by Claire Allan
“I know, Mum,” she said, feeling the word mum heavy on her heart.
“I love you.”
“I know,” she said, hanging up and turning in her bed to look to where Connor was snoozing. She should have said ‘I love you too’ but she just couldn’t. Not that she didn’t, just that she couldn’t say it. Not yet.
After two glasses of Merlot. Hope decided to re-read the letters Betty had sent to her and Ava. She kind of wished she could find another letter from Betty – or that Betty could be there to tell her what to do. But in the absence of both of those distractions she read over the words she had already seen, reminding herself of Betty’s distrust of Dylan, her own bravery at moving across Europe for someone she loved, her determination to get on with her life after Claude had died. And she realised that she could stay, there on the floor reading old letters, or she could face, head on, the mess she had made of her life and start putting it back together.
She’d had enough of making half plans. Of threatening to move out of her house. Of thinking maybe she would go back to travel writing. Of wondering whether or not she fancied Jean-Luc and whether or not he fancied her back. But the thing she was most of all fed up with was her Dylan obsession.
Get over yourself and get over him, she chided herself as she stood up and poured the remainder of the bottle of wine down the sink. Walking through to the bathroom she glanced at herself in the mirror. Her lips had that dodgy red-wine staining thingy going on and her complexion was more than washed out. It was almost corpse-like. Her hair stuck lankly to her head and her eyes looked sad. Not just tired but sad. What would Betty do, she asked herself as she pulled her hair back off her face and examined the wrinkles and blemishes and tiredness staring back at her.
“She sure as feck wouldn’t be drinking herself stupid,” she said aloud.
She switched on the shower and watched as the curls of hot, reviving steam rose and filled the small ensuite. Stepping under the steam she lathered herself with her favourite Jo Malone Lime Basil and Mandarin body wash and stood for ten minutes just letting the fragrance infuse into her spirit before washing her hair and stepping out of the steam. Drying off, she wrapped herself in her fluffy dressing-gown and brushed her hair out into loose curls. She made a cup of tea and walked through to Betty’s study where she sat at the desk, pulled out of a clean sheet of paper and a pen and started to write.
Dear Me,
I’m sorry for treating you the way I have done. I’m sorry that I’ve not given you the life you always dreamed of so far. That doesn’t mean we won’t get there. Believe me, I want to get there as much as you. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure where ‘there’ is any more. I thought it was with Dylan – I know you felt the same. But you know, I don’t really think it is.
I thought it was working in Belfast but, you know, we’ve become a bit boring in our old age, haven’t we? Remember how you loved adventure? Remember how you would be the first person to want to stick a pin in that map and go wherever that blind faith took you? I know you ended up in some pretty dodgy places but you ended up in some pretty cool places too. I miss them. I miss that following my nose and hunting a story and walking down dust tracks and over mountains and on crowded buses filled with chickens and mad people. I know I used to say I would give anything for an air-conditioned room and a soft bed, but you know if you get air-conditioning and comfortable beds all the time it becomes a bit frigging boring.
Do you think you settled down because it was the right thing to do? Do you think that you just thought “Oops, thirty now, time to get a job and a house and a man in my life”? I think maybe I made that mistake. And I’m sorry for being so focused on doing what I thought I was supposed to that I forgot to think about what I really, really wanted.
I’m going to change though. Yes, I know that is scary. I’m scared. And I’m not even 100% sure how I’m going to do it. I mean, the settled years have not been kind for my bank balance but I’m not going to wait any more.
So much of my life, our life, your life, has been on hold waiting for something to happen. We waited for university to finish. We waited to travel the world. We waited till we got home. We waited, and waited, and waited for Dylan to love us back. And yes, I know you still love him. I know a part of you will always love him but he can’t be the love of your life if he doesn’t love you back. Love doesn’t work that way. It might feel like your heart will break into a million pieces because he isn’t drawing little heart bubbles with your name in the middle but if he really was the one, the universe would have fixed it for him to know that.
Betty knew. She knew with Claude. Even when it was tough and even when she couldn’t have another baby. She knew that there was one man she could always turn to – and who would always turn to her. Dylan isn’t your Claude. I hate to say this but you may never meet your Claude – but we will be okay with that. I don’t know how I know but I do. Being here, being through this, well, that has taught me that.
I’m done with waiting. I’m going to get on with living. Are you with me?
Much love,
Me
X
Hope folded the piece of paper and took it through to slip it in the corner of her suitcase and promised herself she would write another letter, and another, and another and she would keep writing them until she had convinced herself that she really had made the changes she wanted to in her life.
Smiling, she picked up her phone and called Jean-Luc. As he answered she steadied herself and said with a confidence she most certainly did not feel, “Hi Jean-Luc. I’m sorry for my behaviour earlier today. Truly I am. I would love to go to the market at Marseille with you tomorrow if you don’t mind and I promise to behave myself.”
There was a pause, during which time she wondered had she made the entire situation worse and not better, before he spoke.
“I will pick you up at ten. I look forward to seeing you.”
Slipping off her dressing gown and under the covers of her bed, Hope drifted off to sleep thinking that Scarlett O’Hara and Annie were both right. There was a lot to look forward to about tomorrow.
Chapter 33
Hope felt a rush of excitement flood through her veins as they drove into the bustling port of Marseille. Jean-Luc had arrived bang on ten o’clock, smiling warmly as she opened the door to him.
“We willsay no more about yesterday,” he said. “We will just talk about France and the markets. Have you been to Les Puces de Marseille before? When you were here before, perhaps?”
Hope shook her head. She had heard of the market – but she had never been. After their round-the-world adventure they’d had about their fill of markets with over-the-top salespeople trying to con them out of their money, so when they had hit France they had stuck with the small village shops and the occasional trip to the hypermarket.
“It can be very busy, but stick with me,” said Jean-Luc. “My friend he owns a small shop – antiques and oddities – he was delighted with what he was sent from Betty. He thinks he can get a good price.”
“I’m not worried about the price,” Hope said. “It feels wrong to profit from Betty’s death – to sell off her possessions.”
“Your aunt, she was not a terribly materialistic person. She will be happy that the items have found new homes and you should treat yourself with the proceeds.”
Shrugging her shoulders, Hope thought it would be a good start to her travel-the-world fund. Some would still go to charity, of course, but some would help her fulfil the promises she had made to herself the night before.
“Do you miss her?” Hope asked.
“Betty. Of course. She was a dear friend. She, how do you say it, kept me on my toes. She didn’t miss anything.”
No, Hope thought, there wasn’t much that got past Betty and her eagle eyes.
“Did she seem unhappy to you? She says she was happy, and she seemed it when I visited, but do you think she really was, carrying around this big secret?”
“I thin
k she was,” Jean-Luc said, simply. “She maybe realised just how precious life really was.”
“I suppose.”
The salty smell of the sea assaulting her nostrils, Hope stepped out into the baking heat and allowed the sun to wash over her. If she never set foot inside the market and never sold a single thing, a part of her would still believe she was somehow in paradise.
“It’s wonderful,” she said.
“It’s noisy and busy,” Jean-Luc replied with a laugh.
“You are just used to it,” she said, “You never appreciate what you are used to.”
“Sounds to me like you are missing home,” Jean-Luc replied, closing the car door after her and guiding her towards the gateway of the marketplace.
“It’s not home I’m missing,” she said with a wink. “It’s something more than that.”
“You are an intriguing character, Mademoiselle Scott,” Jean-Luc replied and she smiled, her heart light as she walked into the hustle and bustle of the market.
Stalls stood beside small stone shops, with enticing window displays. The shouts of the market traders, selling their wares – everything from fresh fruit and vegetables to vintage clothes – rang in Hope’s ears as she tried to get her bearings. People brushed past, lost in their own world – getting what they needed for their families and themselves. This was their life. Just as in Belfast when people milled around Victoria Square, grumpy faces drawn as they ran in from the rain, concerned with their shopping trips and what they might do that night for dinner. But Hope stood there, feeling alive.
“Please come this way,” Jean-Luc said, weaving his way to a small shop cluttered with pictures and tasselled lamps and 101 things which Hope could not decide whether she loved or despised.
Jean-Luc introduced Hope to a stocky man called Louis, with penny glasses who looked a little like a short, fat Poirot, only that he wore jeans and a T-shirt which was at least two sizes too small. He smiled widely and held out his hand for her to shake, looking her up and down as if perhaps she too were on sale. She felt uneasy, and a little bit queasy if the truth be told.
“The items are selling well,” he said. “They are not worth much, just bric-a-brac really but I will do my best. You are welcome – most welcome – to stay as long as you want.”
Standing there, in the dark room, with a man who gave her the creeps while the whole world was waking up around her, Hope realised no. She didn’t want to live in the past any more. She wanted to move on. She couldn’t wait to move on.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I’d love to see some of Marseille, though, Jean-Luc, if you have no business here. Or when you are done. I am happy to wander the streets on my own. More than happy.”
“I have a few items I wish to discuss with Louis, but we can meet in a while. I’ll bring you back to Saint Jeannet or to the hospital, whichever suits.”
“Great,” she said, eager to get out and see the world. “How about we meet at the museum when you are free?”
“It’s a date,” he said and she turned and left the past behind, in more ways than one.
The verdict was in. The bleeding had eased but the doctor had warned Ava that the clot was still there and it could grow, or it could be reabsorbed by her body. She would definitely have to take it easy – but the chances were good. Lots of people bled in pregnancy and went on to have absolutely healthy babies.
“We’d like to keep you in for another 24 to 48 hours just to monitor you and perhaps run a few more tests but you should be okay to fly home.”
“Thank God,” Ava had said, turning to smile at Connor and then back at the doctor. “We have a little girl at home and we would love to get back to her soon.”
The doctor smiled. “Ah, what age is she?”
“Just two.”
“Well, two can be a tough age,” she said, “so no lifting her up when you get back. You will have to slow down and take things easy and you will have to see your doctor on a regular basis, but please stay positive. This little baby obviously wants to be here so let us try and get him or her here safely.”
When the doctor left, Connor got on the bed beside Ava and hugged her. “Now, Ava Campbell, I know you very well and there will be a part of you which didn’t hear all the positive stuff and only heard the bad stuff.”
He knew her so well. She didn’t consider herself a pessimist, more a realist, and for the last five minutes her stomach had been swirling like a washing machine, stopping each time the doctor said something positive (the bleeding has stopped, many women bleed in pregnancy and it works out okay, you are fine to go home) and launched into a reverse spin every time she hinted at caution (the clot may grow, you have to take it easy, no lifting the two-year-old).
“The bad stuff is scarier,” she said, sniffing and wondering how on earth she would ever manage not to lift Maisie. The first thing she wanted to do when she got home was to lift her as high as possible and cuddle her for at least half an hour.
“The bad stuff is just a possibility,” said Connor. “Look, pet, remember when you were pregnant with Maisie and watched all those birthing programmes on Sky and terrified yourself stupid that something would go wrong in the delivery? Well, all those things could have gone wrong but they didn’t. Worrying didn’t change that or make it okay, it just made you feel wound up and, to be honest, act quite the grumpy cow for the last few months.”
She elbowed him gently in the ribs but she knew he was right.
“I’m scared,” she said.
“So am I. But we’ll just take things as they come.”
She allowed herself to fall back into his arms and lie there, just the two of them in the room, listening to the French chatter of the staff and the sound of the birds just outside the window.
“Betty couldn’t have any more children,” Ava said, softly. It had been playing on her mind – that crib in the attic – since all this happened. “She was okay with it in the end, but it was hard. She had a crib in the attic that Claude made for the baby they never had. There’s a cardigan there too – she said she knit it for me.”
“We could take it home with us?” Connor said softly.
Ava turned to look at him. She wasn’t sure. “I don’t know.”
“It could be nice to have something from her – something she intended for you.”
Ava closed her eyes and breathed in again. This was all still so surreal. The thought that someone other than her ‘mum’ had given birth to her. The thought that she had been thirty-four years old before she found out.
“I don’t know.”
“We don’t need to make any decisions now. I know this must be strange for you.”
“You have no idea.”
“Well, maybe not. But you should take the little cardigan – and maybe the crib too. Someday, you might like to have them around you. Some day you mightbe grateful for them. Some day it might make sense.”
“I don’t know who I am any more.”
“You are you. Ava Campbell. Wife. Mother. Teacher. Obsessive compulsive. With a big heart and a dimple right there on your right cheek. You wear Size 6 shoes. You like to colour-code your life. You like EastEnders and you hate Emmerdale. After three glasses of wine you get a little giddy. After champagne, you get a little frisky. You take two sugars in your coffee, but none in your tea. Your favourite perfume is Chanel No. 5 and you know all the words to The Sound of Music, even the dialogue. If any of that has changed in the last few days then let me know. Otherwise, you are still you.”
“We’ll see about the crib,” Ava said, kissing him lightly.
They lay together for a while longer, drifting in and out of a doze, until Ava’s phone sprang to life. Lifting it, she saw she had a text message from Karen.
“Just saw your mum. You’re pregnant? WTF? You’ve some explaining to do, girl!”
Ava rolled her eyes. First of all she figured she would kill Cora for passing on her news, especially when she knew how touch-and-go things were and second of all s
he just felt angry and hurt at Karen.
“Why does Karen think I need to explain anything to her?” she asked Connor, handing him the phone. “I’m pretty sure she is a big girl and, given that she is a mother herself, she knows where babies come from. I’m pretty sure she would, therefore, have an idea of how I’m pregnant. And I’m pretty sure my mother – who I will kill – would have told her that I’m in hospital so why the hell would anyone send a fecking WTF message to someone in hospital? Whatever issues Karen has about me, or motherhood, or pregnancy, or whatever, you do not send a WTF message to someone in hospital who may or may not be losing her baby. And you do not demand explanations from a thirty-four-year-old. I’m not a child. I’m a sensible married woman with already one child and if I happen to get up the stick again – admittedly after one too many glasses of champagne – then it is none of her fecking business. I’ve relied on her for too long, Connor. I’ve let her talk down to me for too long. I’ve felt hideously guilty because the last time we spoke we had a row. I felt sorry for feck sake and now this – this,” she said pointing to her phone, “is how she responds! Well, she can stick her WTF up her WTF-ing hole!”
She stopped to take a breath and saw Connor looking at her in wonder.
He put her phone down and started to clap, slowly at first. “About bloody time,” he said. “She has been bringing you down for too long. You don’t need her.”
“No,” she said. “All I need is right here in this room, apart from that wee bit that I need that is in her Granny Brigid’s house.”
“Are you going to reply?”
“I sure am,” Ava said, lifting the phone and battering out a text message in response.
“Nothing to explain. Am pregnant. We are very happy. Hopefully baby will be fine. And by the way, life lesson to remember, if you can’t say anything nice then keep your mouth shut. And no, I won’t be apologising this time.”