Yes, I really must keep it cool. Gerard is just a friendly soul who fancied some company for the evening with someone who enjoys art as much as he does. It’s very simple. Not to be misread under any circumstances.
I look up at him when he takes his hand from my face and then I close my eyes and inhale his closeness. He doesn’t smell of tobacco or methylated spirits tonight. He is fresh and clean in his jeans and pale-blue shirt and his floppy dark hair and even his beard looks soft and very touchable. Very soft and welcoming and…
‘So, this is how I like to see the bridge,’ he says in a low voice and bringing me back to the present. ‘Take my hand.’
I put my hand into his and he leads me to the edge of the walkway to a raft-type jetty, which is tied to two posts and which bobs along in the river. He steps onto it, still holding my hand and expertly balances himself, then leads me on beside him. I am petrified inside, yet feel very safe as he doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second.
Beside the raft is a rowing boat, a pretty little old-fashioned blue rowing boat with two oars, and he steps onto it next.
‘Can you swim?’ he asks me.
‘Of course I can,’ I tell him. ‘I grew up beside a lake. Are we going for a swim? Now?’
‘No, no I’m joking,’ he says. ‘Here, sit down in the boat and keep warm.’
He reaches for a blanket beneath one of the little bench seats in the boat and puts it around my shoulders and I clasp it with my hand at my chest. Then he climbs over and sits across from me, his feet touching mine.
‘I’ve never been on a rowing boat like this before. Not at night, anyhow.’
‘It’s the best way to see the Millau Viaduct, believe me, I know,’ Gerard tells me as he rows us away from the jetty and out onto the black of the river. ‘I have a feeling you have not got close to it yet.’
‘I haven’t, but I look at it from a distance every day.’
I think of Lucy. I want to tell him all about her, but I don’t. How she would have loved this place never leaves my mind and I think of her every time I look across at it, but this… this is nothing I expected at all.
We start to move along the water.
‘I’m here for very sentimental reasons, so forgive me if I get emotional,’ I tell him.
He raises an eyebrow as he rows the boat with ease.
‘Does it remind you of someone in happier times?’ he asks.
‘No… it’s deeper than that,’ I say, looking up at the bridge. ‘It really is spectacular. Have you ever painted it?
‘No, I have not painted the bridge, much to everyone’s surprise,’ he says emphatically. ‘Many other artists have, though. I prefer to paint the stories behind the bridge. The little things that visitors, or those who cross it, do not see.’
He is a man who knows what he likes, that’s for sure.
‘I have painted some of the people who live and work by the river, but you are not allowed to see it, before you ask,’ he says with a smile. ‘I have not finished it.’
We both laugh at the acknowledgement of our first conversation.
‘I understand totally. No pressure at all,’ I reply. ‘What is your exhibition about? Or is that top secret too?’
‘I cannot tell you,’ he says and then he laughs. ‘I am joking. I had a lot of themes running through my head, but then I settled on one I have wanted to explore for many years now. It is a simple theme that reflects everyday life here on the river and in this valley I call home. The theme is Les Personnes.’
‘Les Personnes… doesn’t that just mean people?’ I ask, afraid of digging too deeply into his privacy.
‘Yes, people. You know, human beings.’
He laughs again.
‘Okay… well that’s a pretty wide subject,’ I say. ‘What type of people?’
He seems to be enjoying the conversation now, so I allow myself to explore it with him a bit further.
‘All sorts of people, of whom I have way too many to choose from,’ he explains.’ People who mean something to me in all sorts of ways. Heroes, villains, family, friends, lovers…’
His arms move rhythmically, back and forward, back and forward and I can see now where he gets his toned physique from. He must exercise like this… a lot.
‘You are a great rower,’ I say, stating the obvious and making me sound like an idiot. A great rower! Why on earth did I say that?
‘I have had plenty of practice. I used to compete when at university in England,’ Gerard explains and the penny drops with me.
‘Oxford?’ I ask him, imagining him in his younger days in his shorts and vest and big muscly thighs and…
‘Ten out of ten,’ he says with a smile. ‘I have very fond memories of competitive rowing and I like to de-stress from the art world by getting out on the water and just forgetting the world.’
I can see exactly what he means. The water is serene and we glide across it, watching the lights of Millau on one side and the distant town of Peyre on the other, with the almighty Viaduct on our path. Oh, Lucy Harte, if you could only see this now.
‘So, did you study art at Oxford?’ I enquire, not knowing if you can even study art at Oxford. I always imagined it as home of upper-class business and law and economics, and the like, but then it’s not something I have ever checked out.
‘I wanted to,’ says Gerard. ‘I wanted to study fine art but my father would not hear of it. He pushed me into a business degree, which I completed much against my will and then I tried several ventures in London before life took me back here. Instead of joining Anton in the family business, I began selling my art, much to everyone’s surprise – and the rest is history.’
He smiles with great pride at how he has proven his family wrong and used his creative talent to earn his living.
He looks directly into my eyes and I can feel the energy rise between us. The mood is slowing down, the atmosphere is calming and his leg is touching my inner leg and it feels so, so nice that I don’t want to move.
He holds my gaze with such intensity as he builds up to a steady speed and the bridge is coming closer and closer, its majestic lights glittering in the night sky.
‘You can lie back now, Maggie,’ he instructs me. ‘Lie back and relax, but don’t close your eyes. I don’t want you to miss a thing tonight.’
His voice is soothing and seductive and I do exactly what he says. If he said to jump in the water, I probably would at this stage, I am so under his spell, so I lean back, balancing myself by holding on to the side of the boat and I look up at the multi-coloured sky above.
‘Lean back further and let go of the boat,’ says Gerard softly. ‘There is a cushion behind you. Please trust me. You will enjoy this.’
I lie back and feel the soft cushion meet the back of my head, then I let go of the sides of the boat. I see now what he means. It feels like I am floating. I am truly floating on air.
‘This is amazing,’ I whisper, up into the night sky. ‘So, so beautiful.’
I think of Lucy, up there somewhere, looking down on all of this and taking it all in. I want to call out her name, to make sure she is with me, but, most of all, I don’t want to miss a thing.
‘We will be going under the bridge really soon,’ Gerard whispers. ‘Take it all in, Maggie. Focus, relax and breathe. Breathe in the night sky. Breathe in the moon and the stars. Breathe in the river. Are you ready?’
We soar beneath the sky, skimming across the black water at quite a speed, looking up into the navy skies and the stars and moon that twinkles above us, sailing between valleys that loom over us and close in like imposing shadows in the darkness.
‘I’m ready, Gerard.’ I really feel like I am flying or floating on air.
‘Enjoy it, Maggie. Relax and enjoy.’
I take a long, deep breath in and then a long breath out and I feel ripples of tension leave my body as I tingle from head to toe. I feel every hair on my head rise, light prickles on my skin and a warm rush running through my veins, gushin
g in waves through my entire body.
Holy God in heavens, Lucy Harte, you should actually look away if you are watching from above because I swear this man is doing things to me inside and he hasn’t even laid a finger on me. Forget what I said earlier. Look away. I don’t know what is going on right now but it’s not for your eyes, not this time.
I feel the breeze of air on my face and through my hair and listen to Gerard’s heavy- breath panting as he rows faster and faster and faster and faster and then wow!
There it is above me! The most magnificent sight I have ever seen. The lights are a dazzling mix of pinks and blues and yellows and they colour the water as we ripple through, so tiny in comparison to this Goliath-style structure that dominates the sky above.
‘Woo hoo!’ I shout at the top of my lungs. ‘We’re under the bridge! Lucy Harte, you can look again! This is your bridge! Woooooooo!’
We slide underneath its dizzy height, which is taller than the Eiffel Tower, and I shout and scream and laugh and laugh and Gerard puts the oar across the boat and leans forward to me before taking both my hands and pulling me up towards him.
I sit up and my head spins slightly.
‘That was…’ I cannot find the words. ‘That was just…. oh my God, that was amazing!’
My face is pink and I am so breathless and totally exhilarated and just when I think I have felt it all he hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me right up against him, with the oar lying across his lap.
He lifts my legs in a swift move and wraps them around his waist, under the oar and I think I am going to explode, but all I can do is nod at him in approval. His body is warm and he moves me closer, then just when I can take no more he puts his mouth on mine and kisses me hard and firm and I swear I am so dizzy I think I am going to faint.
He kisses me deeply. He kisses me so tenderly as the boat sails down the river all by itself, slowing down, but he doesn’t slow down at all. I am totally gasping for air when he eventually does and it feels so, so good.
‘I have wanted to do that for a few days now,’ he says in his glorious accent and I try to focus on catching my breath. This is so intense, so magical and so, so perfect.
‘I’m glad you did,’ I tell him, utterly breathless, and he lifts the oar again. I move back to my seat and he steers the boat around until we are drifting back towards his art studio, the place he calls home, silent in mutual exhilaration.
Chapter 27
Gerard walks me to the door of the gîte and neither of us mentions what just happened on the boat. For some reason, there are no words, no explanation. To discuss it and analyse it would take away from it and our smiles and inner glow says it all.
It was an experience that took me to a much higher level than if we had rolled around naked on a bed and did what most other consenting adults might do in such a situation.
I am so energised, so full up within my soul and truly satisfied with what was a perfect evening with him.
‘How many days do you have left with us here in Millau?’ he asks me as we stand under the ash tree at the gîte.
I have the key in the door but I don’t want to end this yet. Should I ask him in or should I leave us both wanting more, as we so evidently do?
‘Three days,’ I tell him. ‘Two nights, but three days.’
He nods but says nothing. Instead, he does that thing again where he softly tilts back my chin and looks into my eyes.
‘You are exceptionally beautiful and your halo is still shining,’ he whispers and then he kisses me, wet and hard and then softly until our lips part. ‘Don’t ever stop shining, Maggie. See the world. You are too pretty and smart to be hidden away. You deserve to shine.’
I want him to stay. I want him to stay so badly and lie with me in the cosy cottage, where we can talk more and explore more, but he has to… he has to work. Damn. I have to let him go.
‘Thank you for an amazing time,’ I say and I hug him tightly. His body is so firm and strong and safe. I want him so much, but I have to let him go. ‘Good night, Gerard. Thank you.’
‘And thank you, Maggie. Enjoy the rest of your stay.’
I lie in bed beneath the patchwork quilt, naked and reliving the magical evening I have just spent with the most intriguing, charismatic and sexual man I have ever come across. There is no need for extra heating tonight in the cottage because I am burning up inside still as I remember every move, every way he made me feel and every word he said.
I can’t sleep.
I wrap the patchwork quilt around me and go outside to the patio, where my easel and painting and my empty glass of wine sits from before. It is going to break my heart to leave this place. I didn’t ever believe that an actual place could get inside someone as much as this part of France has done to me. I don’t want to go back to my goldfish bowl and look out at people like Flo with Damian and their rekindled love, or the gossips at work in a job that I am not even sure I like any more, or dinners for one in my city apartment.
I sit outside with my thoughts and I look into the midnight sky and the stars that sparkle down on me.
The bridge stands tall in the far distance, keeping me company into the late evening and I bring my knees up to my chest and hug them with my eyes now closed, taking in the wonder of where Lucy has brought me to. I do this until my eyes get heavy and then I stumble through the French doors and fall onto the bed into a blissful sleep.
I step out onto the patio again the following morning with a coffee and a warm croissant to the sound of birdsong and the now-familiar chatter of people in the distance on the river. It is a heavenly way to wake up and begin your day and the warmth of the sun envelopes me and I sit down to absorb it all, where I have come from and what has brought me here.
Lucy has made me unrecognisable. I am totally brand new. I know I am still me but I am a shiny new version and I feel cleansed inside, almost repaired and I am so, so grateful. I don’t think I have ever felt so content or enriched in all my life and it is exhilarating.
I want to hold on to this positivity, this inner glow and build on the heightened pleasures I am now taking time to experience. Things that passed me by before now make me appreciate every single moment of the life Lucy gave me – the taste of a warm croissant with home-made blueberry jam; the sound of birds as they circle above me every morning; the warmth of a hug from my brother or, indeed, a welcoming stranger like Gerard; the glow and passion of a kiss that came from nowhere but which ignited me from my very toes and filled my soul, leaving me wanting more.
I would love to see him again, I really would, but I will not force anything on this final part of my journey with Lucy’s list. I will stay cool and calm and let things unfold just as they were meant to be.
I don’t have to wait for long before I do see him again.
I am running along the river bank, in the opposite direction from where Gerard brought me last night when I see him in the distance, standing at his easel painting a fisherman at work in front of him. I slow down my pace, wipe the sweat off my brow and lean my hands on my knees to get my breath back and compose myself before he notices me.
I don’t want him to notice me – not yet anyhow. I want to do what he has deprived me of since I first met him a few days ago. I want to watch him work.
So I stand there, taking it all in, in awe of his poise, of his stature, of how the muscles in his back move as he tilts and sways with the brush in his hand, totally engrossed in his subject and totally unaware that I am anywhere near him. He looks a lot more contented than he did that first time at the supermarket, but then again, he is no longer so stressed and is doing what he loves to do.
His eyes skirt around him and I freeze, fearful now that he may think I am snooping on him, but it’s too late. He has seen me. He waves. I wave back. He smiles. I smile back. I turn to walk away but he calls me and then walks towards me.
‘You found me,’ he says with a cheeky grin. ‘I just can’t hide from you, Maggie, no matter where I go.’
‘Find a better hiding place, then!’ I respond, feeling a rush of adrenaline as he makes his way towards me. ‘I would never have dreamed you would be up here. Never in a million years.’
I am protesting, but he laughs in response.
‘I am joking with you,’ he says. ‘I am finishing a portrait of Pierre, one of our oldest residents here in Millau and he really is not happy with me watching him as he fishes out on his boat. I know exactly why. Perhaps I am a hypocrite.’
His eyes crinkle in the sun as he speaks to me and his paint-splattered arms and t-shirt look very welcoming indeed.
‘I’ll go back in the other direction, then, so as I don’t run past your work – in case I see your unfinished business,’ I tell him. ‘Sorry if I broke your flow of concentration.’
‘Perhaps you and I have unfinished business also, Maggie?’ he suggests and my stomach does a leap. ‘We can’t keep bumping into each other like this for no reason. Perhaps it is fate?’
At the suggestion of fate, I can’t help but imagine Lucy, up there in the heavens, orchestrating her magic and leading me into his path at every turnaround, but I don’t need to let him know that.
‘It can’t all be fate,’ I tell him, not wanting to totally fall for his charms. ‘You made a deliberate effort by taking me to the bridge and by leaving me some paints, so perhaps the unfinished business is all entirely planned on your behalf?’
He looks away, then back to me and shrugs. We both can’t help but smile.
‘I won’t say it hasn’t crossed my mind,’ he says. ‘I have thought of you a lot, Maggie. You are distracting me from my work, but I like it. You break my concentration more than you will ever know.’
I roll my eyes and laugh in response.
‘Oh, Gerard, you do know how to flatter me,’ I tell him. ‘Well, it’s about time you got back to your work and I’ll leave you to it. Happy painting.’
He grabs my hand.
‘Please don’t run,’ he says. ‘Please don’t run away.’
The Legacy of Lucy Harte Page 21
