‘Oh, no,’ Jude says. ‘I couldn’t. I’m far too fa— It wouldn’t fit me.’
‘You might be surprised,’ she says. ‘Go on, give it a try.’
‘Go on, Aunt Jude,’ Gertie pipes up. ‘Just try it on.’
Still shaking her head, Jude lifts the dress from the rack as if she’s holding a priceless piece of haute couture, her fingertips tingling with desire, even as her heart thumps with dread. She won’t even get this dress over her hips, she’s sure, and she’ll be mortified by the whole hideous merry-go-round of hope and disappointment all over again.
The proprietor pulls aside the red velvet curtain of the dressing room and lets Jude step inside. In a bid to get the humiliating experience over as quickly as possible, Jude pulls off her own clothes and slips the whisper of dark-blue silk over her head. Miraculously, its straps don’t get stuck over her shoulders, incredibly the fabric slides easily over her hips, bizarrely she pulls the zip effortlessly all the way up her back. And, when Jude finally opens her eyes, daring to look into the mirror, she lets out a little gasp. Then she stares at herself for several silent minutes, quite unable to believe that what she sees isn’t a mirage.
‘Come out,’ Gertie calls. ‘Come out and show us.’
Having intended to do absolutely nothing of the sort, Jude now finds herself floating out of the dressing room on an air of shock and awe, and Mozart.
‘Oh!’ Gertie instantly exclaims. ‘Aunt Jude, you look amazing!’
It’s all Jude can do to half-nod and stare at her little niece and the tiny woman with the white hair standing beside her.
‘My goodness,’ Jude manages at last. ‘But, it’s so … I look so, so …’
‘Beautiful.’ The woman nods. ‘Yes, you do.’ Then she steps forward, suddenly producing a threaded needle from her pocket. ‘You just need a nip here,’ she says, making six quick stitches in the shape of a tiny star at Jude’s waist, ‘a tiny tuck here. And voilà!’ She steps back, a knowing smile on her lips. ‘You are perfect.’
Jude just stares at her because, for the first time in her life, she feels exactly that. ‘Yes,’ she mumbles, having never imagined she’d ever say anything of the sort, especially not while standing in a dress shop. ‘Yes.’
Chapter Sixty-Five
‘You didn’t have to come back with us,’ Mathieu says. ‘You should’ve stayed in Paris.’
‘What? And miss out on all this fun?’ François says. ‘I think not.’
Hugo frowns at his uncle. ‘Fun? Papa’s even more of a grumpy sod than he was before.’
‘Hey,’ Mathieu half-heartedly objects.
‘Je sais,’ François says. ‘I was being sarcastic. This is about as fun as a funeral.’ He sighs. ‘And do we have to watch this crap again? Didn’t you subject me to it last year?’
They are all slouched on the sofa, with Love Actually on the television. Again, Colin Firth is proposing to the Portuguese waitress.
‘What they don’t mention,’ Mathieu says, ‘is that if you look like that bloke, it doesn’t matter how crap your proposal is, she’ll marry you anyway.’
‘Don’t do yourself down,’ François says. ‘You’re much better looking than him. And you’re French. So you’re already de facto sexier than any Englishman.’
‘Humph,’ Mathieu grumbles. ‘But that idiot bastard chef is French too, so that doesn’t help me much, does it?’
‘You gave up too easily, Papa,’ Hugo says. ‘You didn’t even fight for her. Like Jamie does for Aurelia.’
Mathieu frowns. ‘Who’s Jamie?’
‘Him,’ Hugo nods at the television screen, where two characters are sharing a passionate kiss. ‘You should have proposed to Viola like that, given her a great speech.’ Hugo feigns a posh English accent. ‘“Beautiful Aurelia, I’ve come here with a view of asking you to marriage me.” Except, you probably shouldn’t call her Aurelia, cos she probably wouldn’t like that.’
François laughs. ‘Tu as raison, women tend to take a dim view of that sort of thing. I once had a rather troublesome experience with twins who—’
‘Fran,’ Mathieu warns. ‘I’m doubting that this anecdote is suitable for twelve-year-old ears.’
‘Oh, please,’ Hugo sighs. ‘I bet I’ve been kissed more times than you have this year, Papa. And—’
At this, Mathieu sits up. ‘You’ve already had your first kiss?!’
‘Of course.’ Hugo rolls his eyes. ‘I’m twelve. Emilia Barreto. Last summer. And this year I’ve already kissed Beatrix Dixon, Fiona O’Conner and Gertie Simms.’ He smiles. ‘She’s my girlfriend.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ Mathieu exclaims. ‘How is it that you’re getting more action than I’ve had since—’
‘What’s really scary is that he’s getting more action than I am,’ François says. ‘There’s something deeply wrong with that. On so many levels.’
Hugo just sits between them, grinning. ‘I’ve got game,’ he says.
Mathieu raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m really hoping that you don’t know what that means.’
‘Oh, Papa,’ Hugo says. ‘You’re so clueless. No wonder you chickened out of the proposal.’
‘I did not chicken out.’ Mathieu scowls. ‘Sometimes in life you lose. And then you have to let go and move on. That’s all there is to it.’
Hugo shakes his head. ‘Just like I said.’ He sighs. ‘Clueless. Sans-dessein.’
Chapter Sixty-Six
The dark-blue silk dress hangs in Jude’s wardrobe. Every evening she gazes at it, waiting, expectant.
‘Not yet,’ she tells the dress, every night. ‘Not yet.’
Jude isn’t sure when she’ll wear it. She didn’t wear it for the date, which was a disaster. The man, who’d responded to her on the Internet dating site, took one look at her and his face fell. Actually fell. He’d been smiling as he’d sauntered into the restaurant, glancing about, his gaze lingering on the waitresses who waltzed past. And, when he’d seen Jude sitting alone at the table, with a copy of Sense and Sensibility, a red rose bookmarking the pages, his smile had dropped.
‘You don’t look like your picture,’ he’d said. ‘When did you take it? Ten years and three stone ago?’
The evening, impossibly, had sunk to even greater depths from there. Jude had been glad she hadn’t wasted the dress on him. It would have been like dressing for a Michelin-starred restaurant and ending up, by some cruel twist of fate, at McDonalds instead.
Some nights, Jude takes the dress from her wardrobe, holding it as tenderly as she holds Gertie when they read stories in bed at night, and puts it on, just for herself. The dress should be worn, she thinks, it wants to be worn. It doesn’t want to be left, abandoned – it wants to be played with, appreciated, adored. And so Jude does that, for the dress, for herself. And each time she puts it on, Jude feels as she did in the little shop: just perfect, just as she is.
Tonight, after tucking Gertie in, Jude does it again. And, as she looks in the mirror, Jude decides that it is time. Tomorrow, she decides, tomorrow she will finally find the courage to wear it in public.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Viola sits in her mother’s kitchen not drinking the cold cup of tea on the table in front of her. Daisy bustles about the kitchen, finding biscuits and making fresh cups of tea.
‘Sit down,’ Viola says, as her mother boils the kettle yet again. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘OK,’ Daisy says, starting to wash up another cup at the sink. ‘I’m just going to finish—’
‘Sit!’
Daisy sits.
‘Well,’ Viola says. ‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
Her mother sips her own tea. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘That’s a first.’
Daisy sighs. ‘What should I say? You’ve given up your job and left your fiancé. Am I supposed to be happy about that? You don’t seem happy about it. So, what am I supposed to say? I don’t understand. That’s all I can say, I don’t understand.’
>
‘Well, I guess I can’t blame you,’ Viola says. ‘Since I don’t understand either.’
Daisy frowns. ‘Then, why did you do it?’
‘I don’t really know,’ Viola says. ‘I just … I just found myself walking out. I can’t explain it. I didn’t even really think about it. It’s like … I looked down one day and there I was, packing a bag, calling a taxi and telling the driver to take me to the station. And then, I came here.’ She lets out a hollow little laugh. ‘God knows what I’m going to do now. I’ve got no job, no home, no idea what I’m going to do next.’
Daisy is silent.
‘Aren’t you going to tell me I’ve made a huge mistake?’ Viola asks. ‘Aren’t you go to say I should go back to Paris and beg Henri to—’
‘No,’ Daisy says. ‘I’m not. In fact, I think you’re incredibly brave. And I commend you.’
‘You do?’
‘Yes.’ Daisy nods. ‘It takes a great deal of courage to leave either a relationship or a job that’s good – great, even – but not right for you. And to do both at once, well … I didn’t have the courage to do the same thing myself and I’m only glad that my daughter has more fire in her belly than me.’
Viola reaches her hand across the table to hold her mother’s. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘That means more than you can imagine. And I’m sorry that you weren’t so happy with Dad. I wish – I really hope you find someone who makes you happy, Mum. You deserve to be.’
‘Oh, my dear, I’m not sure that’ll happen.’ Daisy sighs. ‘But I wasn’t so very unhappy. It’s just, he wasn’t … Anyway, I’ve also learnt that if you go into a relationship expecting that person to make you happy, then you’re on a hiding to nothing, especially if you’re not happy with yourself first.’
‘Yes, I suppose,’ Viola says. ‘But it certainly helps if you’re with someone you actually love in the first place.’
‘Yes, well, you’re certainly right about that,’ Daisy says. ‘Which reminds me – what about that chap you were with last year? Mat-e-ou?’
‘Mathieu.’ Viola sighs. ‘I’m afraid I fucked that one up. Well and truly.’
‘Are you certain?’ Daisy asks. ‘Maybe it’s not too late to—’
Viola shakes her head. ‘I saw him, coincidentally, a few months ago. He’s moved on. He doesn’t love me any more.’
‘And you’re—’
‘Yes,’ Viola nods. ‘I’m certain.’
‘Well …’ Daisy says, and Viola can see that her mother is struggling to find something comforting, something inspiring to say. ‘Well …’
‘Plenty more fish in the sea and all that, right?’ Viola says, attempting levity herself.
Daisy sighs. ‘Your father was the love of my life. And, frankly, I’ve never met a man since who I like even half as much, and no one at all I could ever imagine loving.’ She considers. ‘I know there are eight billion people on the planet, so the odds of finding at least a dozen soulmates should be in our favour but … Personally, I think it’s a wonder any of us ever find true love.’ Daisy shrugs. ‘And, given what I’ve seen over the years, I think very few people do.’
‘Jesus, Mum,’ Viola says. ‘If you’re trying to cheer me up you’re doing a bloody crap job of it. If I wasn’t suicidal before, I certainly am now.’
‘Sorry,’ Daisy says. ‘I know, I’ve always tried my best to be encouraging, to give you hope about your romantic prospects, but—’
Viola smiles. ‘Is that what you were doing? And there was I thinking you were just crazy. And extremely pushy.’
‘I didn’t want you to suffer,’ Daisy says. ‘I didn’t want you to spend the whole of your life as I’ve spent so much of mine. I don’t …’
Viola looks at her mother, hearing the catch in her voice and is, all of a sudden, deeply touched. ‘I don’t think,’ she begins. ‘I never really appreciated how it must have been for you, when Dad died and afterwards. I’m … I’m sorry, I didn’t …’
Daisy gives a shrug and a smile. Then she opens her arms and holds out her hands. ‘Come here.’
Viola steps forward, into her mother’s embrace. ‘What a pair we are, eh?’ she says, pressing her face into Daisy’s soft shoulder. ‘Two losers in love.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ Daisy says, into her daughter’s hair. ‘We had love for a little while. I’d say that makes us luckier than most.’
Chapter Sixty-Eight
François is wandering aimlessly through the streets of Cambridge, wondering how he’s going to pass his time, with Hugo back at school and Mathieu back at work, when he turns onto Green Street. He’s decided not to go back to Paris for a little while, at least not until he thinks his brother is fit to be left. Mathieu is too moody still, too morose, too depressed, too distracted. François doesn’t want to leave Hugo alone with his father, not until Mathieu has buoyed up a little.
It’s a novel feeling for François, this sense of concern, of consideration. He wonders, as he walks along Green Street, where it’s come from and why. He’s normally so careless, so carefree. Perhaps his conservative, by-the-book brother is rubbing off on him. How annoying.
François pauses outside the front of a little antique shop. The window sparkles with frost, adding an extra sparkle to everything contained within: Chinese silk lampshades, delicate pottery painted vases, polished silver photo frames, a small nineteenth-century handmade bookshelf, a set of Dickens’ first editions, a solid silver carriage clock, a miniature music box topped with a silken ballerina. François looks up at the sign above the door. ‘Gatsby’s,’ he reads. Then he pushes open the glass door and walks inside.
The shop is astonishing. Crammed from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall, with an incredible treasure trove of delights. François feels as if he’s stepping into the tomb of a great Egyptian pharaoh. But it’s the woman behind the desk who catches his eye before his gaze settles on any of the antiques. She intrigues him, though he’s not sure why. She’s not his usual type; not extremely pretty or particularly young, not excessively thin or especially well-endowed, not possessed of long blonde hair or wearing plenty of immaculately applied make-up. And yet there is something about her, a self-contained air, a suggestion of secrets, that intrigues him. Here is a woman, he thinks, who could keep him up all night, not with acrobatic sex but with discussions about the mysteries and meanings of the universe.
‘Hello,’ he ventures, stepping forward.
‘Hello. Welcome to Gatsby’s.’
But it’s not the woman behind the desk who’s speaking since she, engrossed in polishing some silver trinket, still hasn’t noticed him. François looks down to see a girl looking back up.
‘Hello,’ he says again, studying her face more closely, struck by a familiarity he can’t quite place.
‘What are you looking for?’ Gertie asks.
‘I don’t know,’ François says. ‘Nothing in particular. I … just browsing, I guess.’
The girl doesn’t respond but instead tips her head to one side, considering him. After a few minutes of being silently stared at, François starts to shift a little uneasily from foot to foot. Finally, wilting under the scrutiny, he half-steps away.
‘Um, I think I’ll just look at those,’ he says, nodding at a random shelf.
‘If you like,’ Gertie says, in the tone of someone suggesting that François is making a decided mistake.
Stopping, François frowns. ‘So, what do you suggest I should be looking at?’
Gertie considers, still unsure. ‘I think … I think you should be looking at frames.’
‘Frames?’
‘For photographs,’ Gertie clarifies, warming to her subject. ‘Photo frames.’
‘Oh,’ François says. ‘But I don’t really keep photos.’
‘Really?’ The girl seems so disappointed by this that François feels the need to backtrack a little.
‘I mean, I might take a few on my phone now and then,’ he says. ‘But I don’t have any I need to f
rame.’
‘Don’t you have any family?’ Gertie asks.
‘Sure,’ François says. ‘A brother and a nephew. But I see them often enough, and I don’t need to—’
‘What about a wife?’ Gertie asks, suddenly seeming rather curious.
François smiles. ‘No, no wife.’
‘Ah.’ Gertie grins. ‘That’s good.’
Registering her delight, François is relieved that his earlier faux pas regarding the photographs seems to have now been overlooked.
‘Why is that good?’ he asks.
‘No reason,’ Gertie says with a shrug, suddenly feigning nonchalance, though François notices her sneaking a surreptitious look at the woman sitting behind the counter. The woman who, François is slightly thrown to notice, is now gazing at them both. It’s then that he notices her dress, a dress of such ethereal beauty that it, for a moment, draws his attention away from the woman who’s wearing it. But only for a moment. He has to say something, he realises, or he risks looking like a total open-mouthed idiot.
‘H-Hello,’ François says. ‘This is quite a … magnificent shop you have.’
Jude smiles. ‘Thank you.’
He’s trying so hard to think of what to say next, aiming for something in the region of warm and witty, that it takes François a moment to notice that the girl is now tugging, gently but firmly, at his sleeve. When he glances down she holds a silver photograph frame up at him.
‘I think it’s this one,’ she says.
‘What one?’
Gertie smiles. ‘Your frame, of course.’
‘Oh,’ François says, slightly thrown, on account of having momentarily forgotten all about frames. He takes it from her. It’s heavy in his hands, much heavier than he’d anticipated and, for one awful moment, François nearly drops it. He takes a deep breath and lifts it up again. The silver is intricately carved, with vines of ivy entwined with roses creeping up the sides and—
The Patron Saint of Lost Souls Page 23
