It was a release in the end, even if it was the worst, most surreal moment of her life. But, in contrast, the shock of losing the dearest one to your heart so suddenly, abruptly, to receive such news out of the blue . . . To have been given no opportunity to say goodbye.
‘It’s rare I mention any of this. Charles prefers we never refer to the girls. I am confiding in you only because . . . I saw it in your eyes, I suppose. I wanted you to know that . . . I understand, that there are others out here who . . .’
She lifted her hand and slipped it over his clasped fingers. They felt warm. Living. ‘I appreciate it,’ she whispered. ‘Really.’
* * *
That night she lay awake, sleepless. Gustave had left her outside the apartment block. She hadn’t invited him in. They had made no plan to meet again. She had thanked him again for their hospitality and then she had stepped swiftly out of the car.
You never forget but you learn to negotiate the loss. You learn to live again.
It was all she could hope for.
8
The days unfolded as they had done before she’d met Gustave, uneventfully. She didn’t telephone him and he made no contact with her, which, she began to realise, disappointed her. She missed him, his company, the trio’s madcap wedding schemes. She longed to know how they were getting on. Were the builders back on site?
Meanwhile, her landlady was badgering her again for the next month’s rent.
She passed the humdrum hours job-hunting, but found nothing. The first time round, it had been so easy. She wondered why nothing was coming her way now. The fact was she longed to pick up the phone and offer her services, her few hospitality skills, to the Château Les Oliviers. She was able to cook – she was not in Jean-Christophe’s league, not by any stretch of the imagination, but she could lend him a hand, chop and wash vegetables, boil kettles, shop, clean, wait on tables, even water the plants for them. She was a gifted gardener. Yet she knew that such a gesture was inappropriate. In any case, she hadn’t heard from Gustave. Was that to be it?
* * *
And then, on the Friday of that same week, five days after her Sunday château outing, she stepped out of her building and spotted his car with its roof down and Gustave sitting in it, in the street where he had deposited her those few days previous. The smile that broke across her face seemed to swim through her, like ripples across water growing in force as they travelled. With his back to her, he did not notice her approach. He was reading, concentrating on a manual or road map. He was occupied in the sunshine, book resting against the steering wheel, in a world of his own. For one timorous instant, she wondered whether it was a coincidence that he was outside her flat, and then she instantly dismissed such nonsensical insecurity and hurried to the passenger side of the car.
‘Bonjour!’
‘Susan! I was waiting, hoping you’d appear. Are you free?’
She nodded.
‘Let’s grab a coffee. I’ve an idea I’d like to discuss with you.’
* * *
Both had donned sunglasses to protect against the glare out on the water. They were seated at a beachside café at a small table facing out to sea, on a wooden patio constructed in the sand and decked out with small palm trees in terracotta pots. Rock music played softly in the background – Leonard Cohen’s ‘Bird on the Wire’ – but it did not drown out the sound of waves curling and licking the shore. The beach was busy. Children’s cries rose and fell. A dog barked.
‘What are your plans?’ he asked once their coffees had been served. ‘I mean, are you here for the summer? You said you were passing through . . .’
She was glad of the anonymity of her shades: the mask they afforded against the emotions that almost certainly flagged up in her eyes.
‘Do you own the apartment where you’re staying?’
She laughed. ‘No.’
‘I’m assuming you are not waiting to link up with friends?’
She shook her head.
‘The fact is, I had a word with the chaps before I left for Paris on Tuesday, and—’
So he had been in Paris.
‘I, we, wondered whether you might like to come up to the château and . . . as you know, there are plenty of empty spaces. Even several uninhabited cottages dotted here and there about the land, although they are all in a rather sorry state of disrepair.’ He fell silent. She, too. She stared intently at the sea in front of her. The light of the sun bouncing off the shimmering water was burning her nose. Dammit, yet again she had no cream with her. Was Gustave asking her to move up to the château? Why? Why would he do that? They hardly knew one another. Did he feel sorry for her? Was he taking pity? Or was there an ulterior motive?
‘Why?’ she mouthed.
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you asking me to . . . are you asking me . . . inviting me, I mean, to . . .’ She coughed. ‘To . . .’
‘Come and spend a bit of time up at Les Oliviers? Yes, I was about to suggest it, was in the process of. Why am I offering?’
‘Yes, why?’ Her tone was sharper than she had intended, almost indignant. It took him aback. He lifted his head, frowned, trying to read her through her glasses. He slid his from his nose and placed them next to his untouched coffee. ‘Have I offended you? I certainly didn’t intend to.’
Tears were flowing down her cheeks. She rubbed them away with both hands while one of her fingernails scratched the tip of her nose. She felt the sting of the burn. It was probably bright red. She didn’t need their pity. She needed Justin. He would laugh at her, tease her for her foolish intensity. What was she doing here? Who was this man, what did he want?
‘I’m only here for another week,’ she said softly, determined to keep the hurt and pique from her voice. ‘After that, the studio has been rented and I’ll be moving on.’ And with that, she stood up, shaking like a leaf. What had she said? Why was she behaving in such a churlish manner? Perhaps he was offering her nothing more than kindness, companionship? She liked him. She had missed him, his company. She had fantasised about being with them up at the château, hammering nails, making bonfires, clearing weeds to grow vegetables, sharing meals. Hard physical work as a salve to her pain. New friends to widen her horizons. Their eccentric ebullience. Gustave’s warmth. ‘I think it would be better if we didn’t see one another again.’
He stared at her, nonplussed, and then slowly nodded, lifted his glasses from the table and slipped them back onto his face.
‘Rotten timing on my part,’ he said, brushing his chin with his hand. ‘Forgive me. Let me walk you back to your . . .’
‘That’s really not necessary. Thank you for . . . for the coffee.’ And with that, she swung on her heels, stepped from the wooden patio, sinking her sandals into the sand, almost twisting an ankle, before trudging clumsily towards the road.
‘Susan!’
She didn’t look back. She kept going. This was the best solution. The only choice. Later, she’d walk to the station in Cannes and book a one-way ticket to Italy – Florence . . . she’d begin in Florence. Yes. She might even set off a few days early. Why not leave tomorrow, or even this evening once she’d thrown her few belongings into her bag? What was the sense of hanging on here when she knew she had to find somewhere else? Her flat was too expensive and there was no work to be had. And she wasn’t attracted to this man, was she? And even if she was, she was in love with Justin. Justin. I’ll love you always.
She staggered up the steps that took her from the beach to the esplanade. The traffic was roaring back and forth. She waited at the kerb for a gap in the onslaught. To cross, to get away. To return to the safety of her white studio with nothing on its walls. Its impersonal embrace, its bareness a blessing. She would sell her cottage in Oxford and use the money to travel, to keep moving. She was better off alone.
Or she could throw herself, now, in front of the approaching cars. End it now. She took a step, edging herself off the pavement, overwhelmed by the roaring approach of engines. Be
tter to put an end to this eternal pain. ‘Susan! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Gustave grabbed her by the wrist, edged her backwards. ‘Susan. Sorry, I had to pay for the coffees. Had no cash, needed to wait, use my credit card. Susan.’ He swung her towards him. ‘I had forgotten,’ he said softly. ‘No, not forgotten, but the rawness. How it conspires against reason. Excuse me, please. Forgive me.’ He linked his arm into hers and guided her, darting them across the busy street and around the corner to safety, to where he had left his Peugeot.
On the pavement, they stood face to face.
‘I could give you a third carte de visite but I fear you won’t use it,’ he smiled. ‘May I see you again before you leave? Where are you going, by the way?’
‘Italy,’ she replied.
He nodded. ‘An excellent choice. Anywhere in particular, or just . . . moving on? May I? See you again?’
‘On the move.’ Her face felt as though it had been cooked, yet was also raw.
‘It’s the hardest part, being kind to yourself. Obliterating the guilt you feel because you are alive . . .’
They stood in silence.
‘By the way, the construction teams are hard at it again,’ he said, after a long moment. ‘Things are moving forward apace. We might even be ready in time for that darned wedding.’
‘That’s good news. So you managed to find “the readies”?’ She laughed at her own silly joke.
‘I paid both myself and Charles two handsome advances from our architectural firm in Paris. Two major contracts have been signed there this week. That enterprise is in cracking shape, so no reason not to be generous and lend this one a hand. All will be well.’
‘I’m glad for you.’
They stood facing one another in the street, listening to the roar of a passing Harley-Davidson. She recalled Jean-Christophe’s quip about selling such a bike to buy a bottle of cognac. She was glad to have met these men, delighted that for a brief moment she had been given a glimpse into their unique world, one so different from her own.
‘Why not delay Italy . . . just for a few days, and enjoy the spring up at the estate? The landscape is changing by the day. It’s a perfect time of year.’
She said nothing.
‘I’ll wait while you gather your bags together.’
Her limbs were locked, cemented to the spot. Every cell within her was in dilemma.
‘In a few days’ time, or whenever you’re ready, tired of us and our repetitive squabbles about matrimonial hurdles and the nuances of menus, I can drive you back down to Cannes, to the station, and see you aboard the train for wherever will be your next port of call.’
‘I don’t really see the point,’ she mumbled.
‘No “point”, Susan. A petit parenthesis, perhaps. Why not? The works are advancing and the nightingales have arrived. The evenings are wondrous out on the terrace. It might be fun, healing. And . . . I’d enjoy your company.’
That self-same nightingale song, she was thinking. Justin might approve.
‘That’s the nub of it. I would like to spend some time with you, Susan. What say you take a chance and spend a few days with us . . . with me?’
A petit parenthesis. Where could be the harm in it? She had to go somewhere. She nodded. ‘Will you give me half an hour, then?’
‘Shall I lend you a hand?’
She shook her head vehemently. No one was welcome in her private space, where her photos, her ghosts, were still on display, where her past was remembered. ‘No, thank you.’
‘When you’re ready, I’ll be in the car.’
She went inside, threw her belongings into her two small bags and then stood stock-still looking about her at the bare room, denuded. Her heart was thumping. Downstairs, she knocked at her landlady’s door, handed over the keys and bid her farewell.
‘What, you’re not staying?’ barked the sour old bird.
‘I’m paid up till after the weekend so you have a few days to find someone else. Thank you for everything.’ And with that, she was outside in a spin, hauling her bags into Gustave’s open car.
‘Do you need anything? Would you like some lunch before we set off?’
She shook her head and climbed into the passenger seat. This was impulsive. Her safe white box had been locked behind her, the key no longer hers. Her future she was tossing to the wind. For a few days at least she was out on a limb. And afterwards? She would think of it tomorrow, or the next day. She had fled her lonely widow’s life in England in search of new horizons. She had nothing left to lose. Had she?
9
Everybody was occupied, working at full tilt, when she and Gustave climbed the drive. Hammering, banging, Charles umpiring. Several lorries were unloading goods or removing tons of detritus. Workmen were yelling, plasterers were almost falling over one another on the stairs. Someone, a man in white overalls completely covered in light pink dust, was drilling worryingly large chunks out of one of the upstairs walls. A consignment of two hundred and fifty chairs was due to be delivered later that afternoon. Twenty-five round tables were on order and should arrive – when? Any time now. Another van bearing damask tablecloths, two new washing machines, stacks of pure white towels, would also be presenting itself any minute now, called Charles to Gustave as he carried Susan’s few belongings up the main staircase to Marcel Pagnol, the room she had been allocated on the first floor. She was hastily introduced to Magali – ‘the one woman none of us could live without,’ quipped Jean-Christophe as he hurried into the kitchen with armfuls of tomatoes, courgettes and aubergines brought from the Cannes market by Gustave.
‘Ratatouille,’ he called up the stairs after them. ‘An aromatic Provençal classic and a château favourite.’
‘You will be quite safe and, I hope, very comfortable here.’ Her three hosts, she was discreetly assured, were camping in one of the towers at the back of the house, some distance away.
‘I must work or there will be mutiny. Drinks at seven out on the terrace or, should it rain, which I doubt, we’ll be in the petit salon. See you later, and enjoy your afternoon,’ smiled Gustave. ‘Make yourself completely at home.’
Her room was exquisite, with floor-to-ceiling silk saffron curtains framing sweeping views to the sea. It could not be more perfect.
* * *
The activities were manifold, and non-stop. Tempers were high, blood pressures rising. Still, in spite of each day’s challenges, when les ouvriers had set off down the drive in their white vans and small lorries jam-packed with utensils, shattered, coated from head to foot in paint and plaster, the château breathed a sigh of relief and the three men convened to uncork a bottle, to discuss the advancements of their projects and to unwind over their liquid refreshment, and the place was returned to a heavenly retreat once more.
On that first evening, Susan had made her way out to the terrace just before seven, but no one had appeared. From speakers somewhere out of sight, Elgar’s Cello Concerto was playing. She waited alone till twenty past and then retreated to her room.
Gustave came looking for her. ‘What are you up to? We’re waiting for you. Come and join us,’ he chivvied, blithely unaware that it was now twenty to eight. She smiled, followed him down the stairs, shaking her head in disbelief that they would ever be ready in time for the wedding.,
* * *
Over the following days, Susan decided to acquaint herself with the grounds. She took delight in being outside because she found the noisy animation and bustle of the multitudinous projects too much to bear. In any case, she could not realistically contribute and feared getting under everyone’s feet.
Whenever she happened to walk somewhere within the vicinity of the stable courtyard, with its myriad windows flung open, music could be heard. She would find a seat, set aside the wildflowers or bric-a-brac she had gathered, close her eyes and be transported. Or she allowed herself to be seduced by the beauty of her surroundings while musicians such as the cellists Pau Casals or Yo-Yo Ma enchanted her. And then she
would uncoil herself and set off again on her trajectories of discovery.
The land, even in its present savage state, was her perfect escape. The growth in some areas was so lusty that she was quite literally lost within it. For the first two days of her stay, she roamed alone for miles, trying to get the layout of the place, tripping over elegant stone statues buried beneath weeds, one stone arm perhaps aloft. They were too heavy for her to move and so she left them where they were, hoping she might be able to locate them again and show them to Gustave. She strolled through the vineyards with their fresh neon-green shoots, where occasionally she waved to a local farmer or two from one of the families who rented these acres. She discovered forest trails softened underfoot by fallen pine needles, dipped her toes in the unheated outdoor swimming pool, took a book to sit in the shade by the pétanque court and generally lazed about until she had settled on a role for herself.
The first few afternoons, she wandered to the kitchen and offered to help Jean-Christophe. He accepted readily, handing her knives for chopping or pointing her to the scullery, where mounds of vegetables awaited washing. But there was something about being alone in his company that made her, not uncomfortable, but wary. When he wasn’t concentrating on his own artistry, his eyes followed her intently, and on one or two occasions he drew so close behind her that he almost made her jump.
She decided to find herself another role and settled on that of gardener. It was an impossible commission, of course, and she knew it, but she could think of no other way to show her gratitude for this interlude of time the three men were offering her, this caesura of quietude, of healing. And so she set about clearing the walled vegetable garden, ready to burn off the debris. It was a mammoth undertaking, but she was in no hurry.
The Love of a Stranger (Kindle Single) Page 7
