The Thief of Time by John Boyne

pool when he was talking to Godowsky. “The man is maybe the greatest pianist in the world,” he roared, his arms flailing around dramatically. “And you inflict some unemployed actor on me just so you can whisk him away to flirt with him in another room? Not enough for you, am I?”
    â€˜â€œI never –” I began, but he wouldn’t let me finish. He was purple with rage, as if I had orchestrated the whole scene myself when all I had done was try to rid myself of a bore and not interfere with Charlie’s business. Anyway, the scene grew terrible and at four O’clock in the morning I found myself out in the street attempting to call a cab. He didn’t speak to me for months, but I called him constantly. I was in love, you see. I wrote to him, turned up at the studio, sent him telegrams, but he ignored everything. I was in absolute despair. Then, one afternoon, while having lunch in the city with Amelia, I saw him enter the restaurant with a couple of his cronies. He saw me and grew a little pale as he tried to get away before I could spot him because he has always hated public scenes and could see one coming now. I determined not to approach him. Then he saw my sister, who was staring at him with wide eyes and within a few minutes the room and the world were spinning on me. He joined us for lunch, he spent the day with us, and never once referred to anything that had happened between us over the previous few months, acting as if we were simply good friends who liked nothing more than to run into each other every so often and catch up on the latest society gossip. When he and Amelia became more serious, I refused to disappear. It was my way of staying close to Charlie, you see. The fact is, Matthieu, I’ve been very dishonest about all of this right from the start.’
    I nodded and felt sick. All this time she had been deceiving me? It seemed outrageous. I was sure she had been falling in love with me.
    â€˜Then I met you,’ she added after a moment. ‘And everything changed.’
    â€˜How so?’ I asked.
    â€˜Do you remember that day you came to see Charlie at his home and the four of us stayed up all night together, drinking Martinis and Highballs?’ I nodded. ‘Well, I’d been there before, you see,’ she continued. ‘I’d seen rich men come through that house on more than one occasion and they were all looking for a little piece of him, hoping to receive a little of his reflected glory. You didn’t. You seemed suspicious of him. You didn’t laugh at his jokes too loudly. You didn’t even seem to like him very much.’
    â€˜You’re wrong,’ I said honestly. ‘I did like him. I enjoyed his self-confidence. I hadn’t seen that in some time. I found it very refreshing, to be honest.’
    â€˜Really?’ She seemed surprised. ‘Well, regardless. You didn’t fawn on him. I admired that. For the first time, I thought that I could see past him. To another man. I began to conceive of having nothing more to do with him and that was when you and I began to see each other and I realised that I didn’t love him any more, that I didn’t even need him. That I loved you.’
    My heart jumped and I came towards her and took her hand. ‘You do love me?’ I asked.
    â€˜Oh yes,’ she said, almost apologetically.
    â€˜So why stay here then? If you feel nothing more for him now, why stay here? Why insist on spending time around him?’
    Her voice grew cold and she spoke her next sentence with conviction. ‘Because what he did to me, he will do to Amelia. I survived it, she might not. And I need to be here for her when it happens. Can you understand that, Matthieu? Does that make any sense at all?’
    I paused and stared at her. A thin line of perspiration had broken out along her upper lip. Her eyes were tired and her hair hung loosely around her neck and needed washing. She was