She tested the wooden stairs for stability before climbing upstairs. Hopefully, rodents and other critters didn’t feel the need to venture up here. At least, the bathroom sink was only yellow from age, not stained with grime and excretions.
She cleaned her feet as best she could and dried them in one of the three t-shirts she had with her. Gritting her teeth, she put the shoes on and tied the laces.
As she straightened back up, she winced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a ghost with her messed, almost white hair and the shadows under her eyes. Her skin looked wrinkled, but that must have been because of the layer of dust on the mirror.
What would Damon do now?
No, no, no. Damon was not here. What should she do now?
She hadn’t really thought about what would happen after she reached France. Her only objective had been to escape Ralph. She had been driven mad by fear and she didn’t really think. Had she done a stupid thing, coming here, leaving Damon behind? Perhaps together, they’d have had a chance to get rid of Ralph. But she couldn’t risk endangering Damon. What could they have done to stop Ralph, anyway?
Weak, starving and aching, she crumbled against the wall, letting herself daydream about Damon.
“Ça suffit!” Her words sounded alien in the cottage that hadn’t heard any human voices for years.
She pushed herself off the wall and descended downstairs. She started by pulling off the sheets and sweeping the floor. By noon, she had three blisters on her hands to match the ones on her feet and a sneezing fit every two minutes.
By the end of that week, the cottage was as clean as it would get and was finally fit for living. Anaïs filled the fridge with groceries from the shop two miles away where she used to go as a child. The shopkeeper had gaped when she recognized her and then frowned when she took in her neglected appearance.
“Ma fille, what in God’s name has happened to you?”
“Men,” Anaïs said, and the lady had snorted and shook her head.
Sometimes, in the midst of a chore or while she lay down to sleep, memories of Damon assaulted her. Sometimes, she even cried with how desperately she wanted him with her. She let the tears run freely; no one could see her here.
***
After a month and a half, her new situation slowly gained a semblance of a life. It wasn’t a life she’d have chosen, but it was bearable. Her college days seemed ancient history now. When would Father find out she had dropped out and demand an explanation?
She wasn’t upset he hadn’t contacted her, as long as he kept transferring her monthly allowance to her account. In three months, she would turn twenty-one and her inheritance, including the main house and the cottage where she now lived, would be hers
In April, the shopkeeper asked her twice if she needed help after she caught her browsing the shelf with the vegetable and flower seeds.
“I’m fine, merci,” Anaïs said, and picked two packages of seeds—carrots and zucchini. She didn’t like the taste of either but they seemed the least complicated to grow.
If anyone who had ever met her saw her digging in the garden behind the cottage, turning the soil, and planting the vegetables, they would most probably come for her with a straight jacket and drag her to the nearest Centre médico-psychologique.
But who would? And if they did—so bleeping what?
Rather than dig through the shed to find a hose, she walked down the bank to the river and filled a watering can to water the freshly planted seeds.
She wished she could’ve shown the sprouts to Damon. Her face stretched into an involuntary smile at the sight and she considered slapping herself for it.
Smiling at sprouts? Who did that, apart from senile pensioners?
The rains of April forced her to spend more time indoors and she began to feel like a caged animal. She kept seeing Damon’s face everywhere. Sometimes Ralph’s too, but that was easier to bear.
To occupy her mind with other things, she started sorting out the main house. But that brought to life a whole another swarm of ghosts. If just cleaning out the dining room and the parlor had her reminiscing about Maman and their picnics or how she taught her to play chess and draw a human figure, she better not go into the guest room where she’d found her in a pool of blood and brains.
Anaïs considered selling the house once she inherited it, but there were also many happy memories inside. It would be difficult letting go. Perhaps she could show it to Damon one day.
Perhaps not.
Even if the house stayed, the ugly rug in her bedroom had to go. She worked up a sweat dragging it out to the back where she burnt it with the rest of the clutter. It was a grand bonfire, and a farmer stopped to check if the house was in flames when he passed on his bike.
Their chat lasted for almost half an hour. They reminisced about Maman and the way things had been before Monsieur ‘Arford. But before Father, there had been no Anaïs either. For all the awful and hurtful things she’d done, perhaps the world would be better off without her. Certainly Damon would be happier not knowing her.
Would he?
Her heart squeezed at the possibility and she threw herself into another frenzied activity just so she didn’t have to think. She weeded about a fifth of the extensive garden before stopping work because of the approaching darkness.
For dinner, she ate fresh cottage cheese she’d bought off the farmer that afternoon and some bread. It tasted almost like the cheeses of her childhood and everything in her became tender with hurt and longing. She wiped the salty pools on the table and the traces on her cheeks with her sleeve.
Before showering, she chopped off the bleached ends of her hair. The platinum blond was in such stark contrast to her black roots, it kept attracting attention. Even the farmer had looked at it a couple of times when they talked.
The shears she’d found in a drawer downstairs were blunt and they tugged on her hair. She teared up because of the pain, not because of how low she’d fallen that she had to chop off her own hair over a cracked bathroom sink instead of having her scalp massaged and her hair treated in a posh London hair salon.
She used to scoff at the women who didn’t trim their hair once a month or wore sweats in public. She now wore work gloves and boots more often than blouses and slacks. But despite having dirt under her cracked nails and feeling tired, aimless and disheartened, she was less angry and scared these days.
How long would she be running from Ralph? It didn’t make much sense staying here because if he wanted to, he could find her. She’d been using her mother’s maiden name and she was sure Father had told Ralph about Maman’s family estate.
What was the worst thing that could happen if she faced him? What terrible thing could he do to her that he hadn’t done already? Confronting Ralph would at least mean she could then return home and see Damon.
Did she just think of London as home? She must be possessed.
Besides, who’s to say Damon waited for her? He had said he would, but really, he was just a man and they never kept their promises.
Only…Damon had never let her down before.
But for now, her home was here. The estate was isolated enough she didn’t get to meet many people and that filled her with calm, yet the town was conveniently close so she could reach it on her bike in less than fifteen minutes.
Could she really envision herself growing vegetables, fixing leaking gutters and mowing the lawn for the rest of her life?
No.
Maybe?
If Damon helped?
***
The journey back was filled with just as much uncertainty but less fear. Her new, more stylish backpack was filled with clothes she’d washed and ironed herself which gave her a strange sort of satisfaction. That she could do things and not just pay others to do them filled her with the tiniest trace of self-respect. She might be worth fixing, after all. Would Damon still agree when she showed up at his door?
The London she returned to was different than the one she
had left. When she walked through the park where she’d last seen Damon, it was in full bloom and the fresh smell of spring almost drowned out the city stench. But no matter how much prettier the city seemed, when she sat down on ‘their bench’, pain still bobbled up to the surface.
She didn’t feel comfortable going to his place, so she ambled around, staring into window displays, watching people, letting the dread drain out of her so she would muster the courage to face him.
After walking around the better part of the afternoon, she was near exhaustion by the time she knocked on his door.
When he opened the door and faced her, the last drops of energy bled out of her and she almost sagged to the floor.
“Come on in.”
She walked past him, the familiar smell of his aftershave sending a jolt through her.
“I expected a more enthusiastic welcome,” she said.
Her chuckle sounded just as desperate as she felt. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her. His serious face was nothing like the warm hug she’d hoped for. She wasn’t certain coming back was a good idea.
Damon watched her with unreadable eyes as if not sure why she was there.
He looked the same, apart from the few lines in the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before and made him look even mellower. It was so good to see him her cheeks warmed. Just the sight of him calmed her soul. If he was well and happy, even if without her, it was enough.
“You said you’d wait for me. I thought…”
In the three months she’d been away, even her voice changed. It was less smooth and weaker.
“…I thought you meant it,” she said.
“I did.”
He had laughed even as she was leaving him, but he didn’t smile now. Her insides felt hollow with dread. Her fingers didn’t stop trembling when she pushed them into her jacket pockets.
She cleared her throat. “So?”
“I’m not sure you mean it.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
He turned away and started riffling through the papers spread out on the table, as if arranging them was the most urgent thing he had to do right then.
“Damon, I’m here.”
She walked to him and reached out to touch his shoulder. He startled her by turning around.
“For how long this time?”
“I…”
“How long, Anaïs?”
Her voice was hoarse when she said, “Forever?”
She winced when he laughed.
Then he fell silent and crossed his arms in his lap. Apparently, he would need more convincing this time.
“I was at my family’s estate. I planted vegetables and fixed the caretaker’s cottage so it’s inhabitable now. I learned how to do laundry and how to fix a lawnmower. I pedaled into town to buy groceries. I learned to make quiche. A bloody good one, too.”
The corners of his mouth twitched but that was the only sign he heard what she’d said.
“I’m a different person now, Damon.”
She jumped back when he burst out laughing.
“What the hell?”
Three months ago, she’d be tempted to storm out the door, but now she wouldn’t…even if she felt like the entire apartment mocked her as Damon’s laugh resonated through the room. She had hoped she’d be welcomed with open arms, instead she was begging him to give her another chance.
“Damon? Would you stop laughing? There’s nothing funny about this.”
“Your haircut, sort of, is,” he said, still chuckling.
She grumbled and fisted her hands. “Stop it.”
His eyes still gleamed with amusement when he said, “You haven’t changed much, after all.”
“I have, I swear. But, I’m still working on my anger issues.”
He signed, tilted his head back and closed his eyes as if thinking it over one last time.
“Need any help with that?”
She dropped her backpack off her shoulders and felt so light she could lift off the ground and fly.
“Yes. Please.”
***
The sky was indigo blue in the morning when she snuck out to go buy bagels. Truth was she was disgusted with herself for feeling all mushy and tender and she had to clear her head. She needed some distance from Damon to keep herself together or she’d soon start babbling about how much it meant that he took her back or some such thing.
She was still so under the impression of the previous night she didn’t see where she walked until she stumbled on the curb and nearly busted her ankle. She landed on her behind on the sidewalk.
“You okay, Miss?” the newspaper guy asked from somewhere in the kiosk above her.
Her cheeks warmed when she said, “I’m fine.”
Venturing a glance to see if he was still watching, her eyes landed on the morning newspaper.
Heavy black letters revealed the identity of the body which had apparently been recovered from the Thames about a month before. The police believed it to be that of Mr. Henley, missing since July 2010. His death was treated as suspicious and the police were asking any witnesses who might have seen the deceased in the days prior to his demise to come forward.
At the bottom of the short paragraph, Ralph’s pixelated deep-set and dull eyes stared from the page as if he knew all her sins.
She managed to get herself upright and stumbled in the direction she had come from.
His death was treated as suspicious. But every unexpected death was probably treated as suspicious until explained so it didn’t mean anything. If he had been missing since 2010, when she’d last seen him caught in the flames, he had probably been in hiding so few people knew of his existence. Who would want him dead?
It must’ve been an accidental drowning. He’d been known to drink himself blind so it wasn’t unlikely he fell off a bridge or slipped down the bank somewhere and drowned.
Besides, he’d managed to survive the fire. Unless he’d harmed another woman bent on revenge. But he was a large man, almost as tall as Damon, and overpowering him would not have been easy.
An accident, almost certainly.
The news preoccupied her so much she hadn’t given any thought to what she would say to Damon when she returned to the apartment. Her only hope as she opened the door was that he was still asleep, but she was out of luck.
“Where’ve you been so early?” He was in the process of clearing his stuff from the table, his boxer shorts low on his lean hips, his smooth chest aglow in the early morning sun through the only window in the room.
“Er…” She’d forgotten all about the bagels she meant to buy. “I was out. Needed to clear my head.”
He looked a little hurt when he said, “I thought…”
Merde. She’d left him once before, he must’ve thought she had done it again. How could she be so thoughtless?
As if embarrassed for admitting to his fears, he cleared the rest of the stuff off the table, all the while avoiding her eyes.
“Damon…”
“So, have you cleared your head?”
They spoke at the same time, and before things got more complicated, Anaïs said, “Yes.”
She watched him as he moved to the kitchenette and started readying bowls and pans in a shockingly clean kitchen. He broke the eggs and got the whisk out.
She didn’t know he even owned a whisk.
Her mouth gaped when he produced bread out of a cupboard and started making French toast.
“I thought you only cooked pasta and eggs,” she said in mock shock.
“Sometimes desperate measures are needed.”
When he smiled, his eyes crinkled.
She remembered Ralph. Just how desperate? Anaïs shivered.
He watched her quizzically, and she forced a smile. He didn’t seem quite convinced but he returned to the task at hand.
She carried plates and cutlery to the table. When she returned with the pitcher of water, she had to move the cutlery around because she’d pla
ced two forks on his mat and two knives on hers.
Damon wielded the skillet and utensils with more dexterity than she had believed him capable of. His movements enthralled her. All her emotions surged to the surface, the need to have him close, unexplainable dreams about their future, the urge to touch him to make sure he was real.
Only her knee bouncing nervously suggested she still feared her vulnerability.
“French toast for my favorite French girl,” Damon said as he placed it on her plate, before placing one on his.
“Thank you.”
He kissed her forehead before he carried the skillet to the sink.
She was about to dig in, suddenly starving, when he walked to her and crouched down to her level.
“I need to tell you something,” he said.
The hunger was gone, a knot forming in her throat instead. Her knife rattled on the table when images of the newspaper flashed in front of her eyes—the bold title, the dark eyes that were so horrible they seemed almost three-dimensional, the implications, and the suspicion that had formed in her mind.
His words held the potential of ruining everything. She couldn’t let him, not after everything she’d been through, not after she’d tortured herself over her feelings for him. Not now that they had something that could last. Not today, three months after she had naively thought she could leave him, on Valentine’s Day, no less. Not ever.
“Anaïs—”
He didn’t manage to get out more than her name, when she pressed her mouth to his and effectively shut him up.
The prospect of kissing him until he forgot what he’d wanted to say—or better yet, what he’d perhaps done—didn’t seem half bad. She had always struggled with the concept of togetherness, but not with this part. Kissing Damon felt so natural, she was sorry she hadn’t tried it sooner.
His mouth tasted of the raspberry jam he’d stolen from the jar, with salty undertones of the remnants of their last lovemaking late in the night
He lost his balance when she pressed too hard against him and they tumbled to the floor.
Under her lips, he started laughing.
“What was that?” he said.
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