Thirty
C harlotte had been struggling to write an article that a garden design magazine had asked her to contribute. She usually refused such requests because she wasn’t a natural writer. Words that flowed naturally from her lips seemed to stiffen up on the page. But this issue of the magazine was a tribute to one of her mentors and she really wanted to do it. She’d written draft after draft and still it wasn’t right, so she’d taken herself for a long walk, ending up at the flower market.
She chatted for a while with Arielle about the bee farm in the Chevreuse Valley, and after she left the market, it occurred to her that what the other woman had said, about how bees were perceived in the Middle Ages, could be something she could adapt for the beginning of her magazine piece. She could say that the nectar of flowers, carried back to the hive to transform into honey, could be likened to the wisdom of mentors. You needed the right flowers for the bees to gather nectar, or your honey wouldn’t taste right, just as you needed the right mentors to gather wisdom from if you were to transform their insights into something new. It sounded like a good metaphor to her, and she had pulled out her phone to make a note when it buzzed with an incoming call. It was Emma, asking for the contact details of the detective agency that Charlotte had mentioned. Now all they had to do was wait.
She was back at Juliette’s and about to start work again on the article when her phone rang once more. Elise, this time.
‘Marm—’ Her daughter sounded agitated. ‘Have you heard from Dad?’
Charlotte’s stomach dropped. ‘No. Why?’
‘I—oh bugger,’ Elise’s voice was wobbling, as if she was close to tears. ‘I didn’t think. I was so angry!’
Charlotte felt a wave of cold engulf her. With an effort, she said, ‘It’s all right, sweetheart. Calm down. Tell me what happened.’
‘I went round to see Dad yesterday evening,’ Elise said shakily. ‘I’d been thinking about how unhappy you’ve been, how you’ve had to put up with so much shit, how Dad’s been so bloody selfish and unfair, shutting us all out, not letting anyone help him, and I—well, I guess it got to me. Somebody had to make him see sense, to make him realise what he was doing, and it might as well be me.’ Charlotte heard her swallow. Of all the children, Elise had been the closest to Tom, always able to elicit a smile from him, even when he was cranky. ‘So I went round there,’ Elise continued. ‘He didn’t look great, and I almost relented, but then he …’ She broke off, and Charlotte suppressed an urge to shout, What happened?
‘I told him I’d been to Paris to see you,’ Elise said, ‘and that I was worried about you.’
‘Oh, Elise.’
‘He just looked at me, nodded, then started asking me how I was doing at uni. I lost it then, I’m afraid. I told him everything I felt about how he was behaving, and he, well—’ She swallowed again. ‘He stood there and said nothing. I couldn’t bear it, so I left.’
Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to speak because the scene Elise had described was all too vivid in her mind. Then she said, ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through that on my account, but thank you,’ her voice cracked, ‘for trying.’
‘That isn’t all.’ Elise took a deep breath. ‘This morning, I woke up and I kept thinking of the look on his face as I was ranting away at him. I tried to call but the phone went straight to voicemail. I called him at work, but they said he hadn’t come in. I went round to the house just now, but he didn’t answer my knock, and I was worried, so I used my key and went in and I saw …’
Charlotte felt as though she could scarcely breathe, her mind filling with awful images. ‘What did you see?’ she cried.
‘His laptop was on the kitchen bench. When I popped it open the screen sprang to life.’ Her voice changed tone. ‘He’d been looking at Eurostar timetables. And his passport’s missing—I saw that when I looked in the drawer he usually keeps it in. I’m afraid he’s probably heading to Paris.’
The relief that he was okay hit Charlotte at the same time as a new anxiety flooded over her. If Tom was heading here, then there was no time left. She had to decide what it was she really wanted. But I’m not ready , she thought, wildly. Not yet!
‘Marm? Are you still there?’ The stress was clear in Elise’s voice.
‘It’s okay, darling,’ she said as steadily as she could. ‘It’s probably a good thing he’s coming. Try not to worry. Everything will be all right.’
After Elise had rung off, Charlotte sat staring into space, heart thumping, thoughts whirling wildly. Part of her wanted to run away at once and hole up in a hotel where Tom wouldn’t find her so the showdown would be staved off once more. But another part knew she could no longer avoid it. Then a thought struck her. Was he really coming? He might have bottled it at the last minute.
She brought up his number on her phone, her finger hovering over the call symbol, then retreating. She couldn’t speak to him. Not on the phone. Instead, she tapped out a terse text. Where are you?
She didn’t really expect an answer. And none came. She sent another message. I might not be here when you arrive .
A beat of time, then a reply. Only one word. Please .
She stared at it for a long moment, her eyes smarting, her chest constricting with such a painful mix of emotions that she felt like she could barely breathe. Then she tapped out a final text. Just one word, too. Okay .