Page 172 - The Midnight Library

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wishing our lives were different, comparing ourselves to other people and to

other versions of ourselves, when really most lives contain degrees of good
and degrees of bad.’
Marcelo and Joanna and the other Brazilian guy were staring at her wide-
eyed, but she was on a roll now. Freewheeling.

‘ ere are patterns to life . . . Rhythms. It is so easy, while trapped in just
the one life, to imagine that times of sadness or tragedy or failure or fear are
a result of that particular existence. at it is a by-product of living a certain
way, rather than simply living. I mean, it would have made things a lot easier

if we understood there was no way of living that can immunise you against
sadness. And that sadness is intrinsically part of the fabric of happiness. You
can’t have one without the other. Of course, they come in different degrees
and quantities. But there is no life where you can be in a state of sheer

happiness for ever. And imagining there is just breeds more unhappiness in
the life you’re in.’
‘ at is a great answer,’ Marcelo said, aer he was sure she was finished.
‘But tonight I would say, at the concert, you seemed happy. When you

played “Bridge Over Troubled Water” instead of “Howl”, that was such a
powerful statement. It was saying: I am strong. It felt like you were telling us,
your fans, that you were okay. And so, how is touring going?’
‘Well, it’s great. And yes, I just thought I’d send a message that, you know,

I am out here living my best life. But I miss home aer a while.’
‘Which one?’ asked Marcelo, with a quiet ly cheeky smile. ‘I mean, do you
feel more at home in London, or LA, or on the Amalfi Coast?’
It seemed this was the life where her carbon footprint was the highest.

‘I don’t know. I suppose I would say London.’
Marcelo took a sharp intake of breath, as if the next question was
something he had to swim under. He scratched his beard. ‘Okay, but I
suppose it must be hard for you, as I know you shared that flat with your

brother?’
‘Why would it be hard?’
Joanna gave her a curious glance from above her cocktail.
Marcelo looked at her with sentimental fondness. His eyes seemed glazed.

‘I mean,’ he went on, aer a delicate sip of beer, ‘your brother was such a big
part of your life, such a big part of the band . . .’
Was.