She looks back at me with a piercing look. ‘You want to know what I think is romantic?’ Maude asks, standing up and walking over to a dark wooden bureau in the corner of the room. She opens one of the drawers and pulls out a faded blue journal, holding it up and tapping it with the other hand.
‘Six years ago, when June was first diagnosed, she came to me and asked for my help with something. She wanted me to write down some memories of her life with Keith – trips they took together, jokes they shared, the bricks of experiences that make up a life together.’ Maude looks down at the book in her hands. ‘She wanted to have it all written down, so that when she goes, I can give it to Keith, and the final words he hears of hers will not be the words of a woman who does not know him.’
Maude pinches her lips together, her eyes watery, and I have to bite my lip too.
‘Why am I telling you this?’ Maude asks with a frown, and it sounds like a genuine question, as though she has forgotten. ‘Ah yes, we were talking about love and romance. Well, to me, this is love. On the day she was given this terrible diagnosis, the first thing June thought to do was to try to make it easier for Keith. And you know, most of the memories written in here, they aren’t the grand gestures or expensive holidays; they are hill walking in Wales, memorable meals they shared, taking their son swimming in the sea for the first time, the way Keith always positioned her slippers by the bed, so she wouldn’t get cold toes in the night.’
Maude takes a moment to compose herself before stowing the journal carefully back in the bureau. ‘I think sometimes your generation gets caught up in the wrapping paper of love.’ Maude makes a low hum. ‘This suitcase story you’ve got Jasper so excited about – he’s very trusting, don’t let him get too carried away until you know him a little better.’
A heat rises up my neck, like she somehow knows that I was kissing another man less than two hours ago.
‘Do you think it’s possible to find love again, after you’ve been married for a long time?’ I ask.
Maude gives a small smile.
‘The human heart is like a flowerbed, Laura. Once the first blooms die, there’s room enough for something else to grow, but it will never be quite the same as that first flower, the initial thrill of seeing what your heart is capable of.’
Maude allows me to take pictures of her recipes with my phone. While I have it in my hand, I show her some of the photos of my trip – the pictures I have tried to recreate from my mother’s album. She flicks through the photos of me with the cow, the beach at Rozel, the clifftop and Plémont headland, then she pauses, taking my phone and putting on her glasses to look more closely.
‘What’s this one, dear? Is that my coat alcove?’
‘Er …’
‘There you are,’ says Jasper, walking in at just the right moment. ‘Are you ready to cut the cake, Mum?’
After the party, Jasper offers to drive me home, but his sisters are leaving in a few hours, and they clearly want to spend time with him, so I insist on making my own way back to L’Étacq.
‘Thank you for inviting me today. I so enjoyed meeting everyone,’ I say, as we stand together on Maude’s doorstep.
‘My sisters can be intense,’ he says, pulling his mouth into a wide grimace. ‘My mother’s neighbour, old Mrs Harvey, said to me, “Don’t screw this one up, Jasper, she’s a beauty.”’
He takes my hand, and I accept the compliment with a smile.
‘Are you sure you can’t stay?’ he asks.
‘I’m afraid I must do some work. I’m going to change my flight, stay a few more days.’
‘Well, that is good news,’ he says, reaching forward to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
‘Listen, I have a favour to ask you,’ I say sweetly, feeling my body tense in anticipation. ‘I was on the phone to my boss earlier, and I happened to mention you and how we met and, well—’
‘She loved it?’ Jasper finishes my sentence.
‘Yes,’ I grimace guiltily.
‘She wants you to write about it?’
‘Kind of. I know, it’s a bit much—’
‘Laura, I get it, it’s a great story. Love at first luggage.’ Jasper moves his hand through the air, as though envisaging the words on a billboard somewhere. Why does everyone keep using that line?
‘The thing is, my boss got slightly over-excited – she wants to do a photo shoot…’ I pause, checking his face isn’t reading ‘horrified’. It isn’t. ‘I know it’s all a bit nuts, but it would just be a few pictures to go with the article …’
‘Do they want a shot of me getting down on one knee or something?’ he asks. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but I shake my head nervously anyway.
‘No, no, nothing like that, just a few photos of the suitcase, of us together – they want to do it on Monday.’
I pull my shoulders up around my ears, making what I imagine to be the facial expression of someone who’s spent ages twiddling light bulbs on the Christmas tree to find the one loose connection, and now they’re about to turn the power back on, to see if they’ve done enough to make it work.
Jasper reaches out to put a hand on each of my shoulders.
‘Whatever you need, Laura, it’s not a problem for me.’
‘Thank you, Jasper. I wouldn’t want you to feel awkward, I can always tell her no if you’d rather not …’
‘Listen, I’ll be honest with you. I’ve been ready to meet someone for a while now. I’ve just turned thirty, I’ve got a great business, a beautiful house that’s too big for me, I’m going to need a Mrs Contessa Kitchens at some point, perhaps some Baby Contessa Kitchens, too.’ He grins, closes his eyes, then when he opens them, he says, ‘When you knocked on my door – Well, let’s just say I wasn’t sure I believed in love at first sight until yesterday …’
Wow, this is intense. The mention of Baby Contessa Kitchens just made my palms start to sweat. My mouth emits a high-pitched humming sound. But I can hardly berate the guy for getting ahead of himself when I’ve just asked him to do a Hello-style photo shoot with me.
‘That is so sweet, Jasper, but um,’ I swallow, my mouth dry, Maude’s words of warning heavy on my mind. ‘We have lots of time to get to know each other better, especially if you come to London sometimes. I wouldn’t want to put too much pressure on something that’s just beginning.’
‘Sure, I know. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
Jasper’s face contorts with boyish embarrassment and he scuffs his shoe against the concrete step. Now I feel terrible that I’ve made him regret his lovely, romantic words. Isn’t this exactly what I’d hoped to hear? Wasn’t I the one telling everyone yesterday that I thought I’d love him before I’d even met him? Dee’s words ring in my ears, about how I sabotage things, so I lean in to kiss him, determined not to let myself ruin this.
He pulls me gently into his arms and kisses me back. His lips are comforting and firm. It’s a good kiss, definitely an enjoyable experience, and I try to push all comparisons with Ted’s beach kiss from my mind.
When the kiss eventually ends, my mind feels exhausted from the pressure of trying to think the right thoughts, rather than the unhelpful ones.
‘So, I was thinking,’ Jasper says, holding me gently by both shoulders. ‘Perhaps we could do the photo shoot in one of my kitchens?’
‘Oh?’ I say, wondering how Suki would feel about that.
‘I think the Malala would convey the right atmosphere, don’t you?’
Tiger Woman on Self-Reliance
Tigers are solitary creatures; they hunt alone, they sleep alone, they furnish their own needs. Do not look for another animal to make you feel whole. You are not someone’s ‘other half’, you are not half of anything; you are perfect, you are entire, you are complete just as you are.
Chapter 25
It is six o’clock by the time I get back to Sans Ennui. All the lights are off in the house, and I walk down towards the cottage wanting nothing but an early night and my laptop. Th
en I see the outside light on at Sandy’s. She’s sitting on her patio with Gerry, Scamp snoozing on her lap.
‘Laura!’ she calls. ‘Get over here.’
I clamber over the wall, pleased to see them, despite the siren call of solitude.
‘I thought you’d gone this morning, Gerry?’
‘I made a break for freedom,’ he says with a wry smile, but there’s a sadness in his eyes.
‘He rang me this afternoon, saying he needed to see the sea one last time,’ says Sandy, shaking her head. ‘As if he’s moved to the flipping Sahara or something rather than ten minutes up the road. You won’t get to like it if you don’t give it a chance, you old pickle.’
‘They said I’d have a sea view from my room, but I can’t see a speck of water. I won’t be able to sleep without the sound of it.’
‘Didn’t Ted make you a CD of sea sounds?’ asks Sandy.
‘Not the same.’ Gerry sighs.
‘Speaking of Ted, have either of you seen him this afternoon?’ I ask, in my best ‘casual enquiry’ voice. Sandy gives me a knowing look. ‘I see his car’s not back?’
‘Probably picking up fares – it’s where he goes when he doesn’t know what to do with himself,’ says Sandy, raising both eyebrows and slowly nodding.
‘I gave him the letter,’ I tell Gerry.
‘Ah,’ Gerry says, and bows forward in his chair.
‘What letter?’ Sandy asks, eyes darting between us.
Gerry and I explain about Belinda’s letter.
‘And now I’ve given it to him, and he’s gone,’ I say mournfully.
‘He won’t have gone far,’ says Sandy, reaching out to squeeze my arm. ‘He’ll call her; he’ll want to get the divorce rolling now. I don’t know what planet Belinda was on, thinking she could just dance off into her hippy dippy sunset and ignore all the gritty details of a separation.’ Sandy sounds angry.
‘He’s going to think I hid that letter from him,’ says Gerry, pressing his palms against the sides of his head.
‘Yeah, he’s definitely not going to pay up for that sea view now,’ Sandy says, and then she and Gerry start giggling like children.
‘Hey, this is serious,’ I say, looking between them. ‘Who knows where he’s gone?’
Sandy narrows her eyes at me.
‘How was your day with Mr Suitcase Man? I saw the red sports car this morning – very fancy.’
Ted was right about living on a small island, no keeping secrets.
‘Fine,’ I say, flustered. ‘I’m just worried about Ted, as a friend.’
‘We all are,’ says Sandy.
We sit in silence for a moment, all looking out to sea, and I breathe in the quiet.
‘That watery horizon is a spirit level for the soul,’ says Gerry. ‘When you look at it for long enough, it puts life straight again.’
In that moment, I know exactly what he means, and I don’t know how I’ve stayed in the city so long, where there’s no chance for recalibration, no clean horizon to level you. Even with all the emotion this trip has thrown up, there’s something about watching the ocean that puts everything into perspective. Maybe Jersey is rubbing off on me; I don’t think I’ve even checked my phone for the last— Hang on, where is my phone? I pat down my pocket, and search through my bag.
‘Oh no. I think I’ve lost my phone.’
‘Did you leave it at Mr Sports Car’s house?’ asks Sandy, tapping a finger against her chin.
‘Probably,’ I sigh. ‘This is a disaster.’
‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,’ says Gerry, tipping his head backwards and looking up at the sky.
‘Well, it is. If my boss can’t get hold of me—’
‘Oh, I meant to tell you, the Wi-Fi’s down,’ says Sandy. ‘There’s some glitch across the whole of St Ouen’s, should be back on in an hour or two.’
‘What?’ I cry, horrified. ‘I can’t be offline.’ As I say it, I hear how pathetic I sound. I’m not a doctor on call or a politician running the country. Then I think of my argument with Dee, the need to amend my flight, the fact that Dionne and Saul are coming here on Monday – the constant nagging feeling that I have a thousand phone calls I should be making.
‘You can use my phone, if there’s anything urgent?’ Sandy offers.
‘Do you know what happens when you don’t have your phone?’ Gerry asks, and I look at him, waiting for an answer. ‘Life.’
‘Alright, Yoda,’ says Sandy.
‘Yes, “live for today” is all very well until I lose my job and can’t pay the rent,’ I tell him.
‘Someone sparky like you?’ Gerry gives me a wink. ‘You’d find a way.’ Then he bows his head and presses his papery-skinned hands together in prayer. ‘There is an old proverb: he who fears to suffer, suffers from fear.’
‘Oh no,’ Sandy says, covering her eyes, ‘you’ve unleashed the proverbial Gerry.’
‘Man who waits for roast duck to fly into his mouth must wait very very long time,’ says Gerry.
‘He’ll just keep spouting proverbs at you until you beg him to stop,’ says Sandy. ‘He has proverbs for every occasion, mainly from cheap Christmas crackers by the sound of them.’
‘Fear blows wind into your sails—’
‘OK, she gets it,’ Sandy says, standing up and putting both hands gently around Gerry’s neck, pretending to throttle him. This makes Gerry stop his guru impression and wrinkle his nose into a silent laugh. I smile at them, cheered up by their jokes, but the conversation does make me pause to think. Would it be so terrible if I lost my job? If I didn’t have the familiar routine? But then the thought makes me feel a bit sick and panicky, so I ask Sandy if I can bring my laptop over and hotspot off her mobile, just to get through my most urgent tasks.
Sandy goes to make a pot of herbal tea, and she and Gerry carry on chatting as I sit beside them tapping away on my keyboard and making calls from Sandy’s mobile. I change my flight, email work with an update, giving them Sandy’s phone number and the address at Sans Ennui in case of emergencies. I call Maude from Sandy’s phone, asking if she’s seen my mobile at her house; she hasn’t but gives me Jasper’s home number. I call him and it goes to answerphone, so I leave a message explaining the situation, asking if we can meet for lunch at his place tomorrow.
Gerry and Sandy, who have been subjected to hearing all my logistical arrangements, both pretend to yawn at how boring I’m being.
‘It’s a wonder the human race survived as long as it did without mobile telephones, isn’t it?’ Gerry says, pushing his neck back against his collar.
‘You are king of the Luddites, Gerry,’ says Sandy. Then turns to me and says, ‘He was opposed to the wheel when that came in too.’
‘Terrible, newfangled round things,’ says Gerry in mock disgust.
Taking the hint, I shut my laptop, give Sandy back her phone, and finally give them both my full attention. I know they are only teasing me, but now I feel rude to have disturbed their peaceful evening. As we drink tea, they share stories about the island and its history, what happened here during the war. Gerry tells me about the Occupation, how the Nazis used forced labour to build most of the tunnels and sea defences still visible around the island. A few of these prisoners escaped and were sheltered by local families who risked their lives to help them. He tells me his mother and grandmother hid a starving Ukrainian in the eaves of Sans Ennui for more than a month. ‘He was called Avel and he loved birds; he left scratched drawings of starlings and seagulls in the beams of the loft, and you can just about make them out if you crawl up into the rafters.’
‘Oh, you must tell that story to whoever buys your house,’ I say, ‘otherwise it will be lost and no one will even know the drawings are there – that’s a part of history.’
‘A lot of history gets lost,’ Gerry says sombrely.
We move on to talk of cheerier things, and I absorb their words and stories like warmth from a campfire. Sandy kindly suggests I borrow her bike over the next few days
if I want to get around independently. Eventually she stands up and says, ‘Right, Gerry, I should be getting you back or they won’t let me take you out again. Strict curfew, they said.’
‘Rules are there to be broken,’ Gerry replies.
‘Not by me.’ She stands up and holds out an arm to help Gerry to his feet.
‘Do you think Ted’s OK then?’ I can’t help asking for a final time. I wonder if he’s tried to call me.
‘He’ll be back, Laura,’ says Sandy.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because he shaved that beard off, didn’t he?’ she says with a wink. ‘I know what that means, even if you don’t.’
Before I can ask her what she thinks it means, she’s helping Gerry over to her car, and Ilídio appears from across the road, wiping his hands on a rag. He must have been in the workshop.
‘You boomeranged back here already, Gerry?’ he says.
‘Yes, and I’ll be back in a few days to check you’re doing your cabinet joints the way I taught you, young man,’ Gerry says, waving a finger at Ilídio, contorting his face into a pretend scowl. Ilídio laughs.
Once Sandy and Gerry have driven away, I ask Ilídio, ‘How’s my commission coming along?’
‘Come and see,’ he says, beckoning me to follow him back across the road to the workshop.
He shows me the bare bones of what he has made, and I feel excited about how it’s going to look, how much I hope Ted will like it.
Looking over at the window, I wander across to the workbench where the soldering iron stands, running my hand across the pockmarked wood, covered in scratches and imprints from tools. How many things must have been created here over the years. The creations of Mum’s I loved the most were the necklaces she made from soldering together solitary earrings that had been bereft of their other halves. This gnarled workbench makes me think of her – of the hours she committed to breathing new life into lonely old stones.
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