A Winter's Dream
Page 27
Liberty had smiled politely and turned away, telling herself the car-hire desk was probably busy because it was nearly Christmas and everyone was simply trying to get home for the holidays.
Anyway, she’d reassured herself, she’d booked her car so there shouldn’t be a problem. And there hadn’t been. Once she finally reached the front of the line it had all been straightforward, and now she’d arrived she could finally relax.
The bookshop was closing as she made her way downstairs and the owner wished her a bonne soirée. Zipping up her jacket, Liberty picked a table outside and sat down. All around, people were enjoying their apéritifs. She ordered a drink and sat back, smiling to herself, still high on the satisfaction of having made the journey alone. Wasn’t it pure sophistication, to be sipping red wine, watching the world go by, with jazz music playing in the background? Lots of her well-travelled friends would have thought nothing of making this trip, but for her it was a milestone and she was so proud of herself. She was definitely out of her comfort zone now – and loving every moment of it. She looked around, soaking up the magical scene.
The village square sparkled with tasteful white fairy lights and a large Christmas tree. Liberty spotted a man wearing a beret – a real beret! – and tiny black-rimmed spectacles that looked both intellectual and chic. She loved the sound of people speaking French. It was such a musical language, so expressive and romantic. If only Alex could see her now.
She tried to picture herself living in a place like this where everything was exciting, foreign and new to her. Imagine the possibilities. All the people she might meet, the new experiences she’d have. Although she couldn’t speak French, she was confident she’d pick up the language soon enough. After all, Carys’s family spoke Welsh at home and she’d picked up a few phrases without any problem. To think, if she’d let her fear stop her, she would never have seen this gorgeous place, with its narrow streets and pretty boutiques.
The challenge had changed her. She liked the person she’d become. Open-minded. Curious to try new things. Confident. Living life to the full.
Sewing was still her favourite thing, but she would have missed out on so many adventures if she hadn’t pushed herself this month. She pictured the bouquet that had triggered all of this, and wondered if the sender had seen the change in her. Their gift had gone further than they could ever have imagined it would.
Her phone buzzed with a message from Alex: Glad you got there. I left you a gift under the Christmas tree.
She smiled, touched, and wondered where he was right now? At Damselfly Cottage, packing? Or was he out, having fun? She typed: Let me know when you arrive in France.
The waiter brought her glass of red wine and a bowl of peanuts. She thanked him and he answered in English, ‘You’re welcome.’
Damn, her accent must have given her away.
‘You’re visiting from America?’ he asked, tucking his tray under his arm. He was handsome with dark hair, and seemed happy to stop and linger.
‘From England. I’m delivering quilts for the show.’ He looked blank. ‘At the château?’
‘Ah, yes! The festival. Yes, we have a lot of visitors for this after Christmas.’
She smiled. ‘It’s very famous. I’m so excited to be here.’ It was just a shame she wouldn’t see the show. Maybe next year she could come back. Perhaps with Evie.
‘So you’re …’ the waiter glanced around ‘… here with a friend?’
‘No,’ she said, feeling ridiculously proud. ‘I’m on my own.’
He grinned. ‘Ah, well, my name is Louis, and if you need someone to show you around the village, you know where to find me.’
Wow, he was forward. No English reserve here, then. But she was flattered. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind.’
He was called away to serve another customer and she sat back, savouring her wine. As the sun set, the vibrant colours reminded her of Van Gogh’s painting Café Terrace at Night. The indigo night sky, the warm glow of the café and the burgundy-coloured chairs and tables, the twinkling Christmas lights strung around the square. An image formed in her mind of a new quilt design: using deep shades of blue for the background, she could appliqué a cluster of wonky squares in wine-coloured shades, with pale centres cut from glittery gold and white fabric that would take on a starry brightness.
Her phone pinged again. Alex had replied: Why?
She blushed. Good question. Why indeed?
Because she missed him and this was an excuse to prolong contact with him before they lost touch for good. She didn’t write that. Instead, she typed: Because I’d like to know you arrived safely. Like you did with me.
He replied: But my family will raise the alarm if I don’t show up.
Whereas she was alone, she interpreted. Her smile faded.
And it hit her then like a block of ice: all his concern about her arriving safely hadn’t been because he cared but because he pitied her. Just as he’d pitied his half-sister and the woman whose letters his father had ignored.
She switched off her phone and slipped it back into her handbag. She sipped her wine and tried to refocus on the scene around her. But the magic had gone.
Monday, 22 December
The château was beautiful. The sandy gold stone rose up in turrets and towers, and glinted in the winter sun. Majestic conifers stood proud around it, like green spearheads, and as Liberty crossed the courtyard dozens of flags fluttered in the wind, representing the nationalities of all those who’d entered the quilt festival. Unlike the British castles she’d visited, which always had a distinctly damp and chilly edge, this one was well heated. It was the perfect backdrop for exhibiting quilts.
She deposited all of the quilts with their paperwork, and texted Evie and Brenda to say they’d been safely delivered. Then she took a quick peek at those that had already been hung for display.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ said a woman, holding a phone and a clipboard.
Liberty guessed she was one of the organisers supervising the show. ‘Amazing. I especially love these,’ she said, pointing to a couple of Japanese Sashiko panels with their characteristically bold stitches and shimmering fabrics.
The woman eyed her appraisingly. ‘Would you be interested in helping as a steward at the show? One or two helpers have caught the flu so we’re short of volunteers.’
Her heart jumped at the prospect – but her hopes instantly died. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be here for the show,’ she said, ‘but I’m free today, if you need any help setting up.’
The woman’s eyes lit. ‘That would be formidable.’
Liberty had already done a quick tour of the village this morning when she’d gone out to buy bread and pastries for breakfast, and had been planning to browse the gift shops and boutiques this afternoon. The prospect of helping here was far more appealing. She’d get a sneak preview of some of the quilts.
The lady led her to one of the château’s large reception rooms and introduced her to the other volunteers. The day passed quickly as Liberty carefully unpacked quilts, hung and labelled them. She was surprised to see how far some entries had travelled, and it was fun chatting to other quilt lovers in broken English about the different techniques and fabrics that had been used. During a short break in the afternoon Liberty checked her phone. She had a message from the airline marked URGENT.
As she read it, her face fell.
Her return flight was cancelled due to a strike. Liberty’s hand shook a little as she put her phone down.
That meant she could be stuck here for Christmas.
She asked the other volunteers if they knew about the strike. They did. Apparently there had been rumblings that it might happen. Perhaps that explained the long queue at the car-hire desk when she’d arrived. ‘Will there be any trains running?’ Liberty asked.
They shook their heads. ‘All the transport workers are on strike. There’ll be no trains or buses. Nothing.’
‘What about my rental car? Could I use it to dri
ve home?’
She dug out the number and one of her fellow volunteers called the rental company for her but shook her head. ‘They need the car back tomorrow. They said you can leave it here and they’ll collect it, but they can’t extend your booking and they won’t allow you to drive it out of the country.’
The woman next to her sent her a look of sympathy.
Liberty’s shoulders sagged. ‘Looks like I’m stuck here for Christmas, then.’
She’d better email her landlord and ask if she could stay a few days extra. And she’d have to go to the supermarket and stock up on food to see her through, perhaps buy some more clothes, too.
Breathe, Liberty. It’s just Christmas. Think of it as part of your challenge.
It wasn’t as risky as taking in a lodger, or as humiliating as her nightmare date with Sean and his vengeful ex, and it was nothing like as scary as flying. Her chin lifted with resolve.
She could do this.
Her phone was ringing insistently. In the car park at the supermarket Liberty put down her shopping and rooted in her bag until she found it. ‘Alex?’ she answered.
‘Have you heard about the strike?’ The urgency in his voice told her he was worried.
‘Yeah. My flight’s cancelled.’
‘So is mine.’
She pictured him alone in Damselfly Cottage. ‘What will you do? How will you get home for Christmas?’
‘Not sure yet. Hitchhike, maybe.’
She couldn’t tell if he was joking. ‘Feel free to stay at the cottage. I don’t mind.’
‘I’ll find a way. What about you?’ he asked.
‘The owner of the flat said I can stay here an extra four days. Hopefully the strike will have ended by then.’
There was a pause before he asked, ‘Are you all right, Liberty?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘It’s just – I thought you might be worried. About spending Christmas alone.’
She smiled, touched by the concern in his voice. ‘I was at first. But now I’m actually looking forward to it. For one thing, it means I can put off getting on a plane for a few more days, and for another …’ She hadn’t been looking forward to Christmas this year. Although it was really kind of Carys’s family to have invited her, spending the day with them would have been a stark reminder of her best friend’s absence. She would have put on a brave face, knowing their grief was far more acute than hers, but being alone might actually be easier. More relaxed. ‘Well, it means I can do what I like.’
It was an opportunity to indulge herself. She’d bought lots of delicious food: duck breast, rainbow-coloured Swiss chard, cheeses, bread and patisseries, and wine. She’d used Evie’s Christmas bonus to treat herself to a couple of new outfits, and she’d bought a stash of new fabric at the château so she had plenty of sewing to keep her busy on Christmas Day when everyone else was with their families. She was planning to go for a walk and soak up the beautiful views, and in the evening she’d call Carys’s mum, Evie and Natasha. She’d wish Lottie a merry Christmas – she knew the little girl would be giddy with excitement about reindeer landing on the roof and the new doll’s house Santa was bringing her.
It would be fine. She was getting good at challenges. Christmas by herself would be a doddle.
Tuesday, 23 December
Alex slid into the hire car and set off, joining the motorway and heading south. He reminded himself again that Liberty had somewhere to stay, she had food, and she’d assured him she was all right. But his thoughts kept returning to her.
As he joined the queue for the ferry.
As he gazed out at the turbulent, dark water.
As the car ate up hundreds of kilometres of motorway, heading south.
He knew he was lucky. He’d managed to get a car, and he’d booked himself onto one of the last ferry crossings before everything stopped. As long as he kept driving, he’d arrive at his mum’s house in plenty of time for the festivities. Others around the country would not be so fortunate: the French news reports were already filled with accounts of people stranded far from home.
Like Liberty.
He hated to think of her alone. She’d said she was fine, but he knew she was being brave. And no one should have to be brave at Christmas. No one should be alone. She must be missing Charlie, missing home. He thought of her cottage and the tree they’d decorated, which now had one solitary gift placed beneath it, waiting for her.
He pressed the accelerator pedal and urged the car to go a little faster.
‘Alex! You made it home in time,’ said his mother, when he finally arrived.
He kissed her, he shook Bernard’s hand, he answered their questions about the long journey he’d made.
They ushered him into the kitchen, a spacious room with a cosy, inviting feel. A bottle of red wine was open, and the smell of meat and garlic filled the air as his mother opened the oven.
‘Take your coat off and sit down,’ she said. ‘You’re just in time for dinner.’
She placed the casserole dish on the table and his stomach rumbled at the sight of the delicious-looking stew. It was tempting. After driving all night and most of the day he was stiff and his shoulder ached. A glass of wine and a good meal would have been perfect right now.
‘Sit, sit!’ his mum repeated.
‘Actually,’ he said heavily, ‘I can’t stay.’
She stopped. ‘What?’
‘I have to go.’
‘But you’ve only just arrived. And it’s Christmas Eve tomorrow.’ His mum stared at him.
Usually he was the one who brought everyone together, who made sure everything was organised and ready. He helped with wrapping last-minute gifts, preparing the food. Tomorrow morning his brothers would arrive with their partners and families and the festivities would begin. There’d be a family meal in the evening, followed by midnight mass.
‘I know. Which is why I have to go. This is important.’ He held her gaze. He’d turned this over and over in his mind all the way here; now he was certain of what he had to do.
She looked shocked. ‘More important than Christmas with your family?’
‘It’s a friend. She needs me.’
His mum and Bernard exchanged a glance. ‘Will you be back tomorrow?’
‘I can’t promise. I’m sorry.’
Liberty had the television on in the background while she cooked. If her brain heard the language, she’d thought, words and phrases might subliminally filter in and she’d learn French by osmosis.
It wasn’t working.
The newsreader was jabbering on about the strike, la grève, Liberty had understood that much, but she still didn’t know what had caused it or why the transport workers were protesting. She hadn’t understood the weather forecast either, but she’d seen the big yellow suns dotted across the map of south-eastern France so she knew it would continue to be cold and sunny, which was wonderful. The bold cobalt sky and bright sunlight were so uplifting, and her flat was well heated and cosy.
She flipped the potatoes over and checked the duck in the oven. Now she’d got over her initial shock, she was quite looking forward to spending Christmas in Provence. She’d begun work on what she’d nicknamed her Van Gogh quilt, hand-stitching crooked squares of wine red and sunset orange onto a deep blue background (and she could picture the glittery gold fabric in Evie’s shop that would finish it off perfectly).
The sharp ring of a doorbell interrupted her thoughts and made her jump.
She turned. It couldn’t be her door, surely. She knew no one here. Then again, perhaps it was the flat’s owner come to check on her. She switched off the hob and went to the living room window. Looking down, she saw the top of a dark head of hair – messy hair – and her heart jumped. She opened the window.
‘Alex?’ He looked up. Oh, that smile. Her spirits soared, and something unravelled in her. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
‘Just a minute.’
He laughed. ‘You’ve already adopted the French ways.’
‘Absolutely.’ She showed him into the apartment, then asked again, ‘Why are you here?’
His deep brown gaze met hers and held. ‘I didn’t like to think of you here alone for Christmas.’
Her heart sank. There it was again: pity.
Her pride didn’t like this. Didn’t like it one bit.
‘But what about your family? Aren’t they expecting you to be there tomorrow?’ Natasha had told her that Christmas Eve was when the celebrations began in France.
‘Let’s talk about that in a moment. Can I have a coffee? I’ve driven a long way.’
‘Of course. I was just cooking dinner. If you give me a minute I’ll put more potatoes on. There’ll be enough to share.’
‘Thanks. I’m starving.’
She showed him where the coffee was, then tipped frozen potato cubes into the frying pan and prepared a large bowl of salad. His unexpected arrival had sparked a flurry of emotions in her. She couldn’t believe he’d driven here, that he’d thought of her. She was so excited to see him. Like Charlie at the prospect of a walk, she was practically running round in circles. Calm down, Liberty, keep your cool.
‘How did you find me?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t give you the address.’
‘You said your flat was above a bookshop. In a village this size, it wasn’t difficult to find.’
She busied herself, getting plates and glasses, asking about his journey and the strike, all the time deliberately avoiding stopping and having to face him. How was she supposed to get over him now he was here, beside her? The night of the ball had made her realise how strong her attraction to him was, and although she was flattered that he’d come, she felt vulnerable too.
He didn’t feel the same way. He hadn’t come because he missed her, but because he felt sorry for her, alone in France at Christmas.