F or almost three decades Isabel Allende enjoyed a blessing that often eluded the characters in her books: a sense of home and enduring love. She found sanctuary in a picturesque niche of California and in the arms of an adoring American husband, William Gordon.
Not a bad way to spend your autumn years after a life marked by uprooting and loss. But as the Chilean writer curls up in an oversized hotel armchair in Los Angeles, she detonates a small bomb under the notion of happy-ever-after.
After 27 years of marriage and dozens of books exploring love, family and belonging, the year-old author is now single and living alone in her house outside San Francisco. She does not want sympathy. We never slammed the door or screamed at each other. There was no third person involved.
It just died a natural death. The tone is philosophical and matter-of-fact. Having experienced abandonment, exile, grief, fame and fortune — more than 65m books sold — Allende seems ready to embrace a new, unexpected chapter in a remarkable life.
Chic in black boots and skirt and embroidered jacket, Allende is at the tail-end of a two-month European and US tour to promote her latest book, The Japanese Lover.
