A Winter's Dream

by Sophie Claire

  ‘Why would I mind?’ He tugged a pillow out of its case.

  ‘Because we’ve spent every Christmas for the last twenty-five years in Paris.’

  He remembered how fraught Christmas had been, everyone on tenterhooks wondering whether his dad would show up. He wasn’t nostalgic for those days. ‘It doesn’t matter where we are. It’s being together that’s important. You, me, Victor, Jules. Bernard too.’

  She pulled off the mattress cover and threw it on to the floor with the rest of the sheets, then started on the cot. ‘I’m glad you like Bernard. It means a lot to me to have your blessing.’

  ‘I never thought you’d love again. Not after what Papa did. Weren’t you afraid of getting hurt again?’ He helped her remove the tiny sheets and cotton blanket.

  ‘A little. But I knew when I met Bernard he was nothing like your father. He’s considerate, loyal.’ She picked up a rattle, which had fallen between the mattress and the side of the cot, straightened and side-eyed him mischievously. ‘I’d like to see you settled, too. I like Liberty. She’s a nice girl.’

  ‘I know.’ He sighed. No matter how many times he said it, his family simply wouldn’t accept that Liberty was just a friend. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘Why is it a problem?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt her.’

  She studied him. ‘You still blame yourself for what happened with Solange,’ she observed sadly.

  He didn’t reply. Of course that wasn’t the only reason. But the more time went on, the less clear his reasons were.

  ‘You have to let that go, Alex. We all make mistakes, we’re all only human. Even your father had good qualities, you know.’

  He was shocked to hear her say that. ‘Oh, yeah? Like what? And please don’t tell me he was good in bed.’

  ‘He was gregarious, and charming. He was laid-back—’

  ‘You can say that again.’

  ‘When I first met him I thought this was an attractive trait. A man with no cares.’

  He scoffed. ‘No responsibility, more like.’

  ‘Can’t you see? Every character trait has a good and a bad side. Someone relaxed can be irresponsible, someone anxious can be conscientious.’ Her eyes filled with regret. ‘I’m afraid that you grew up too early and it’s my fault.’

  ‘Your fault? How? You were the perfect mother. You were mum and dad for us.’

  She shook her head. ‘You took on the role of father as soon as you realised he wasn’t doing it. You carried the world on your shoulders, and I should never have allowed you to do that. I wish I could turn back time.’

  ‘Don’t regret it, Maman. It was hard for you. You did what you could while he swanned about.’ He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.

  ‘He muddled through like the rest of us,’ Babette said gently. ‘It doesn’t help to be so angry with him.’

  He stared at her, incredulous. ‘When he hurt so many people?’

  ‘Perhaps he didn’t mean to. Perhaps he was searching for something he never found. You know something? Now he’s gone I feel sorry for him. I can even …’ She searched around, as if unsure, then nodded. ‘I forgive him.’

  ‘Really?’ He was genuinely astounded.

  ‘Yes. Perhaps it’s time you stopped being angry with him and looked forward instead – to your own future.’

  ‘You mean a new career?’

  ‘Not just that.’ The rattle jingled as she pressed it into his hands, then winked.

  Their conversation had come full circle – back to Liberty. He groaned and shook his head, sorry to disappoint her. ‘I’m not planning to settle down, Mum. Not with Liberty or anyone else.’

  What would it take for her – and his brothers – to understand that he didn’t need a relationship, and it simply didn’t feature in his plans for the future?

  She raised a brow. ‘I’ve seen the way you look at her.’

  He bit back a sigh of exasperation, and said gently, ‘Perhaps you’re seeing what you want to see.’

  Putting the rattle down, he scooped up the sheets to be laundered and headed downstairs. His mum didn’t reply, but as he left the room he glanced at her – then did a double-take. He frowned and hurried away, but her expression unsettled him.

  Why had she smiled like that?

  As if he was the one who didn’t understand.

  Liberty lay awake, staring at the stars through the skylights. Alex had been fast asleep for hours, his long lashes resting on his cheeks, lips slightly parted. Her fingers curled around the edge of the quilt, anxiously gripping the faded cotton.

  She loved this room high up in the attic, away from all the noise, where she and Alex enjoyed the privacy and space to talk, laugh, make love. It was snug and warm, yet at the same time she felt close to nature up here where the rain tap-danced on the roof, the wind whispered against the windows, and the stars glittered and blinked, like a secret spectacle for her. Tonight the moon joined them, a swollen lantern steadfastly beaming its silver light into the room.

  By the end of this week you’ll have fallen in love with Provence, Alex had told her. She closed her eyes briefly. She’d done far more than that. She’d fallen in love with him too, and now she was torn: should she tell him? Or keep her precious secret close to her heart and leave at the end of the week with it untouched and unspoiled? That would be the easier option.

  But what if he had feelings for her?

  He didn’t.

  He might. He could. Look at all the thoughtful things he’d done for her: driving to find her in Tourmarin, making her waffles on Sunday, showing his support whenever she faced a challenge, and his pride in her when she achieved them. She remembered his anger at the ball when he’d confronted her over Ethan, and his adoring expression when he’d held her after they’d made love an hour ago.

  He shifted in his sleep and rolled away from her. His leathery scars looked dark and angry in the pearly light.

  Despite everything she knew about him, she still clung to the hope that maybe he returned her feelings. It was a fragile hope, but her heart clung to it because the alternative was too dreadful to face.

  And that was why, while there was a chance – even a minuscule, million-to-one chance – that he might love her too, she had to say something. Be brave, think of your challenge. Resolve filled her.

  It was risky, it went against all they’d agreed – but she had to tell him how she felt. The only question was, when?

  Tuesday, 30 December

  ‘I can’t believe there are just two days left in December,’ Liberty said, as Babette’s house came into view. They’d been for an early-morning walk, enjoying the winter sun but well wrapped up against the icy wind. On the way back they’d stopped at the boulangerie to buy croissants and bread still warm from the oven.

  ‘Two days left of your challenge,’ Alex told her, ‘and I’ve saved the best till last.’ Excitement made his dark eyes sparkle.

  ‘Really?’ she said absently. She couldn’t stop thinking about whether now was the right moment to tell him about her feelings.

  He nodded. ‘We’re driving to the coast tomorrow and you need to pack a dressy outfit. Black tie.’

  Her curiosity was sparked and he had her full attention now. ‘Black tie? Why?’

  Alex hesitated, clearly torn between keeping it a surprise and wanting to share his excitement with her. In the end, excitement won and he watched her reaction as he said, ‘We’re going to a New Year’s Eve party …’ he paused ‘… on a yacht. In Monaco.’

  ‘Wow,’ she gasped, and felt the quiver of butterflies. This was going to be way out of her comfort zone. On the other hand, it would also be a fabulous once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. ‘Whose party is it?’

  ‘One of the MotoGP teams is hosting it. All my ex-colleagues will be there.’

  Wednesday, 31 December

  Liberty stepped out of the car onto a red carpet and blinked, dazzled by the glittering lights. The tang of sea air carried in the breez
e. This was surreal. She was in Monaco for a celebrity-studded party on a yacht! Wait until she told Carys.

  Security men in sleek suits made sure the handful of paparazzi stayed behind the barrier, but as the cameras spotted Alex, they came alive with clicks and blinding flashes.

  Suddenly nerves hit her.

  What was she doing here? Would the paparazzi laugh when they saw this ordinary girl made up like a film star? Breathing fast, she ducked her head and smoothed down her dress. It was one of the vintage designer frocks Babette had been clearing out, floor-length black velvet with a jewelled neckline, and had needed only slight adjustments, which Liberty had made. But now she felt exposed in front of the enormous cameras. She felt sick.

  Alex appeared at her side. Her fear must have shown because he asked, ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Bit nervous,’ she confessed.

  He took her hand and her heart started pounding. ‘Why? You look beautiful.’

  She tried to relax but knew her fear must be written all over her face. This was his world. Glamorous. Exciting. She didn’t belong here.

  ‘Hey, you’re brave, remember?’ Alex leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘You’ve got this.’

  He was right. She was brave. Fake it till you make it.

  She took a deep breath and smiled at him, then at the cameras.

  ‘Is this your new girlfriend, Mr Ricard?’ one of the photographers shouted.

  ‘Are your injuries healing well?’ asked another.

  ‘How are you feeling about your enforced retirement?’

  She felt Alex stiffen, but he didn’t respond and led her away quickly instead.

  Nothing could have prepared Liberty for how spectacular the evening would be. She’d foolishly imagined the yacht to be a large boat with a generous deck and maybe a tiny cabin below. In fact, the yacht was bigger than most houses, and as she and Alex made their way through one noisy room to another, then upstairs to another level, she wondered if she’d be in danger of getting lost when she looked for the bathroom.

  But the people Alex introduced her to were not at all intimidating, and greeted her warmly. She smiled as they slapped their former teammate on the back like a long-lost friend. Staff circulated with trays of artistically presented canapés and drinks. As Liberty sipped champagne, she sneaked surreptitious glances at the stunning dresses and jewels, trying to commit every detail to memory because she was certain she’d never experience anything like this again. No wonder Alex had been appalled to find himself at her poky cottage. No wonder he’d found Willowbrook too quiet initially. It was a world away from all this, and she wondered whether he missed his old life. She glanced at him and felt a pang.

  One day, when she was Old Dorothy’s age, she’d tell her grandchildren about this night. But she wondered if the handsome Frenchman would be long gone – only ever part of a memory.

  Alex nodded at former acquaintances as he wove his way through the crowded room, anxious to return to Liberty’s side. She tipped her head back, laughing at something his ex-manager, Eric, had just said. She looked relaxed, as happy and comfortable here as in Willowbrook’s village pub.

  He was relieved she was enjoying herself, albeit still confused by the blast of emotion that had hit him earlier. When they’d arrived at the party and stepped out of the car to meet the paparazzi, her face had become as pale as the moon.

  And he’d felt something so powerful it had momentarily stunned him.

  Seeing the fear in her eyes he’d wanted to shield her, enfold her in his arms and whisk her away. He couldn’t put his finger on what this sensation was, but it made his heart rev like an engine on full throttle.

  A waiter offered him champagne and he realised it was almost midnight, time to toast in the new year. He took two glasses and continued through the satin gowns and dazzling jewellery towards the beacon of glossy red hair. Her conversation with Eric ended and she turned, scanning the room until she spotted Alex. Their gazes locked, and when he finally reached her, he leaned in to kiss her.

  He smiled as lust coiled itself around them, deliciously sweet and impossible to resist. At the beginning of the week he’d told himself this passion needed oxygen and space, and in a few days’ time it would have burned itself out.

  Yet it hadn’t. Instead it was becoming overwhelming. His muscles wound tight, reminding him of when he used to lean the bike through the tightest corners, his knee skimming the ground, the bike balanced at a precarious angle. A fraction too far and it was all over, the tarmac coming to greet you.

  He drew back and offered her a glass. ‘Champagne?’

  She took it with a smile, but he gripped his own. Was he growing attached? Was that what this was, this pull he felt to be near her? This need to be in her slipstream, close by, looking out for her. The thrill for her, the swell of pride when she smiled at him, delight when she’d surprised herself with what she was capable of. Her happiness felt more important than his own.

  He frowned and distractedly stroked a loose strand of hair away from her face. No, he wasn’t becoming attached. Definitely not. He’d been clear-headed about this from the start – as had she. She’d assured him she didn’t expect commitment. They were having a good time, that was all, and they’d agreed it wouldn’t last.

  ‘How does it feel,’ she asked, ‘to see all the people you used to work with?’

  He glanced around the room. ‘It’s a little strange.’ He hadn’t been sure how he would feel about meeting his former colleagues and rival racers again. But it had turned out that everyone was genuinely pleased to see him and curious, too, about the injury that had sealed his fate. And on his part, far from feeling a rush of anger or loss, he felt only acceptance that that part of his life was over. And it surprised him. ‘But I’m ready to move on.’

  When had the change happened? When he’d returned to Provence with its gentler pace of life? Or before that, in Willowbrook? When his bike was stolen and he’d gone cold turkey, perhaps. He thought of the woods, the breeze on the leaves, birdsong, the stream rippling close by. He couldn’t pinpoint when his attitude had shifted, but while racing had once been his all-consuming passion, now he felt ready to embark on a new phase. He saw possibilities and opportunities. He felt hope.

  ‘Shall we go outside?’ he suggested. ‘Not long until midnight, and the fireworks are bound to be spectacular.’

  Up on deck the night air was fresh. He took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. All around the port people were gathering in anticipation.

  ‘Is this how your life was before?’ Liberty asked, gesturing with her champagne flute to the guests around them. ‘All glam parties and razzle-dazzle?’

  ‘Razzle-dazzle?’ He chuckled. ‘Not really. I had lots of invitations, but didn’t accept many.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s not my scene.’

  He’d hated this aspect of his old life: the parties, networking, posing for the cameras. His father had adored it, but Alex found it superficial, even soul-destroying. He’d much rather escape somewhere quiet with Liberty.

  She giggled. ‘That’s a relief. Maybe we have more in common than we thought.’

  ‘You’re not enjoying it?’

  ‘I am …’, she slanted him a coquettish look, ‘… but I’ll be equally happy to go home where we can be alone.’

  He felt a rush of desire and was suddenly impatient for the fireworks to be over. ‘It’s a deal,’ he said, his voice low.

  They decided to walk back to the apartment, taking the longer route along the seafront, and when they reached a quiet beach they slipped off their shoes and walked along the water’s edge. Alex was relieved to have left the noise and lights behind. The distant laughter of party-goers carried through the darkness but it was peaceful here. The water whispered against the sand, and the stars were silver pinheads in the navy sky. Liberty’s hand felt warm in his.

  ‘This trip has been magical,’ she said, eyes sparkling.

  ‘I’m
glad you’ve enjoyed it.’

  ‘Provence is a really special place.’

  ‘It is.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m so glad you brought me here. Thank you.’

  His chest tightened at the note of finality in her words, and he frowned, realising he didn’t want her to leave.

  What did he want? His feet sank into the wet sand.

  More of this. Uncomplicated friendship and passion.

  But Liberty would want to go home and resume the search for her Dream Guy. A man who would give her the family she hoped for and the security she craved.

  That wasn’t him.

  Who, then? Mr Bland? Another blind date? The thought set his teeth on edge.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t leave yet. She’d said she was happy here, she got on well with his family, she loved Provence and the unspoilt beauty of the quieter, inland areas. Perhaps they could continue with this a little longer.

  Spontaneously, he stopped. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘we’re not finished.’

  Her head whipped round. ‘What do you mean?’

  He checked all around. The small horseshoe of beach was overlooked by a few shops, all in darkness, and there was no one else about. He grinned. ‘How about outdoor swimming to finish your challenge?’

  She hugged his jacket to her. ‘But – it’ll be freezing!’

  He tipped his head to one side. ‘You’re not going to say yes?’

  She looked down at her velvet dress. ‘I haven’t got my swimming costume.’

  He winked and began to strip. ‘Underwear is fine. Once you’re wet it’s all the same.’

  Biting her lip, she looked around at the deserted stretch of sand.

  He tossed his trousers on to the ground beside his shirt and tie. ‘What do you say, Liberty McKenzie? Is it a yes?’

  She laughed and reached to unzip her dress. As she ran down the beach into the water, she shouted, ‘Ye-es!’

  Thursday, 1 January

  Liberty leafed back through the pages of her orange notebook. They’d wrapped up warm to have breakfast on the terrace, enjoying the view of the Mediterranean and the tranquillity while most people still slept. Now they lingered over coffee.