‘Well, anyone who thinks that simply doesn’t deserve you.’ My words hang in the air until we stop outside the hotel.
Olivier turns to me and cups my face in his hands. ‘I don’t care about anyone else. Tonight has been the most perfect evening and I’ll always have it to remember. I don’t care if I never meet another woman again.’
Pressure builds inside of me. I know exactly what he means. I’ve been fine on my own for so many years that I know I’ll be fine once I’m home, but something about this experience has changed me. It’s like a button has been flipped in my head and while I know I’ll be okay all alone, I don’t want to be. His eyes bore into mine, hypnotic blue, powerful and encompassing. ‘It’s the perfect weekend and we’ll always share our memories,’ I say.
He places a gentle kiss on my lips, sending a surge through me. The familiar smell of his skin is magnetic, and I pull him closer. The lights from nearby buildings cast romantic background lighting and the moment is so perfect my chest heaves and moisture fills my eyes.
We walk back to the hotel in silence. Olivier has his arm around my shoulders and I’m tucked cosily into the nook of his arm. We bypass the bar and head straight up to the room and out onto the balcony. I lean on the rail, looking right, towards the tower, and Olivier snuggles up behind me, placing his arms either side of mine. I hadn’t noticed before just how strong his upper arms are. Such safe arms to be wrapped in. But they won’t be there when I fall.
The breeze sends a shiver through me, and goose bumps rise on my bare arms. Olivier presses his warm body against mine, shielding me from the cold. He runs his hand up my arm, but it has an adverse effect on my goose bumps and more seem to arise. He kisses my neck softly, working his way up from my collarbone, making them worse, and soon his hands are on my hips, pulling me closer. I throw my head back, enjoying every one of his delicious kisses until I can take no more and turn around to kiss him back. I manoeuvre him back towards the patio doors and into the room and start to unbutton his shirt, running my hands over the soft hair on his chest when it falls open. He places his hands on my outer thighs, beneath the hem of my sundress, and glides them up to my hips, kissing me as he does.
I push him down onto the bed and watch him as he looks at me in a way I’ve never seen before. His blue eyes are fixed on me but narrowed slightly, and his head is tilted to the side. It gives me a surge of confidence and, caught in the moment, I slip my dress off over my head, and stand there in just my underwear. His eyes drink me in, his lips falling apart slightly as he reaches for my hand and pulls me into his lap. His huge hands cup my bottom as he kisses me intensely, then he stands up and turns around, laying me down on my back. In that moment, I stare up at him, willing him to come to me.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
I bite my lip and tug the waistband of his trousers, pulling him down to meet me. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
Chapter Thirty-One
We’re standing on the platform and I can’t believe it’s time to say goodbye. After last night, it feels wrong, like it shouldn’t have to happen. This thing between us has now been cemented and our bond feels too strong to break.
After we’d made love, I’d fallen asleep in the safety of his arms and that’s where I’d woken up this morning, but the dream is now over and relishing the warmth and safety of being in his arms this morning was the last sweet drop of it.
Leaving him now we’re at the train station feels akin to tearing off a limb and casting it aside for the sheer hell of it. The point of leaving feels lost, and while I know I’m going home for my son, I’m not going home to my son. Perhaps if I knew Olivier better, I could justify some toing and froing to France, but the fact of the matter is, it’s been just four weeks. The rational-thinking side of my brain is vying for a promotion.
Olivier’s blue eyes are rinsed with sadness and a deep V forms a crevice between his eyebrows, mirroring the pain inside me. He wraps me tightly in a hug and I crumble into him. His strong arms support me, keeping me upright. His head is resting on mine and as he pulls away to look at me, I feel dampness where his cheek had been. It’s enough to send a torrent of emotion surging through me and tears sprout from my own eyes. Once they start flowing, I can’t stop them.
‘This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.’ My words come out broken between sobs. My floodgates are open and Olivier is the dam. Without him, I’ll never be able to stem the flow of sadness.
‘I know,’ he whispers. ‘Me too.’ He kisses me on the head and holds me silently for a little while longer as more and more people start to mill around the platform. My chest thunders as it gets closer to departure time and I search and scour my head for a better plan, but Mrs Rational-Thinking has left me in the lurch.
‘Why does doing the right thing feel so wrong?’ I say. He looks down directly into my eyes, and I can see his pain so vividly that I’m not sure if it’s mine or his I feel puncturing my chest – or both.
His body sags. It’s just an impossible situation. ‘Your being here has brought a light into my life that hasn’t been there in a long time.’
I have no words for that. My heart is tight and painful. It’s been wrung out and the saggy, empty shell of it rests somewhere low in my stomach. There’s no cure other than time. He steps forward and leans in, placing his soft lips on mine. They’re salty and moist with the meld of our tears. He kisses me slowly and I respond, letting the pain dissolve for just one more moment. The crowds around us become a blur of noise and colour that begins to fade out the longer the kiss goes on. I allow myself to float in the moment one last time before the burdens of shopping and buses takes me back to reality. Warmth fills my veins and creeps across my skin and nothing can take away the memory of being in this right now.
Most of the people are on the train now and there is just one minute until departure. ‘I have to go.’ I’m not quite able to believe I’ve said the words. Concrete fills my cavities and the warmth lifts, leaving no imprint, just its numb residue. It feels too soon.
He nods in agreement, bowing his head to the floor. I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and he whispers his goodbye. It still doesn’t feel real as I tear myself away and go to the train door.
‘Cath, wait,’ he says. I turn to look at him. ‘Don’t go. You don’t have to. Stay, and let’s work things out.’
With one foot on the step, I want to run back and throw my body onto his. I want to wrap my arms and legs around him and smother him in kisses and never leave him. Instead, I blow him a single kiss allowing my lips to linger on my fingers for a moment as though that would enable me to pack in everything I feel for him. My heart tears in two as I pull myself through the train doors and find my seat on autopilot. I’m on the platform side of the station and as I go through the motions of stowing my coat and case, I can feel him watching me. I can’t look.
Once I’m in my seat, I throw my head in my hands. I must look a puffy mess but I’m finding it hard to care. I’m going back to my life. The life I’ve always been content with, I tell myself. The train rumbles to life and I steal a glance outside. He’s standing there looking forlorn and my heart aches for him too. I know he’ll meet someone – he just needs to let them in and now he’s tried it with me, he’ll have no trouble doing it again. That brings me some comfort – he deserves to be happy. I will be again too, once things are back to normal. I just need some time to transform myself into a shape that fits perfectly back into my old life.
Slowly, the train pulls away, tearing an invisible tether from my chest. He’s gone in a flash. Just like that – ending a summer to remember and one I now need to forget.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When I turn the key and cross the threshold of my house, everything is normal. The smells of my life waft from the carpet fibres and curtains. The faint smell of the lino flooring in the kitchen and the slightly damp smell near the soggy plaster by the front door are all equally familiar, but som
ething is off. The house feels smaller but that isn’t it. It feels empty. I know if I speak my voice will echo because with Kieran and Gary gone, there is little life left in the place to absorb the vibrations. Quietly, I say ‘hello’, knowing that nobody is there to answer and knowing that it will sound hollow. It does.
After dumping my bags on my bed, I go to wash the travel grime from my face and notice the mirror in the bathroom. Gary has done a good job. I smile, hoping it’s a sign he’s turned himself around. Back in the bedroom, I flick the TV on for background noise, and David the weatherman is on so I ignore my unpacking and sit down to see what he has in store for me. ‘Rain,’ he says. Something about a big band coming in from the Atlantic. Typical. My mind is thrown back to my last run-in with the Atlantic and a single tear rolls down my cheek as I remember the day at Le Touquet. The tear is salty and it stings my sun-weathered skin but I don’t wipe it away. I want to feel something because otherwise, I’ll feel nothing. Like this house, I’ll be a hollow shell.
As I watch David, I notice things about him I hadn’t before. He doesn’t look as much like Olivier as I’d thought – he’s all polished and shiny. The thick TV make-up gives him a weird ‘too perfect’ look at first glance. But if you really look, his hair is thinning on top and his nose is a funny shape. He does a weird mouth-closed smile where one corner turns down instead of up. I used to think it was sexy, but now I wonder if it would be safe to be near him in a dark alley.
My phone pings and I jump. It’s Kieran.
Are you home? Hope you had a good trip. Can’t make it back this weekend because there’s a fancy-dress ale trail thing. Sorry. xx
My upper body sags. I’ll have to get used to this.
Once everything is neatly back in my wardrobe I go downstairs, expecting it to need a good clean, but the place is spotless. I know Gary won’t apologise for the things he said. When I next see him, he’ll be chipper and friendly like nothing ever happened. Cleaning the house is his way of saying sorry and thank you and everything else he should have said, and I accept that.
The next morning, I go through my routine. Shower, breakfast and coffee. Why? The word pops into my head. Why did I shower? Why put make-up on and style my hair? Why did I make sure my T-shirt hung right over my jeans? I probably won’t see another person today unless I go to the shop. I’ll see another person at work tomorrow, but I have a uniform for that. I let out a humourless laugh for nobody’s benefit when I realise that I could probably give nearly all my clothes to charity now and be largely unaffected.
The trouble is, I’ve been spoilt. I was perfectly happy with my life until I had the taste of something different and now I want more. Like a child who plays at their friend’s house and thinks their friend’s toys are better and their own boring. Is it so wrong to want more from life? Is it so wrong to realise I want more at this stage in my life? I don’t know the answer, but I do know things won’t ever feel the same again.
‘Pull yourself together, woman; live for the now.’ For some reason, Martha’s voice fills my head and the words ring true. I can sit here and wallow in self-pity, or I can get out there and live; otherwise, what is this all for? My great-grandfather’s words echo now. Without wasting a second unpacking, I grab my phone and start looking for local language classes. Bingo. There’s a French class on a Wednesday evening that I can sign up to now. I take my bank card and enrol before I have the chance to talk myself out of it. I could even do a cookery class – the world is my oyster. I’ll learn a skill, meet people … Why haven’t I done this before?
Once I’ve finished, I pick up the keys and rub my new Eiffel Tower key ring gently with my thumb. Who knows – after opening myself up to a man, maybe in time, I could even learn to love again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘It’s great to be home,’ I say at work. I’m unconvincing at best as I spout out the same line I’ve been using all week. I’ve come up with a bank of useful clichéd phrases to convince my colleagues that I’m fine. They range from: ‘France was wonderful but you can’t beat an English cuppa,’ to: ‘It’s good to be back in my own bed.’ People are buying them too because it’s what they expect to hear. I just wish the words could suppress the empty, hollow black hole that’s been upsetting my stomach since I got home.
Kaitlynn leans on my checkout during a lull. ‘So, how does it feel to have had your Gary surgically extracted?’ She’s just back from a week off in Wales, and we haven’t had a chance to catch up properly yet. She knows all about the Olivier situation because she rang me when I was on the train and practically incoherent. She knows better than to ask at work.
‘A relief, to be honest. It’s nice to have the TV all to myself again.’ I also have a bank of clichés for Gary-based questions because I’m not as overjoyed by his absence as I’d thought I would be. It’s as though I don’t want to think about anything or talk to anyone anymore. I’ve been back from France a week now and I’m mopey to the point people are starting to ask me what’s wrong. Or whether I have the holiday blues. For my own sanity, I’ve banned myself from thinking about Olivier and if I’m not super strict with myself, I find myself doing it anyway so I’ve come up with a strategy that I’ve even given a catchy slogan to: ‘A romcom a day keeps memories of Olivier at bay.’
So, when my mind has really started to wander on an evening when I’m at home alone, I’ve been sticking on a good old-fashioned romantic comedy because lusting after some unobtainable Hollywood hunk is much more palatable than dwelling on a Frenchman who was so close to obtainable, but so unobtainable it was cruel. He sent a text to see if I got home okay, but I didn’t reply. It just seemed like I’d be opening up a can of worms. I’d agonised over sending a quick ‘yes, thanks’, which seemed cold or a more honest ‘yes, and I miss you so much’.
In the end I just left it and I feel terrible but it’s for the best. I’m going cold turkey. The romcoms are working for the most part and getting out of the house for my French class on Wednesday worked a treat. I have a great book to read when I’m alone in bed, when the house is quiet and still, because that’s when I’m really at risk of slipping into a fantasy life with Olivier. I’m worried that if I do, I won’t be able to pull myself back out and I’ll be found decomposed in bed by Kieran on one of his rare visits home. My headstone will read: ‘Died of a broken heart’ when really it should say: ‘Died of a full heart, of a love so powerful it took her.’ Literally. What? Shut up, Cath.
That’s if he finds me at all, of course. I guess I’m just boring old Mum to him now and probably won’t ever be needed much by him again. It probably should feel liberating – I have my freedom back, after all – but really, I’m still on a leash. I can’t go off to France and live happily ever after with Olivier because Kieran does still need me to be here. He needs his home here at least.
I haven’t told Kaitlynn yet because she’ll be devastated, but I’ve been thinking of a career change. Gary’s words about me being stuck here resonated a little and after working with the children on the train ride in the Somme Valley, I’ve been thinking about becoming a teaching assistant. I’ve even made enquiries about qualifications and I’m quite excited about it.
A customer plonking her shopping on my conveyor belt disrupts my train of thought. Eggs, chicken, bread, milk, and I’m back in real life with a beep, beep, beep. ‘Would you like any help with your packing, madam?’ I say with a smile, thankful for the routine of it. She shakes her head, as ninety per cent of the customers do and I continue scanning her items, with the odd bit of small talk thrown in as per my training as she packs them up. ‘Forty-three fifty-two,’ I say, waiting for her to enter her card and PIN.
The next customer has already started loading the conveyor belt and I know it’s the start of my favourite time of day: the mid-morning rush. I don’t even look up because this is where I excel – speedy scanning. I love seeing the conveyor belt clear at the end, ready for the next customer – it’s like my own personal challenge, clearin
g the belt before it’s filled up again. Cured meats, Camembert, a freshly baked loaf, cured ham, and a bottle of wine that looks familiar – Louis Jadot, Macon Village Chapelle aux Loups. The sight of it paralyses me for a second before my till beeps and the ‘check twenty-five’ message pops up. I look up to assess the customer’s age and the sight of him sends me into shock. My mouth is too dry to speak.
‘Bonjour, Cath.’ There’s no smile on his face and his blue eyes are wide and sad.
‘Olivier?’ My whole body is shaking. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Would you believe me if I said I was in the neighbourhood?’ He shrugs.
‘Not really.’ I stand up so I can look him in the eye, unable to absorb the fact he’s really here.
‘Cath, I—’
A middle-aged man plonks a joint of beef of the conveyor belt and, simultaneously, both Olivier and I bark: ‘This checkout is closed.’ The man opens his mouth to speak but, instead, huffs and walks off.
‘Why are you here, Olivier?’ My voice trembles with nerves, excitement and shock all balled up into one.
He looks down to his shopping. ‘Two reasons,’ he says simply. ‘The first is that I needed some groceries.’ I cock my head to the side. ‘Okay, that’s not a reason. The first is that I missed you, Cath. I know we haven’t known one another very long and my being here probably seems ridiculous to you.’
I shake my head. ‘Not ridiculous, exactly,’ I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. It’s like he has to get something off his chest.
‘But I can’t seem to concentrate on anything or think about anything other than you.’ For the first time, his eyes meet mine straight on. Those familiar electric-blue bolts.
It Started With a Note Page 25