d felt the urge to write down his personal list of things to be grateful for. Just for fun. Because after all, he was supposed to say yes, not no. That was the only reason he’d wanted to try out this little exercise. And it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do; he was simply passing the time until Frau Jansen finished her work. Why not draw up a little gratitude list? He could easily tear out the ring-bound page without leaving a trace; even if the diary eventually found its way to its rightful owner, no one would notice.

And then . . . nothing.

An absolute vacuum in his head. He couldn’t think of a single thing he was grateful for.

Yes, of course, there were platitudes such as “For not being in a wheelchair,” “For having a healthy bank balance,” “For having enough to eat,” or “For being a well-regarded and respected man”—he could dredge up a few of those.

But sadly, he could think of nothing for which he was really, truly grateful. From the bottom of his heart. Something that was actually worthy of gratitude, that filled him with joy, happiness, and contentment, something he could think of the moment he got up in the morning and at night before he closed his eyes.

And why would he? His wife had left him for his best friend, and he was alone. His father was wasting away, and his mother had left him when he was a little boy. He had recently found out that all was not well in his business, so that he might end up on the streets. The developments in the wider world, and the actions of his fellow humans in particular, filled him with despair more often than gave him cause for gratitude. He only had to think of the dog mess along the banks of the Alster.