by Claire Allan
Jean-Luc laughed. “Older than you!”
“Yes, but five minutes older, or five years?”
“You are, what, twenty-eight?” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
Even though she knew it was probably just a line he had doled out on more than one occasion, she smiled.
“Near enough,” she said with a wink.
“Well, then, I am twenty years older than you. Old enough to know better.” The glint was unmistakable. The man was a born flirt and she loved it.
“Ah, forty-eight. That’s not so old.”
“You say the nicest things,” he said. “Now is there anything else you absolutely have to know?”
Oh God yes, there were many things she had to know. None of them particularly appropriate for the setting they were in. In fact, as they sat there she felt her brain turning to absolute mush until all she could think about was kissing him and knowing what that felt like – what he felt like. The realisation shocked her to the core.
Another hour couldn’t do any harm?
How wrong she was.
She had two glasses of wine, and Jean-Luc had barely touched a drop when he drove her home. She wanted to speak and to ask him so much more about himself but her verbal skills had now moved beyond cheesy romance novels and onto utter gibberish. The wine was more potent than she had realised and, combined with the sultry evening air, she didn’t actually trust herself to even try and talk any more.
The house seemed empty when they arrived.
“Maybe Ava is on the terrace,” Jean-Luc said.
She nodded. “It’s lovely there,” she said.
“It’s lovely here too,” he said softly and she looked into his piercing blue eyes.
Now or never, she realised, so she closed her eyes to steady herself and before she took a breath she felt his lips very gently touch her cheek.
“Mademoiselle, it has been a pleasure,” he said, kissing her hand and getting out of the car to open the door for her.
Surely he would kiss her at the door of the house? Surely this was not it? Not after the mammoth flirting all day and all evening? She wanted to stamp her feet and shout “Not fair!” but she realised this was probably not the sexiest thing she could do at that moment.
At the door he said, “I will see you again before you leave. The market?”
“Maybe,” she muttered, her disappointment seeping from her pores.
“I would like that,” he said, kissing her only on the cheek again before turning and walking back to his car.
Walking dejectedly through the living room, Hope saw Ava curled on the sofa, a blanket across her knees, lost in her book. She looked up and smiled.
“How did it go?”
“Crap. Well, not crap. It was lovely actually. But it ended crap. I thought at least I would have got a snog, or a quick grope or a snog and a quick grope. All I got was a friendly kiss on the cheek and a big old see-you-later.” She sighed as she sat down dramatically on one of the loungers, clutching her bag to her. “What’s wrong with me?” she said in an overly dramatic manner to no one in particular. “Am I boot-ugly? Because you can tell me if I’m boot-ugly. Am I so singularly unattractive that after a day of witty banter, romantic views and enough sunshine to make anyone a little soft in the head, all I can score from a very sexy man is a kiss on the cheek?”
“I wouldn’t knock a kiss on the cheek,” Ava said. “And, no, you are not boot-ugly. But let’s just stop one minute and rewind. You wanted a snog? You wanted a grope? When did this all change from being a day out to see if you wanted to go back to the world of travel journalism to wanting a snog?”
Hope grimaced before laughing. “Ava Campbell, don’t try and tell me it wasn’t your intention to get me to fall madly in lust with Jean-Luc! It was you who set today up after all.”
“It’s a fair cop,” Ava said, with a wink. “But still . . . how, why, what? Details, woman, details!”
“Yes, miss,” Hope answered with mock petulance although she felt herself relax as she curled up into the tweed chair and kicked off her sandals. “We had a lovely day,” she began. “He took me all round the village, and through the countryside. The coastal drives are amazing. With the top down on his car I felt like a million dollars – like something out of a 50s movie. We had lunch, which he insisted on paying for, and we talked some more. He’s forty-eight, you know, but still swoonsome. And then he left me back, and he kissed my cheek, said he would like to see me again, and then kissed my cheek again.”
“So he wants to see you again?”
Hope nodded, then shook her head. “Well, yes, and no. I mean we have to see him when we go to the market so he’s kind of obliged to see me and not necessarily longing to see me.”
“But he kissed your cheek?”
She nodded again. “Two times.”
“And you had a lovely day?”
“Blissful,” she said with a weak smile.
“And through all of this how many times did you think of Dylan and his Ballymena Babe?”
“None,” Hope said with a start. She’d only realised then that Dylan hadn’t come into her mind all afternoon. It was rather disturbing because Dylan tended to live in her mind a lot which she knew was a bit nutso but she couldn’t help how she felt.
“Well, that has to be good in itself?” Ava asked, eyebrow raised.
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so? Maybe there is hope for you afterall. I mean yesterday you would never have dreamed of wanting to snog another man, never mind being disappointed when he didn’t lunge back at you. This can only be good. This can only mean your passion for the handsome Dylan is not as strong as you first thought.”
Hope wasn’t so sure. She wished she could be. But now that they had mentioned his name she felt a little ashamed. How could she not have thought about him for six full hours? She sipped from her glass again before muttering “Maybe.”
Ava sat forward. “There is no maybe about it, miss. Jean-Luc could be the best thing that ever happened to you even if you never get a snog from him because at least you know there is life outside the four walls of Glenville Street and you don’t have to pin all your affections on someone who is clearly besotted with someone else!”
Hope thought of the picture of Dylan and Cyndi – their naked feet – together on Facebook and nodded. “A snog would have been nice though. I bet he is a good kisser. He looks like he could make a girl swoon with a brush of his lips on hers. It would have been nice. Apart from Dylan and our ill-fated Brigadoon nights of passion, it’s been a long time since I’ve been kissed. Embarrassingly long, if the truth be told. Like really embarrassingly long. Months long. Actually thinking about it, it might not be too far from being years long. Christ, I need a drink!”
Hope sat back and rubbed her temples. Her last pre-Dylan-drunken-fumble kiss – well, her last snog to be precise – had been a good twenty-two months ago. She had been out at an event in Belfast – a press launch which turned into drinks after with a group of hacks from the local newspaper. Six glasses of chardonnay (which was five more than her usual limit) and she found herself snogging someone with kebab breath and wandering hands at a taxi queue at Botanic. It was not an altogether pleasant experience and not one she ever wanted to repeat. The subsequent slump in the freelance market in Belfast had put paid to her social life and the majority of her days were spent in their house, lusting after fictional TV doctors (House, McSteamy, McDreamy and Adam from Casualty) and, latterly, Dylan. It struck her that maybe her feelings for him were as based in fiction as her feelings for Dr House. Once the end credits rolled, he would turn back into the friend she had always known. Maybe she wasn’t such a lost cause afterall.
Chapter 24
Ava listened to Hope speak animatedly about her day with Jean-Luc and she wondered when would be the appropriate time to hand over the letter she had sitting beside her which was clearly marked for Hope. She knew her letter had left her feeling emotionally raw and she imagi
ned that Betty, the crafty wee devil, had probably written something equally personal for Hope.
After she had finished the letter, and dried her tears and said some choice bad words, she had climbed into bed and slept for a solid two hours before waking to the ringing of her phone. Unable to rouse herself from her sleep, she let the phone ring onto answer service and had listened later to a message from Connor saying he missed her and loved her. She should have phoned him back but she knew that if she did she would have blurted the news that she was pregnant out there and then, and that was not what she wanted. Betty was right – she needed to get everything right in her own head and this was the perfect chance to think things through properly. Reading the letter had made her realise things needed to change – something needed to give and there was no reason it couldn’t. Maybe she could go part-time at work? Maybe Connor could look for work closer to home again, or even set up on his own? There were options. There had to be options. It didn’t have to be this hard. Other families made it work. She had smiled as she thought of the possibilities, buoyed up by Betty’s assurances that things can get better even when you find them all completely overwhelming.
She had got up, made herself something to eat and sat on the terrace watching the sun move across the sky. Looking at her watch she waited, impatiently, for Hope to come home eager to tell her that everything would be fine and to share with her the letter Betty had left with her name on it.
And now as she listened to her talk about the turn of events with Jean-Luc, she wasn’t sure when to drop the ‘And I found another letter’ bombshell.
“I’m sorry I left you all day,” Hope said. “I didn’t expect to be away so long. Time kind of ran away with us. I do feel guilty. Were you okay? Did you get much done? Oh God, that sounds awful like I’m expecting you to have done loads and you pregnant and all. Jeez, what’s wrong with me?”
Ava looked at her cousin who was working herself into a complete tizzy and she knew that now was the right time to hand over the letter.
“Actually,” she said, smiling at Hope and reaching out to hold her hand, “I had a strange and interesting day myself. I went through a lot in the kitchen. Sorted through the paperwork and put aside a few things you might want to look at or which we might want to try and sell on or whatever. But the most interesting thing is that I found more letters from Betty.”
“Letters? Plural?”
“Yes, two of them. One each. These are different, Hope. Mine was a long one – a tough read in places but a lovely read. There’s one for you too.”
Ava reached behind her and took the letter from the table and handed it over. She watched as Hope picked it up and started to open the envelope and she decided it would be the perfect time to go back to the kitchen and finish packing away the colourful china and heavy-leaded crystal and let Hope get on with reading the letter herself. She might even re-read her own letter again, for the fifth time, and try to digest the information. Yes, that is what she would do while she made another cup of tea and sat in the kitchen which she wished was her own.
Hope curled up on the tweed chair and pulled a soft woollen blanket around her as she pulled the paper from the envelope. She was surprised to find a second letter inside, in an envelope folded in half, marked with the words “Do Not Read” in bold letters, scrawled in red ink. One eyebrow raised, she set the mystery envelope to the side and unfolded the pages she was allowed to read in front of her.
My dear Hope,
Maybe you were expecting this at some stage? That I would write to you both individually. You must have known there were things that we would share, just us. Things that I wanted to say to just you. I wish I had stayed in touch more after your stay here – perhaps we were both a little lax there. Jean-Luc told me I should get a computer – you know, with the World Wide Web on it so that we could email. He even said I should join that Facebook thing. Can you think of anything more silly? Me on Facebook? I looked at it once in the internet café and it was all poking here and there and silly games and the like. No, I prefer good old pen and paper.
You probably think me an old fart for thinking that way. I imagine you and your lovely journalism career means you have a fancy laptop and that you are au fait with modern technology. I struggle with the DVD player, to be honest. I’d probably break a laptop if anyone was foolish enough to give one to me.
Anyway . . . I’m sorry I didn’t get in touch more. I did so enjoy your Christmas cards and birthday cards with the snippets of your news. I know I didn’t always reply but, believe me, I appreciated them. I have them in a box, you know, in the attic. I never throw things like that away. It would have been like throwing away someone’s secrets.
Oh Hope, you meant the world to me. I know to you I was probably just a mad aunt who occasionally sent a card and who drove you mad during your stay here in Saint Jeannet – but I loved you so much. Is that too much? Does that make me sound mad?
I have been thinking a lot recently about my life. That happens when you know the Banshee is on her way for you.
I’ve been thinking a lot about that summer when you and your friend came to stay. As you know, I hadn’t got over Claude’s death. I was pottering around here on my own, not sure of what to do anymore. That’s the problem when you devote your life to someone else entirely. When they are gone you find yourself not sure of what to do next or where to go. I thought it was time for me to just lie down and wait to croak it myself. I wanted to die, I suppose, and to be with him. I know that sounds awful. Believe me, especially now when I know what it is like to look death square in the face, I know how pathetic is sounds to even think about wanting to die before your time. But that was how I felt.
Do you know what my first reaction was when I got your phonecall asking if you could stay for a bit? Now excuse me, because I’m going to use some choice language here, Hope, but I thought about telling you to feck away off. The thought of anyone being under my roof that wasn’t Claude was not appealing. I mean, how could I get on with my Grade A moping and grieving with people in the house who needed to be cared for?
Pierre talked me round. He told me it would do me good and, much as I wanted to tell him to feck away off with himself too, I soon realised that no amount of grieving and weeping was going to bring Claude back and no amount of me just lying around and feeling sorry for myself was going to hasten the arrival of the Grim Reaper either. Oh, I was foolish to wish my life away.
So you arrived. Sun-kissed. Slightly smelly. Sounding like home. Full of life. I realised within an hour of you and Dylan being here that rather than fixating on death as I had done, I had to start fixating on life.
That meal I prepared the first night, the chicken hotpot with the fresh baked bread and the wine? That was the first proper meal I had eaten in weeks. I realised that night how hungry I was – not just for proper food but for life.
Oh Hope, didn’t we have fun? Chatting by the pool? Walking into the village together? Singing in the living room into the wee small hours?
You forced me to get out and about – to take you to see places and do things that I never thought I would do – and I realised I still had a life to lead. And it was a beautiful life. Sure the colour had faded a bit with Claude’s passing but how dare I want to throw the rest of it away?
You brought me back to life, my darling girl, and showed me that there was so much still out there. When you left I didn’t lie back down on the sofa and cry from morning till night. I picked myself up. I joined a few night-classes. I even joined a choir! Singing in French! Now there’s an experience! I took to volunteering at the nursing home two days a week and I lived my life.
Hope, you gave me hope. Don’t ever underestimate your ability to bring joy and comfort to people. You’re here for a reason.
But now that we’ have the mushy stuff out of the way, can I talk to you, woman to woman, about that Dylan character?
Don’t spend your life waiting for things to happen. In my case I was waiting to join Claude
again but, in your case, are you waiting for him? I can’t explain why, but I think you are and I know this might make you want to tell me to feck away off with myself but it’s not going to happen, sweetie. If a man wants a woman he wants her. He falls in love with her. He doesn’t wait fifteen years to see if there is a better option and then fall in love with her. And you are amazing – and you deserve for someone to fall in love with you the moment they see you and to love you forever. You don’t want to be anyone’s consolation prize and you don’t want to be with anyone who plays games with who they love and why they love them.
Are you cross with me now, petal? Am I off the mark? I don’t mean to offend. I just want you to be happy. Dylan seems like a nice man. We got on very well when he was here but I don’t want you to be stuck in a rut. A rut is not a nice place to be. A rut makes you live on toast and cry all day and pray for an early death.
I’ve brought you here to give you a little time to think – to have some space. Maybe to remember how vibrant you were when you were here those years ago and think about who you want to be. I didn’t get round to doing it when I was still alive, but I can now.
I’m just sorry I’m not here to see you again and give you a big hug and tell you face to face how you made my life special.
Now you may wonder what the second envelope is all about. It’s an envelope only for you. I hope to God you’ve found it and this letter. But, on your last day, Jean-Luc will give you one final envelope. Can you do me a big favour and give him this letter then? He has been so good to me, this is just a little something for him and I would love it if you would hand it over.
I know I’ve asked a lot, Hope, bringing you here. Getting you to sort out the house and now asking you to pass on this letter. But it will all make sense soon. It will all come out in the wash, as they say.
I love you, Hope. You deserve to be happy.