Humane."- Gillian Flynn, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Gone Girl "There aren't enough breathless adjectives to describe Life After Life: Dazzling, witty, moving, joyful, mournful, profound. ‘ Für Sie.’Īround the table guns were jerked from holsters and pointed at her. Swiftness was all, yet there was a moment, a bubble suspended in time after she had drawn the gun and levelled it at his heart when everything seemed to stop. Her father’s old service revolver from the Great War, a Webley Mark V.Ī move rehearsed a hundred times. She dabbed politely at the Streusel flakes on her lips and then bent down again to put the handkerchief back in her bag and retrieve the weighty object nesting there. Lace corners, monogrammed with her initials, ‘UBT’ – a birthday present from Pammy. ‘ Entschuldigung,’ she murmured, reaching down into her bag and delving for a handkerchief. ‘ Sehr gutes Englisch.’ He was in a good mood, tapping the back of his index finger against his lips with an amused smile as if he was listening to a tune in his head. Everyone else at the table laughed as well. ‘Yes, it’s raining,’ he said with a heavy accent. ‘ Es regnet,’ she said by way of conversation. He insisted that she try the Pflaumen Streusel. She placed her handbag, heavy with its cargo, on the floor next to her chair and ordered Schokolade. ‘ Unsere Englische Freundin,’ he said to the blonde, who blew cigarette smoke out slowly and examined her without any interest before eventually saying, ‘ Guten Tag.’ A Berliner. The bootlicker who was currently occupying it jumped up and moved away. He smiled when he caught sight of her and half rose, saying, ‘ Guten Tag, gnädiges Fräulein,’ indicating the chair next to him. The softly repellent body (she imagined pastry) beneath the clothes, never exposed to public view. No wonder he looked so pasty, she was surprised he wasn’t diabetic. All those dirndls and knee-socks, God help us. Everyone knew that he preferred his women demure and wholesome, Bavarian preferably. The blonde lit a cigarette, making a phallic performance out of it. There was a woman she had never seen before – a permed, platinum blonde with heavy make-up – an actress by the look of her. He was at a table at the far end of the room, surrounded by the usual cohorts and toadies. A regiment of white-aproned waiters rushed around at tempo, serving the needs of the Münchner at leisure – coffee, cake and gossip. She had come in from the rain and drops of water still trembled like delicate dew on the fur coats of some of the women inside. A fug of tobacco smoke and damp clammy air hit her as she entered the café.
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