by Sarah Long
‘I know.’
Jane felt as if a great weight had been lilted from her chest. She thought about what Rupert had said, about the hardest thing being to know what you really want. Once you knew that, the rest was easy. She looked at Liberty’s trusting face staring up at her and realised that everything was going to work out. There was no longer any need for her to settle for the next best thing, no need to throw away her chance of happiness and claim it was all for Liberty’s sake.
She looked up at the departure board. There was a train to Paris leaving in thirty minutes. From Paris, it was three hours to Marseille by TGV, and then about an hour in a taxi. They could be there by nightfall.
‘I did wonder, Liberty,’ she said, ‘whether we might go and see Rupert. What do you think?’
She waited, hoping for a favourable reply. Although she realised that she had already made her decision.
‘I’d like that,’ said Liberty.
Rupert had just finished watering the pots on the terrace and was sitting down for some reheated pot au feu, though he had little appetite. After two weeks of waiting, he now had to face the truth. Jane wasn’t coming.
He tried to picture her at home. What was she doing now. Was she at her desk, or watching television, or sitting in her garden? The wallflowers would be out now, the first blaze of colour in her hot summer-bed. He steered away from imagining her with Will. Lydia had told him earlier they had been quite inseparable at the hospital, united by their concern for Liberty. He hadn’t wanted to hear about that. Jane had asked him not to call her until she had sorted things out, and he had respected that though it had been hard. And now she’d told him she was staying with Will. For all he knew they were enjoying a second honeymoon, you did hear that, couples becoming even stronger after an affair had ended.
An affair. The words were so cheap, so throwaway. He hadn’t told Lydia there was someone else, there was no point. He couldn’t have married her anyway, it would never have worked. His only regret was not ending it sooner, instead of dragging it out like the miserable coward he was. He still felt bad about doing it by phone, he had planned to go back to speak to her, but hadn’t trusted himself. Once in London, he knew he couldn’t have resisted finding Jane and begging her to change her mind, but that would have been unfair on her, and at least he could say he’d behaved honourably towards her, which was all that counted.
Soon he would be able to engage in his life here. People had been very kind, he’d had no end of dinner invitations, but he didn’t have the heart for it without Jane. A nice Icelandic couple in the village were particularly keen to rope him in for a Wagnerian blonde they had staying, but he had managed to keep them at bay so far.
It was getting dark and he could only make out the white roses against the dark mass of the borders. He picked up his plate and glass and was heading back to the house when he saw the headlights at the gate. His first thought was that it was the Icelanders, come to fetch him for dinner. If he won’t come to us, we’ll have to go to him, they must have said. He stood and watched; he could hardly pretend he wasn’t at home, you couldn’t get away with that down here. Someone was getting out and opening the gates, then the car door was slammed shut and it was coming up the drive towards him. It was a taxi, he saw that now.
He watched in disbelief as Jane opened the door and stepped out onto the drive, followed by a sleepy-looking Liberty. He’d imagined the scene so often, he couldn’t believe it was really happening. The driver was opening the boot, taking out Jane’s suitcase. She was walking towards him uncertainly, her arm round her daughter.
‘Is it still OK?’ she said, though she knew she didn’t need to ask. She had come home now.
He opened his arms and gripped them both in a clumsy embrace.
‘It’s more than OK,’ he said. ‘I was beginning to think you’d never make it. Come into the garden.’
