‘Maman,’ says Gigi, turning down the volume, which is blaring. Kissing her on both cheeks, she says something to her in French.
Her mother turns to me. She has curly, salt and pepper hair pulled back into a bun that looks almost white against her skin, and although her face is deeply lined, she has the most wonderful high cheekbones. Despite her frayed pinafore, she has a certain regality about her. Her gaze sweeps over me. She might be hard of hearing, but there’s nothing wrong with her eyesight and her dark eyes observe me before she breaks into a smile.
‘Bonjour Madame,’ I say with a smile, then before I say something with the completely wrong pronoun or verb ending and offend her inadvertently, I switch safely back to English, ‘it’s lovely to meet you. I’m Ruby.’
Gigi translates, and her mother quickly responds. ‘She says please, call her Grace and she is delighted to meet you also and is sorry for the accident—’ I attempt an ‘oh-it’s-nothing’ type expression, even though my entire body is fast turning into one big purple bruise, ‘—and to make yourself comfortable.’ Gigi gestures to the worn, slouchy leather sofa, with its brightly coloured cushions and large woollen throw.
I sink down gratefully. The leather is so soft it’s like butter, and it’s all I can do to stop myself pulling the woollen throw round me and drifting off to sleep. Instead I glance at the TV, on which the news is playing, and what appears to be a procession.
‘What’s happening?’ I ask, curiously.
‘It’s the celebrations for the D-Day landings,’ explains Gigi, ‘they are showing a recording of yesterday’s big parade down the Champs Élysées in Paris. I think your Queen was there.’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ I nod, remembering the veterans I’d seen at St Pancras en route to France. I think about the girl with the pink hair and her grandfather, who came to my rescue with Heathcliff. They’ll be there.
‘Maman is very interested in watching all of this as she was born during the war.’
I look back at the TV. Old black and white film is playing, intercut with footage of old soldiers in their heavily decorated uniforms, together with heads of state.
‘So many brave men lost their lives, it is terrible,’ continues Gigi, shaking her head.
‘Yes, they are all heroes,’ I say, echoing the words of the girl I’d met at the station with her grandfather.
The old lady turns away from the TV to look at me, then says something to Gigi.
‘She is wondering what brings you here to our village,’ she translates, ‘are you on vacation?’
‘No, I’m here to visit the Dumont estate, I’ve travelled down from Paris.’
‘Oh, the estate.’ She nods at the mention of it.
‘Do you know it?’
‘Everyone around here knows the estate, it’s been here for ever. It employs many people in the village.’
Worry pricks. I wonder what will happen after it’s sold to the Japanese corporation but don’t say anything.
‘Including myself.’
Of course. Now I remember seeing her little yellow car driving away from the chateau earlier. ‘You work there?’
‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘I work on the vineyard, there is a team of us looking after the vines. They need a lot of care, pruning, irrigating, making sure they grow properly so we have a good harvest. My trick is to sing to them—’ She breaks off as she sees my expression and laughs. ‘I used to be a singer, but that was before my son was born when I had no responsibilities.’
‘You have a baby?’ I look at her in surprise; she doesn’t look much older than me.
‘Oh he’s not a baby any more, Jean-Paul is eighteen,’ she says with a laugh.
At the mention of Jean-Paul’s name, Gigi and her mother exchange a few words.
‘My maman is upset. He recently left to work in Paris and she misses him. Especially after Papa died, Jean-Paul was the man of the house from being just a small boy.’
She doesn’t need to translate; the expression on her mother’s face says it all. ‘Still, he has a job already, that’s impressive,’ I say. ‘At his age I was at college.’
Unfortunately my clumsy attempt to put a positive spin on it completely backfires as Gigi’s face falls.
‘He wanted to go to college to study to be a journalist, but I could not afford the fees, it was just too much money for me, what with looking after Maman as well . . .’ She trails off and shrugs her shoulders. ‘Have you got children?’
‘No.’ I shake my head.
‘Well make sure you choose a papa who’s not going to run away,’ she says, shaking her head, before unexpectedly breaking into a smile. ‘But I am glad he did, otherwise I would have had to run away from him.’ She laughs again. ‘We played together in a band, he was a terrible musician as well as a terrible father.’
I smile. I like Gigi a lot. Despite her diminutive appearance, she has a strength that shines through.
‘Did you know the Dumonts?’
At the mention of the name, her mother says something in rapid French.
‘Maman grew up in the Var but moved here when she married my father. She says it was well known that Monsieur Dumont was always chasing after skirt in the village.’
‘And Madame Dumont?’
‘She was very kind. She did a lot of work for local charities, but that was before she fell ill.’
‘What happened?’
‘Pneumonia I think it was, and old age of course.’
‘So she didn’t go . . .’ I think about how Trixie described her, ‘a little crazy?’
Gigi gives a little snort of laughter. ‘Who said this?’
Realising I’ve spoken out of turn, I don’t want to say. But I don’t have to.
‘Don’t tell me, it was that silly fool of a woman and her drunk oaf of a husband at the chateau.’ Gigi wrinkles up her nose in displeasure. ‘As if they would know anything. They never visited Madame when she was alive, not even when she was ill. It was only afterwards they appeared, hungry for their inheritance, like vultures, pah!’
Listening to Gigi, I feel a new dislike for Trixie and Felix. My opinion of them before wasn’t good, but now it’s even worse.
‘Madame Dumont was pretty incredible for her age. Her hearing was bad, she was almost deaf in the end, and her sight wasn’t too good either, but her mind was totally sharp. She loved literature and once I told her about my son, and how he loved to read, and after that she would often give me books to bring home to him.’ She gestures to the books that line the bookcase. ‘These all belonged to her, you know. When she died the heirs kept only the valuable editions and threw the rest of her collection away. They were going to burn them, can you believe it? Burning books! And she calls Madame Dumont crazy!’
Gigi looks shocked, as well she might.
‘Really? I can’t believe it, that’s sacrilege.’ But even as I’m saying it, I can believe it. Words aren’t worth anything to Trixie and Felix. After all, you can’t spend them.
‘Of course I could not allow this, so I rescued them,’ she goes on. ‘My son got to travel the whole world in his bedroom from these pages. That’s probably why he wanted to become a journalist and where he got his love of writing.’
I nod, thinking about Henry. Is that why Madame Dumont loved reading so much, because it reminded her of him?
‘May I?’ I ask, carefully easing myself up from the sofa and looking closer at the spines that are neatly aligned on the bookcase on the wall. ‘Are they all in French?’
‘Oh, no, not at all, she used to like to read in English a lot, she said it was important for her to remember . . .’ Gigi trails off.
‘Remember what?’ My ears prick up.
Gigi shakes her head. ‘She never explained. I didn’t speak to her often, she was the owner of the estate and I was just one of the many workers there, but sometimes I would see her when she didn’t think anyone was watching and she always seemed to have a sadness that she carried around with her, like an overcoat you know.
She had everything, and yet—’
‘She had nothing,’ I say out loud before I can stop myself.
Gigi nods and for a moment we exchange a look of understanding. ‘I do not think she loved her husband. From everything I hear Monsieur Dumont was not a man to be loved. And without love in your life, you have nothing. Nothing at all.’
But she did have love, I think with a beat of sadness. She had a great love.
‘I have never married but I have my Jean-Paul and Maman, but who did she have?’
Henry, I reply silently. She had Henry. And once upon a time, for the brief time they were together, she had everything.
‘So what did you say you were doing at the estate?’
I snap back to see Gigi surveying me, her head cocked sideways.
‘Oh, I was delivering a catalogue for the auction. It’s come to light that Madame Dumont rented an apartment in Paris for many years.’
‘In Paris?’ Gigi looks surprised. ‘But I never saw her leave the village, not in all the years I have worked at the estate.’
‘I don’t think she’d visited in a long time,’ I explain, ‘but it held several antiques—’
‘Antiques?’ The old lady’s head flicks away from the TV and she looks at me with interest. Gigi is not wrong, there’s nothing the matter with her mother’s hearing.
‘Yes,’ I nod, and watch as she says something to her daughter, her expression animated, as she pulls out a necklace from underneath her dress. Meanwhile Gigi is frowning and shaking her head. There seems to be quite a heated argument going on between them.
‘Non, Maman!’ she cries.
Oh dear. I feel a beat of alarm. What have I said now? I look at Gigi quizzically and she looks back at me as if not wanting to explain, but her mother is insistent. I watch as she tries to take off her necklace, her fingers struggling with the clasp, until finally her daughter gives in and goes over to help her.
‘Maman wants to know if this is worth anything,’ says Gigi, releasing the piece of jewellery and holding it out for me to see. ‘As you are an expert in antiques.’
‘Oh – I don’t know . . .’ I fluster, suddenly feeling like a fraud, ‘My friend in Paris is the actual expert, I was just helping her . . .’
This is translated back, but her mother is still resolute.
‘Would you take it with you and ask her?’ says Gigi, with obvious reluctance.
Her mother looks at me pleadingly.
‘Of course I will,’ I say, then hesitate, saying to Gigi, ‘only, you don’t want me to, right?’
Gigi sighs. ‘It is the only thing she was given by her real mother. My maman was left at the convent when she was born. She never knew her real parents. There is not even a birth certificate, but unfortunately this was very common. It was during the war and everything was chaos.’
‘What is she hoping to find out?’ I ask, looking at the necklace. It’s just a plain gold chain with a loveheart-shaped pendant. Nothing remarkable.
For a moment Gigi looks almost too pained to answer. ‘Maman wants to know if it is of any value because if so, she wants to sell it to pay to send her grandson to college . . . my son,’ she adds, looking ashamed. ‘I failed as a mother to be able to afford these things, my mother should not be selling her most prized possession.’
Gigi’s jaw clenches and I can see her fighting back tears. I’ve only known her a short while but I have to resist the urge to give her a hug.
‘Your mother’s most prized possession is her grandson, not her necklace,’ I say kindly.
Gigi’s eyes meet mine and a look flashes between us.
‘Thank you,’ she says softly.
‘No, thank you.’ I smile. ‘It’s the least I can do after everything you have done for me.’ I gesture to my patched-up shin and temple. ‘I will give it to my friend in Paris. If you give me your details I will call you afterwards.’
Gigi smiles gratefully and gives me her number, which I’m just punching into my phone when suddenly it starts ringing.
‘Hello?’ I answer it.
It’s Xavier, wondering where I am. I quickly explain what’s happened and after a flurry of concerned questions he informs me that he’s finished at the house and is coming to pick me up. I pass him to Gigi for directions.
After she’s hung up, she passes my phone back to me along with the necklace. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep it safe,’ I reassure her mother, aware that she’s entrusted me with the only thing she has from her real mother.
She smiles and, reaching out her hands, clasps them tightly round mine. And for a moment, I don’t know what I want the outcome to be. That her necklace is an antique and worth a lot of money so she can sell it and help her grandson? The family is obviously poor and the money could be life-changing. Or for its value to be only sentimental, and for her to keep it?
Then I say goodbye to Gigi, who gives me a warm embrace and instructs me on when to remove my dressings in the strictest fashion, and in such detail that it’s only the sight of Xavier in the Mercedes pulling up outside the window that stops her.
As I go to make my exit, she says, ‘Oh, before you leave—’
I turn.
‘Do you want something to read for the train?’ She gestures to her bookcase and as I look at Emmanuelle’s books, I can’t help but feel a spark of excitement.
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not at all,’ she says with a smile, ‘books are not for keeping, they are meant for reading. Stories are not possessions, they are to be passed from one person to the next.’
She plucks out a book and gives it to me, then as Xavier toots his horn, I say my goodbyes to Gigi and her mother and leave.
26
‘You know, you could have been killed.’
An hour later we’re on the train speeding back to Paris and Xavier still hasn’t dropped the subject of my accident.
‘I should sue her sorry ass,’ he says, spitting out the American words in his strong French accent. It would be quite comical, if it wasn’t quite so alarming.
‘What? No!’ I protest, ‘it wasn’t Gigi’s fault.’
I’m fast regretting telling Xavier about what happened. After his initial relief that I was OK, he’d proceeded to fire questions at me for the entire journey back to the station. I wasn’t on trial exactly, but I’d certainly felt like it and so it had been a relief when we’d finally boarded the train and he’d announced he had to do some work on his laptop.
He hasn’t done much work yet, though.
‘She was driving dangerously. Did you see her car? It has no mirrors. It shouldn’t be on the road, it is illegal.’
He’s looking up at me from his screen, his face a mixture of anger and concern. And a protectiveness that makes my stomach flutter.
‘I wasn’t looking where I was going,’ I protest, taking the blame, ‘I was in the middle of the road, I was riding with no hands.’
Xavier looks at me like I’m crazy. ‘But why would you do such a thing?’
‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head, then smile sheepishly. ‘I guess it made me feel like a kid again.’
He stares at me for a few moments, as if not knowing what on earth to make of me, then unexpectedly throws back his head and roars with laughter. ‘You are very different from any woman I have ever met, Ruby Miller,’ he says, shaking his head.
I smile, not sure whether that’s a bad thing or a good thing, but then his face turns more serious.
‘Sometimes we all do things that are reckless, we must all take risks,’ he says, fixing me with his slate grey eyes, ‘because it’s that which makes us feel truly alive.’
His gaze is unwavering and the air feels suddenly charged. I know he’s not talking about the bike ride any more.
‘But what if you risk losing everything?’ I challenge.
‘What is everything?’ He throws it back. ‘A life without adventure and thrill is not a life.’
My pulse quickens. ‘Do you really think that?’
<
br /> ‘But of course.’ He nods. ‘You don’t achieve your dreams by playing safe.’
I hold his gaze, but don’t reply.
‘What are your dreams, Ruby?’
I feel like we’re doing some kind of dance. Just the two of us, here in this train carriage, surrounded by all these people.
‘I . . .’ I stammer, then stall.
His gaze urges me to go on, but I can’t.
‘I’m not sure,’ I finish. I know it’s a cop-out, but I’m not ready to confide in Xavier. It feels too intimate. Like I’m opening a door to something I might not be able to close. Or, more dangerously, want to.
‘I don’t believe that for a moment,’ he says, his face relaxing and a smile playing on his lips. ‘But it’s a been a long day, you’re tired—’
‘Exhausted,’ I confess, relieved the conversation has taken a turn.
‘Me too. Demanding clients.’ He raises his eyebrows. He doesn’t need to say any more. He glances at his wristwatch. ‘It’s still a couple of hours to Paris, we should both get some rest.’ Closing the screen of his laptop, he takes off his glasses, undoes his collar and loosens his tie.
‘Yes,’ I agree. I feel the release of pressure that’s been building up, escaping like steam from a window.
‘About your accident—’ he begins again.
But immediately I shut him down. ‘Seriously, it was all my fault, I don’t want to sue anyone—’
‘I wasn’t going to say anything more about that.’
‘You weren’t?’
‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘I should. But I won’t.’
His earlier anger has dissipated and been replaced by his usual composure. I study his face but he’s giving nothing away. Sometimes it’s so difficult to read him. To know what’s going on behind that unwavering lawyer’s gaze of his.
‘So, what were you going to say?’
‘That I’m just happy you’re OK,’ he says quietly.
A look passes between us, then, closing his eyes, he rests his head against the window. I watch him for a moment, taking in his handsome profile, the darkening of stubble in the cleft of his chin, the small triangle of exposed skin at his throat, then glance away.
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