‘Don’t worry, I will.’ Then I watch as he puts their cases in the hold and helps her onto the coach. That’ll work out well. I know it will. I can feel it in my bones.
I stand on the pavement and wave madly at the coach until it’s out of sight. Then I look round at the streets of Paris, the little pavement cafés, the chi-chi shops and get a thrill of anticipation as I wonder where to start.
Chapter Ninety-Eight
I stay in Paris for two months and have a fantastic time. I watch the summer fade to the first signs of autumn and the leaves start to fall from the trees. The temperature falls steadily as we head towards winter and I buy a warmer jacket.
Every day I pound the streets, finding my way round this beautiful city. I might be footsore but I’m light in my heart. I move to a room I find on Airbnb that’s basic but clean. The house is perfectly located in the winding, cobbled streets of Montmartre, not far from the Sacré-Coeur. The landlady lets me use her kitchen and washing machine and it costs me less than twenty quid a night.
Montmartre is the place I love the most. It’s quite possibly the most unashamedly romantic part of Paris that has a fab, arty vibe. I love climbing the quiet stairways, peering down narrow alleyways onto ivy-clad houses and sitting at pavement cafés watching the world go by. Every day it’s thronging with tourists – like myself – and couples hand-in-hand. I won’t deny it, I do get a few pangs of longing, but not for Mason. When Charlie told him I wasn’t coming back, he called me every day for a week to beg me to reconsider. I never returned his calls. What do we have to say to each other?
No, the person I think the most about is Joe. He would love it here too and it would have been nice to come here with him for the romantic weekend that I never quite managed. I think about calling him and, once or twice, after too many glasses of vin rouge, I nearly do. But what would be the point? It didn’t work out there and there’s no good in thinking about what might have been.
I take in all the sights, eat in little cafés with surly staff and chic Parisian ladies. I learn a few passable phrases in halting French. I probably go to every single museum and art gallery in Paris. I take three trips to Versailles as I’m blown away by it. I buy a sketch book and pencils and have a go at drawing. I’m rubbish at it, but find it quite therapeutic. I sit wrapped up in the cool, autumn afternoons and try to capture my favourite landmarks. As a backup, I fill my phone with photos.
In the evenings, I relax in my room and read more than I’ve ever done in my life. I’d like to tell you that it’s French literature, but it’s not. I download cheap, chick-lit ebooks for my phone and find that I love them. I FaceTime Charlie every night before I go to sleep and tell her about my day.
I feel that I might be tempted to stay here for ever, but then, of course, my money does start to run out. I could look for a job in the gig economy but my heart’s not really in it. I want to be a tourist here, not an employee. Then, even worse, my dear Charlie begins to nag me to come home. She reminds me that I have Take That tickets waiting for me and I can’t miss that. I might even pine for my family a bit – although Mum has also FaceTimed me nearly every day too. Finally, when my landlord calls to tell me that he has a friend who’s looking for a place to rent if I’m not going to return to my granny annexe any time soon, I book a ticket on the Eurostar, pack up my things, say goodbye to Paris and head back to Costa del Keynes.
Chapter Ninety-Nine
I need to fast forward a bit. Another year, another new me. We’re in the grip of winter now. The mornings are freezing, the nights getting longer. My granny annexe is proving a bugger to heat. My car is even more reluctant to start. Nevertheless, I’m glad to be home.
When I came back from Paris, I dumped my stuff in the flat and cardboard cut-out Gary Barlow was still standing patiently in my bedroom. It was like I’ve never been away.
Except it sort of was, too. I’d changed. Something subtle inside me had shifted while I was giving the Paris pavements a good pounding. For the first time in a long while, it was just me in charge of my own destiny. Out there, I had no one to distract me or influence my thoughts. I think sitting at a pavement café for an hour or more every day watching the world go by with a glass of red and your own quiet thoughts is as good as any anti-depressant tablet you care to name. I thought about what I wanted from life and decided that, actually, I didn’t really want all that much. You might have assumed, not unreasonably, that I’d have a blinding flash of brilliance and come up with some cunning business plan that would make me a millionaire before next year. No such thing. Instead, I realised that I have no interest in opening a café on a canal boat or a funky florist’s shop or becoming an events planner. I’m glad that one successful fairy and unicorn party didn’t turn my head on that score. It was such bloody hard work and too much stress.
No, I came to appreciate that I’m pretty much happy where I am in life. My dreams don’t involve becoming an entrepreneur or emigrating and I’m kind of relieved. There’s so much pressure on everyone to achieve now – to get a bigger house, car, designer handbag. What this has all taught me is that I’m an OK person and, when it comes down to it, I’m quite content where I am. It would be nice to have a partner to share all that, but not at any cost. I look at where I am and I think that I appreciate it more. I’ve got a great family, some wonderful friends and Gary Barlow. What more can you want in life?
So now I’m working in a café in Stony Stratford, a nice little market town on the very edge of the urban sprawl of Costa del Keynes. It’s called Sweet Things and is very genteel here. I really enjoy it. The hours are much more civilised as we’re only open from eight until five, so I have all my evenings free. Not that I do very much with them, but I could if I wanted to. The boss is really nice, an older lady called Florence who’s never likely to try to put her hands down my pants – so that’s all good as well.
Smoothing down my apron printed with pink cupcakes, I clear the tables. The café’s all pink and gingham and flowery bunting with a bit of kitsch retro thrown in. The atmosphere is bright and sunny, as is my outlook on life. We serve fabulous homemade food to the good folk of Stony – fresh sandwiches, fantastic cakes. Being the antithesis of Mary Berry, I have nothing to do with baking the cakes we serve, obvs, but I do a lot of eating them and our good reputation is well deserved.
It’s Saturday and, as usual, we’ve been busy all morning and I haven’t really had time to turn round. Fortunately for me, I got the job the week I came back from Paris so my finances didn’t suffer too much. There’s not much – nothing – left for emergencies, but I’m slowing building my savings up again.
I haven’t heard from Mason at all and I haven’t ventured near the Butcher’s Arms or his club. They’re strictly out of bounds now. I heard through the grapevine that his father had sold off his chain of pubs and clubs for an absolute fortune and I did think about calling Mason to see how that had affected him. A second later, I thought better of it. Then I bumped into Ben the barman and he told me that he’d heard that Mason had bought a beach bar in Antigua. I wonder if that’s Mason trying to fulfil his dreams too. I don’t know. If it is, there was a time I would have been quite happy to go with him. Fool that I was.
Still, the other good news is that Charlie is working here too. She rushed from the Butcher’s Arms as soon as another vacancy came up here and it’s nice that we’ve still got each other for company. We miss our bench at the pub, but nothing much else about it. Here, as soon as our boss goes out, we change her choice of mellow music featuring Jack Johnson and Lana Del Rey to Take That. It’s the only vaguely rebellious thing we do and our customers never seem to mind.
You’ll be pleased to know that Charlie’s still with Nice Paul and it’s all going swimmingly there. Thank goodness. There’s even tentative talk about them moving in together. I know! I do hope so as they seem very happy. I spent Christmas holed up with my parents, eating too much and watching rubbish telly, then let my hair down with Charlie and Paul at New Y
ear. I was both melancholy and optimistic. Last year was quite the year. My annus horribilis. Well, parts of it. At midnight, as everyone was dancing and celebrating around us, I did think about ringing Joe and wishing him all the best for the coming year, but I didn’t. Probably just as well.
My social life isn’t exactly a giddy whirl, but I’m cool with that too. I mainly hang out with Charlie and Paul. They’re kind and treat me gently. We all go to Take That concerts and sundry events together and that’s the only threesome you’ll find me in these days.
‘What’s that dreamy look on your face for?’ Charlie asks as she scrapes leftover sandwich into the bin.
‘Nothing. Just thinking.’
‘Flo’s nipped out for an hour. Get that music changed over, chummie,’ she instructs. ‘Let’s have a bit of the lads to get us in the mood.’
‘For what?’
‘Life,’ Charlie says over her shoulder as she goes off to find more bread.
I change the music as instructed rather than face Charlie’s wrath and go old skool with a playlist of their greatest hits. ‘Patience’ drifts out over the café – one of my favourites.
Singing along, I take a J-cloth to wipe down the tables during a momentary lull. As I’m leaning over table two trying to eradicate a particularly sticky patch of jam that a messy toddler has smeared into every crevice, the doorbell sounds and I wonder if we’re in for another onslaught that will take us through to the lunch rush.
When I turn round, Joe and the kids are standing there.
Chapter One Hundred
The sight of Joe, in our little café, as large as life, momentarily takes my breath away. He freezes too and we both stare at each other.
My heart clearly recognises him as well as it sets up an erratic and all-too-fast beat. They’re all wrapped up against the cold, cheeks pinched to pink by the wind. Joe’s in a dark jacket and gloves, his curls hidden by a beanie hat.
If he’s even thinking about retreating, then he can’t now. He’s trapped.
‘Ruby!’ Daisy shouts and comes to hug me.
I squeeze her back. ‘You are looking fab-u-lous,’ I tell her.
‘We miss you,’ she says. ‘I want another unicorn and fairy party.’
‘That was fun, wasn’t it?’
‘The coolest! All the girls still talk about it.’ She unwraps her long stripy scarf and slides into one of the seats. ‘Mummy told us the cakes here were amazing, but we’ve never been before.’
At the mention of her mother my throat closes tightly. Perhaps she’s left her boyfriend and is back in the family home once again, in Joe’s bed. I try not to think of it.
Tom raises a hand in greeting. ‘Hey.’
‘Hi, Tom. How are you doing?’
He shrugs. ‘OK.’
‘Ever get your bike back?’
‘Nah,’ he says. ‘The case goes to court soon though.’
It seems like a lifetime ago that all that happened, but I also remember it as if it was yesterday. That was the first night that Joe and I spent together. The only one, too, as it turned out. ‘I hope it goes well.’
Then, clearly taxed by so much conversation, Tom goes back to studying his phone.
I can feel Joe’s eyes on me and, when I regain my composure, I say as calmly as I can manage, ‘Hi, Joe. This is an unexpected surprise. It’s good to see you all.’
Joe looks as if he’s struggling to find words too, but eventually comes up with, ‘I had no idea you were working here.’
‘I’ve been here a little while now,’ I tell him. ‘I left the pub ages ago.’ I risk a wry smile. ‘It’s much less … complicated … here.’
‘Ah,’ he says and I hope that means he understands that I’m no longer with Mason either.
I’d like to tell him that I ‘found’ myself in Paris – but that sounds too ridiculous for words – that I’m a different person now, that I’m happy, that I’ve stopped bouncing around like a bloody rubber ball, that I might have found out what contentment is. I have to accept, though, that he might not be the slightest bit interested in my revelation.
Pulling off his beanie hat, he stands there looking dishevelled. He tries to ruffle his hair into some kind of tidiness and fails. I’ve never seen him look more handsome.
‘Take a seat,’ I say, brightly, as they strip off their coats. I whip them away and, as I hang them up, I’m sure I can feel Joe’s eyes following me, but it could be my imagination. ‘I’ll bring some menus over.’ Which I do in my most professional manner, despite the fact that my knees are shaking. I even manage to reel off the specials with a flourish. ‘I’ll come back in a moment to take your order.’
Then I bolt into the kitchen, close the door and lean heavily against it. ‘Fuckfuckfuck.’
Charlie looks round. ‘What?’
Usually such expletives are preceded by the smash of breaking crockery as one of Flo’s favourite cups or plates accidentally hits the decks.
‘It’s him,’ I hiss.
Charlie’s eyes go round. ‘Mason?’
‘No, no, no!’ I wouldn’t have heart palpitations like this if it were Mason Soames. ‘It’s Joe. He’s here with the kids. What shall I say? What shall I do?’
‘Nothing,’ Charlie says. ‘Be cool. Be calm.’
Hyperventilating, I shove my pad at her. ‘You go and take their order.’
‘No.’ She holds up a hand.
‘I can’t do it. I can’t.’
‘Grow some,’ she growls.
‘I’ll love you for ever.’ I’m not adverse to a bit of begging.
‘Get out there, Ruby Brown. Don’t be a wimp. He’s just a bloke.’
‘But he’s a bloke that I really, really liked once – maybe loved – and I blew it.’
‘Be lovely, then. Make him realise what he’s missing.’
I mutter, ‘Fuckfuckfuck’ again and then turn and go out into the café, pad poised in hand. This is excruciatingly painful. I glide over to the table and pin on my most friendly smile. ‘Now, what can I get for you?’
They reel off their order and I jot it down with shaky fingers. Then I hurry it back to the kitchen for Charlie to make up as I’m in total bits and can’t concentrate.
Chapter One Hundred and One
I stand over Charlie while she prepares their order so that she gets it absolutely right. Which kind of annoys her.
She waves her knife at me. ‘Sure you don’t want to do this yourself?’
‘No, no, no. I just need to know it’s perfect.’
She tuts at me, but doesn’t stab me, so she can’t be too cross. I watch her butter the bread, make sure the fillings are exactly right. I don’t want Joe and the kids to have found me in this café and then for the experience to come up wanting, do I? I don’t. Trust me on that.
They’re laughing together at the table when I deliver their sandwiches and jacket potatoes. I try not to make too much eye contact with Joe. I’ve found that it’s never a good idea to slaver all over your customers. However, he is looking particularly handsome today. I think I might have mentioned that already. Yet he can’t have got any more gorgeous in just a few months, can he?
Scuttling back to the counter, I try to make myself look busy while watching them all having a lovely time together. They’re a nice family and it would have been great to have been a part of that, but it wasn’t to be. I wonder if Gina is still with her new man. I’m guessing as she’s not here with them that perhaps she isn’t back at home again. Or maybe that’s blind hope. Was Joe wearing a wedding ring? I didn’t think to look.
Charlie comes and leans on the counter next to me. ‘Stop staring.’
‘I’m not staring.’
‘Yeah? And I’m not fat and nearly forty.’
‘Am I staring?’ I straighten up.
‘Yes, you’ve gone all googly-eyed and wistful.’
I make myself avert my eyes and lower my voice. ‘I think he might well be The One That Got Away.’
‘Really?’
I nod.
‘Boo,’ Charlie says. ‘That sucks.’
‘Big time.’ I don’t think that Charlie fully grasps the gravity of my situation. I feel that I might wander the earth for the rest of my days and never find another man like Joe.
She puts her arm round me and squeezes. ‘Do you want some cake to salve your broken heart?’
‘Nah. I’m good. We could drown my sorrows in wine later though.’
‘Sounds like a plan. Paul’s knocking together some Chinese food for dinner. We’ve got a film downloaded ready to roll. Can’t remember what. Want to come over?’
‘Please.’ Nice Paul cooks too. Charlie’s certainly hit the jackpot there.
Surreptitiously, we watch Joe for a bit longer. Then Charlie purses her lips and whispers, ‘He does keep looking over here at you, though.’
‘Does he?’ That makes me brighten up, before I think, ‘Maybe he simply wants more tea or something and is trying to catch my eye.’ This is a café and I am a waitress, after all. I nudge her in the ribs. ‘You go and check.’
‘Don’t make me do your dirty work. You should go.’
‘I can’t,’ I say. ‘My poor troubled heart couldn’t stand it.’
‘Drama queen,’ she mutters. Nevertheless, Charlie goes over to them and chats as she clears the plates.
She breezes past me into the kitchen. ‘No more drinks. But they’re coming to get some cake. Can you cope with that?’
‘No!’ I hiss. Yet before I can dive into the kitchen to escape, the three of them troop up to the counter where our dazzling range of cakes are displayed.
Our star cakes today include a lemon meringue pie with a white topping that looks like a fluffy duvet, our usual carrot cake that’s the talk of the town, a four-layered, rainbow-speckled sponge, layered with cream and blueberry jam and, my own personal favourite, lemon drizzle.
Million Love Songs Page 31