by Debbie Chase
Priscilla’s solicitor took his turn, outlining the facts that Ms. Fenton had told him. That she wasn’t keen on Mr. Fisher having visiting rights, as she didn’t want her daughter to be confused by the erratic presence of her father; that she didn’t feel she could trust him to maintain any visiting rights; that she only wanted what was best for her child, blah blah blah. I felt sorry for the poor man for his attempt at having to bulk out his speech with absolutely zero concrete facts. There was nothing he could say against Michael, as all the faults lay at Priscilla’s door, and all the real facts had already been said by Michael’s solicitor, Ralph Butcher.
There was a brief, tense silence before the judge spoke, his voice surprisingly warm and reassuring, belying his forbidding looks, as he said, “After listening to both sides of this somewhat sad story, I find Mr. Michael Fisher to be a man with a good heart, who has been prevented for the past two years from forming a close and loving relationship with his daughter, Leah Fisher. I fully agree with Mr. Fisher’s solicitor, Mr. Ralph Butcher, that Mr. Fisher be granted visiting rights with his daughter of every other weekend, Friday to Sunday and every Wednesday afternoon. This arrangement is to be reviewed when Leah Fisher becomes of age to attend nursery and school.” At this point, he fixed his steely gaze on Priscilla and said, “You will be in contempt of court if you breach a court order.”
I remember then the sighs of relief as the proceedings ended and the judge stood up and disappeared very suddenly through the black curtain behind him, putting me in mind of a coffin vanishing into the ether at a cremation. There was a scuffle of feet as we all trooped outside, and I saw Michael’s joyous expression as he raised his arm in the air and shook his fist in celebration of such a brilliant outcome to the struggles of the past two years.
The beep of my phone brought me back to the present, and I saw I had a text from Rose, asking if I was okay and wishing me luck for tonight. Oh my God, yes, The Pilgrims concert was tonight and, glancing at my watch, I realized that I really should be getting ready. What should I wear, though?
Blackness stood hard at the window, and the garden, shrouded now in near darkness, looked creepy in the gloom, the branches of the trees appearing deformed and twisted. Primulas glowed pink as a child’s night light, and a soft patter of rain began to fall. I pulled the heavy crimson curtains across the window, hiding the view, and went to take a shower.
Gazing into the mirror, I carefully applied make-up, blow-dried my hair, and after dressing in jeans and boots, I wound a scarf casually around my neck and slung a leather jacket over my shoulder. Yes, definitely a rock-chick look for The Pilgrims. You couldn’t get more rock and roll than Blake Edwards. Taking a glance in the mirror, I gave myself a thumbs-up sign and, letting myself out of my room, went downstairs for a drink in the bar to get myself in the mood.
The bar was cozy with lamps dotted around, throwing pools of light onto the wooden floors, and a real fire crackled majestically in the massive stone fireplace, reminding me, with a stab of nostalgia, of that lovely snowy day in the Royal Oak with James. Couples sat at tables drinking wine or elaborate cocktails, and most of the stools at the bar were taken by a group of men who chatted animatedly in broken French while enjoying their pints of beer with gusto. I drank a glass of wine with Amelia and Georges, who, when I told them about the concert, said they were big fans of The Pilgrims and had seen Mr. Blake performing many times at La Bar.
They obviously didn’t connect the young man I’d spent so much time with in the summer as being Mr. Blake, as they didn’t say anything about him or ask me who my companion had been. I suppose they thought it was none of their business who this crazy English girl wanted to go out with or why she was back here holidaying barely six months after her initial visit. Or perhaps, as was more than likely the case, they’d simply forgotten.
“You enjoy St. Malo?” asked Georges
“Oh yes,” I told him eagerly. “It’s a fantastic place.”
“You come live, maybe?” asked Amelia.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I told them with a shrug. “I have family in England—Mum, Dad, and a twin sister.”
“Oh my God,” said Amelia, raising her hands to her face, her eyes large. “There is two of you?”
“Two of you?” echoed Georges.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s called Rose—my identical twin!”
“You bring her here. We would like to see this other one of you, Ruby.”
“Yes,” I said before saying goodbye and taking the walk to La Bar. “Maybe next time I will.”
There were crowds milling around outside La Bar as I neared it, and two beefy-looking men were on the door checking tickets and bags. People chatted eagerly in French and in English and, as I walked inside, I noticed that there was a table displaying T-shirts and hoodies, the band name The Pilgrims etched on the front in thick letters, together with a picture of the four guys, a mass of long wavy hair, tight trousers, and bare chests, Blake always resplendent, in the middle as the lead singer, the draw of the group. As he certainly seemed to be with the number of girls I saw literally swooning over him with the words, “Mr. Blake gorgeous,” and “Sexy Blake.” There were also posters of all sizes, even life-size ones. If it had been Blake’s dream to become a pin-up, it was certainly about to come true.
Putting the T-shirt into my bag, I queued at the bar, listening to the loud rock music that was playing—music by Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Whitesnake, and Free, and then made my way through the crowds, managing to find a dark out of the way corner where I could merge into the shadows. But not before a red rose for Valentine’s was pushed into my hand by one of the bar staff as he weaved his way amongst the crowds, carrying a large overflowing basket.
It was standing room only, as most of the tables and chairs had been cleared away to make room for a makeshift stage, where a drum set and microphones were already in place. As it was only a small place, the crowd was close and hot bodies jostled against each other, as if in a sauna or a steam room. A burst of excitement shot through my veins along with the red wine, as well as dread at what I would say to Blake when I finally got to confront him after the show.
Without warning, the music suddenly stopped, Jon Bon Jovi silenced in his prime, and the lights dimmed. The silence was long and intense, so intense that everybody seemed to be holding their breath until all of a sudden, a loud drum roll sounded and the lights on the stage glared bright white and hot. A loud, manic cheer came from the crowd, and everybody raised their arms and flashed their phones, and before I could blink, the opening bars to “Baby, You’re a Doll” reverberated everywhere, around the walls, the ceiling and the floor, buzzing through my body like a dentist’s drill. And at last, they were there—The Pilgrims, live on stage. The already excited crowd erupted!
Chapter Fifteen
“Hey Blake, there’s a bird out here, calls herself Ruby—wants to talk to you.”
The young guy stood back, letting me go through to the small backstage area where the band was chilling out after the show. He chewed gum, popping it at regular intervals with his tongue, and arrogantly looking me up and down as if I was a prize heifer at a cattle market.
Blake appeared in the doorway, still wearing his stage clothes of the tight black trousers and unbuttoned waistcoat, bare hairy chest on display. He frowned, his head tilted to one side. “Ruby? Ruby Tuesday, right?” I nodded, and he said, “I’d sing the song, but—you know, the old pipes.” He put a hand to his throat as though it hurt and then brought a cigarette to his lips held tightly between his fingertips, palm upwards, and took a deep drag.
“Wow, you look good. Come in, come in.” He beckoned me with his head, and I followed him into a small, sparse room. The other three members of the band were relaxing lazily, their heavily booted feet up on chairs, smoking cigarettes and weed from the pungent smell and chugging beer from cans cold and beaded with moisture. I’d waited, hanging around in t
he bar area, until the crowds of fans had left. Until the band had signed autographs and posed for pictures, all part of the “Up Close and Personal” concert. I’d been there for hours.
He looked smaller than I remembered, not much taller than me, and pale, washed-out somehow without his summer tan. There was no denying that he was handsome and sexy—yes, definitely sexy—and sinewy, muscular. A weird sort of predatory appeal like Iggy Pop. He pushed a can into my hands and, taking one for himself, pulled the ring out and took a swig, saying, “How ya doing then, Ruby?”
Disappointment flooded me, a feeling so acute I wanted to stamp my feet and burst into tears. Is this what I’ve come all this way for? I thought. Is this it? Just a casual how ya doing Ruby?
“Do you remember me, Blake?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure I do.”
All thoughts of congratulating him on the band and his success went right out of my head, and without thinking, I whispered urgently, “You stopped getting in touch.” I was aware that the other band members were watching us, sizing me up, and trying to listen to what we were saying, “Is there somewhere else we can talk?” I asked him, my eyes flicking to the three guys.
He pulled on a jacket and said, “Yeah, come outside then.”
“You didn’t get in touch,” I said again as we stood outside in the cold, shivering. “I was worried about you. I texted and rang, but nothing.”
“Oh, yeah, I had my phone stolen.” He took a deep glug from the can and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips looked as red and ripe as strawberries, and from what I could remember, were just as tasty.
“You had your phone stolen?” I asked incredulously, “So, all those months when I was upset over you, you’d just had your phone stolen? You mean, if you hadn’t had your phone stolen, you’d have kept in touch?” A chilly breeze circled around us, making me hunch my shoulders to my ears.
“Yeah. Well, probably, but I had no way of contacting you, Ruby. Hey, I’m sorry, babe. I didn’t realize you were upset.”
I had an awful burning pain in my heart, and it was clattering away in there like a living thing, making me breathless. “You didn’t realize I’d be upset? But Blake, I thought we had something together. You said you’d come to Emsworth to see me—you promised.” I hated whining, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“Yeah, well, I had no number for you, Ruby. Then the band took off…. Look, you know, back in the summer, we had a blast.” He pulled a packet from his pocket and lit another cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“You used to vape,” I said moodily, folding my arms over my chest against the chill.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged and took another drag, smoke spilling from his mouth in a long thin plume. “Pressure, you know. But I gotta give it up, no good for my voice.” I nodded again, and he said, “Ruby, we had a—what do you call it? Holiday romance? A fling? Yeah, even you said it was a holiday romance. You liked a guy back home called James. Is that right?”
My heart sank as I remembered my teasing words, my attempt to be oh so world-wise like Blake, cool and sophisticated. I could kick myself.
The gum-chewing guy from earlier poked his head out into the cold and said urgently, “Hey, Blake, Viv’s on her way.”
“Okay, mate, thanks.” Blake, looking at the ground, took one last drag of his cigarette before flicking it away into the darkness. It lay on the ground, a tiny smoldering orange light.
“Viv?” I asked, my heart pounding. Surely he could hear it.
Before he could reply, a tall blonde woman came outside to join us. She was as statuesque and beautiful as a plus-size model, making me feel tiny and gauche as a child. She wore tight skinny jeans with towering high heels and a low necked top from which her large breasts spilled like squishy pillows. She went to Blake and, putting a possessive hand on his arm, drawled, “Hey, honey. You okay? How’d it go?”
“Yeah, good,” he replied, and when she glanced over at me, he said, “Hey Viv, this is Ruby. Ruby, Viv.”
Viv looked at me questioningly as I stammered, “Um, yeah. I met Blake a while ago here in La Bar.” I hated Blake for putting me through this, for not explaining who she was, for standing there, head bowed, and staring at the ground in embarrassment. I glanced at him, but he remained silent, unresponsive. Desperate to know, needing to know, I asked her, “Are you Blake’s girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend?” she said, giggling a bit and shaking her head. “I’m his wife, sweetie.” Blake, cringing, stood stock still, glad, I suppose, that it was her and not him who had told me the truth. “Almost our three-year anniversary already, isn’t it, honey?” She put a casual arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. He was so ill at ease that I very nearly felt sorry for him.
So, the truth is out, I thought. He was married all the time—even our holiday romance was a lie!
Desperate to get away, I turned then and began to run, Blake’s voice calling for me echoing in my head. “Ruby, come back.”
And then Viv’s voice. “Oh, for God’s sake, Blake, leave her. After all, she’s just another one of your groupies!”
I ran past the other band members and the gum-chewing guy, who gawped at me, wide-eyed, and then out of La Bar, slipping and stumbling in my high heeled boots over the cobbled paths, past all the little gift shops and bars, their doors firmly closed for the night. I ran along the sea wall, where I could hear the faint sucking of the choppy water as it crept like searching fingers along the sand.
I kept on running, my breath ragged and heavy, away from my memories of the summer before, away from Blake’s glassy green eyes and strawberry-lipped kisses, away from his silly French accent and husky rendition of “Ruby Tuesday.” I ran into La Petite Amelia, quiet now and dark, everybody in bed, the fire from earlier a tiny red smoulder and the smell of wood smoke in the air. I ran up the stairs to the sanctuary of my room, where I threw myself onto the bed, my head in my hands.
I cried then, for a long, long time, heart-wrenching sobs tearing at my body, hot salty tears running down my face and soaking into my jeans. I cried until, head pounding and worn out, I curled into a ball tight as a fetus and, pulling the duvet closely around me, fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~*~
Even the chattering of the gulls was soothing, reassuring as I stood yet again on the swaying ferry, holding onto the deck rail with cold fingers, watching the silver shores of St. Malo gradually recede into the distance. Would I ever return? Hmm, maybe not. There were too many sad memories of this place to ever make me happy again. I’d stayed in my room for most of the day after the showdown with Blake, only venturing out for a short walk along the beach, crunching on the stones, head bent and hands deep in my pockets. The weather had changed from frosty sunshine and blue skies to grey driving rain and raging wind, and on the second day, with a heavy heart, I packed my bag and, with an excuse to Amelia and Georges about a family crisis, left La Petite Amelia.
“Come back with the one who looks like you, Ruby,” pleaded Amelia.
“Yes,” echoed Georges. “Come back soon.”
Thoughts of Blake occupied my mind constantly. I imagined him as he was last summer, the man of my dreams, my hero, with that charming boyish smile. And now he was a rock star, a hardened, cynical sex symbol, suddenly older, bordering on seedy, and an adulterer. Had it not been love but a girly crush? My heart pounded erratically, and the thought, What on earth am I going to do now? flitted through my mind. I missed the Blake I thought I’d known, the happy-go-lucky up-and-coming musician. The Blake that had never really existed, the Blake I’d conjured up in my head, the almost perfect young man, talented and honest, and not the cowardly and weak liar that he’d turned out to be.
I thought of Blake’s wife, Viv, and her comment about me just being one of his groupies. Just another girl he’d used to cheat on her. I’d had a suspicion of another woman, but a wife? No way
!
James, I thought suddenly. James is the only thing in my life that could make me feel clean again. But why would he want me now? No, I’d blotted my copy book with James, and there was definitely no going back.
I disembarked from the ferry at Portsmouth, once again shuffling along in the chattering crowds, not only my rucksack weighing me down, but grief too, and sadness for all the hopes and dreams that hadn’t been realized in St. Malo. As the bus trundled its way to Emsworth, I gazed from the window, admiring the view of Langstone’s stony beach and, again, not minding the stench of the mud as it wound its way like smoky tendrils through the window. People wearing wellies and carrying buckets gathered cockles from the wrinkled sand. I was content, in a way that even I couldn’t understand, to be almost home.
I longed to see Mum and Dad and Rose and watch their concerned faces as I told them the tale of Blake Edwards and my broken heart. That thought spurring me on, I went at a trot down Emsworth High Street, which was busy as usual with people wandering in and out of the shops and pubs and cafes. The smell of hot pasties and baking bread streamed from the baker’s, and a chilly wind blew in from the rough grey sea.
A dark blue car that I recognized as Nan and Grandad’s was parked outside the house as I hurried up the garden path, and to say that my heart sank like a stone at the sight of it is no exaggeration. As I quietly let myself in through the back door, I heard raised voices from the sitting room.
I recognized Nan’s wailing tone. “Oh, how could you? How could you keep this from us?”
And then Grandad. “Yes, you’re out of order, May. This is a family thing. We should have been told.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” said Mum, her voice panicky. “We gave him away. I didn’t think you’d want to see him. I’ve been in turmoil about what to do.”
There was an intense silence before Nan wailed again. “Oh, May, we did what we had to do at the time, but we had a right to know,” and burst into noisy sobs.