Thirty-three
J ust before the light started to fade, unable to concentrate on anything and desperate to escape the urge to constantly check her phone, Charlotte had left the device on the table and gone out into Juliette’s lovely garden, pacing around in an attempt to calm herself.
Like Alain’s garden, but a larger version, it was a secret green world behind high walls, and felt like it was kilometres, rather than metres, away from the busy streets outside. But unlike Alain, Juliette had never done the gardening work herself. She had always employed people to keep it in perfect shape. That included a big mulberry tree, which was an absolutely superb specimen of its kind, like everything here. Strolling around, Charlotte thought about how all those years ago, Juliette had entrusted the design of the garden to her. And it had worked so well that Juliette had entered it for an award, without telling her niece. To Charlotte’s complete astonishment, it had won, setting her business on the road to success. Those had been happy times, when everything seemed so new, so promising, so exciting …
The sudden thought came to her, then: How long has it been since I was happy? I mean properly happy, rather than not unhappy? And the answer came, unbidden, unwelcome even, but ringing with truth—it was before Tom went into a funk, before things changed between them. It had begun happening in subtle ways before that. Why? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was because she had achieved what she thought she wanted in her work, and now it was just a question of maintaining things rather than building them; the excitement gone along with the challenge. Or maybe it was because the hectic, heady years of building a family and raising children with Tom had gone. Or simply because two years ago she’d turned fifty and still felt unsettled about that. Or maybe it was none of those things. Or all of them. ‘Because, you see,’ Charlotte said, addressing the garden, ‘the truth is that I haven’t been wholeheartedly happy for quite a while. And I can’t blame Tom for that.’ With that thought, she headed back inside.
Hours passed. Still no word from Tom. The only messages were two from Elise, which she’d already answered. And one from Arielle, which she’d received a couple of hours ago but hadn’t properly looked at, or replied to, as she could see it consisted mostly of pictures of the bee farm. She made herself some dinner from a tin of cassoulet she’d found in Juliette’s pantry and drank several cups of coffee, determined to stay awake till Tom arrived or at least she heard something. She’d checked the Eurostar timetables and knew the last train from London would arrive at about 11.20 pm. Even allowing for delays, and even if you walked, it shouldn’t take more than forty minutes to get to Juliette’s house from the Gare du Nord terminus.
But at midnight there was still no sign of Tom, and no word from him either. A dozen times, she had wanted to message him and a dozen times she’d stopped herself. She could not sound as though she were pleading with him. She had to take charge. She had to be the one in control here, not him. But who was she kidding? Not even herself, she thought, morosely. She was very far from being in control of her emotions, let alone anything else.
Now, as the time ticked inexorably towards 12.30 and then 1 am, her nerves were so jangled by the coffee, a maelstrom of emotions and the long, anxious wait, that she would have grasped at anything to distract herself. And so she brought up the photos Arielle had taken. The place certainly looked pretty, with the golden-brown hives set against the cherry trees, the setting sun in the background, and the flowery meadow underfoot. She scrolled through the rest—the attractive but shabby farmhouse, two men chatting by another building: one of them a short, stocky figure who seemed to be the beekeeper, the other man, tall, angular-faced, and vaguely familiar to Charlotte. Her memory for faces was good, and in a moment it came to her—he’d been talking with Arielle that day Charlotte had first seen her at the flower market. She glanced at the final image briefly when something caught her eye. She stilled. No. Surely it couldn’t be . She zoomed in on the image, stared at it, trying to make sure. But there was no doubt at all.
She had to let Emma know. But it was much too late to call. And it would take too long to explain in a text. So she recorded a brief voice message and had only just sent it with the photo when the door buzzer rang, the sound startling her so much she jumped up, almost dropping the phone. Heart beating wildly, she stood frozen. This is it. This is really it .
The buzzer rang again. This time, a voice came through the speaker. ‘Hello, Lottie.’ Her familiar nickname, in Tom’s familiar voice. She bit down on her lip but managed to say, ‘Hi, Tom’ as she pressed the button that released the door.
He looked exhausted, his sharp features drawn into deep lines, the lids of his blue-green eyes puffy, his chin and upper lip unshaven, his usually springy fair hair lying lank against his skull. He’d clearly dressed in a hurry, which gave her a shock because even lately he’d taken care to be well groomed, well dressed, as if that fa?ade might be enough to convince everyone that everything was fine.
‘I know it’s late,’ he said. ‘I got in hours ago—but I couldn’t—I was just—I was simply walking around.’
She swallowed. ‘I couldn’t sleep, anyway. Come to the kitchen. I’ll make us some coffee.’
He followed her and, putting down his overnight bag, sat down in the chair she indicated. He glanced around. ‘Where’s Juliette?’
‘Gallivanting around Europe with her fancy man,’ she said lightly. ‘I have the house to myself.’ It felt surreal talking to him like this, as if they were having a normal conversation about normal things …
‘Oh,’ he said, putting his hands palms down on the table. Charlotte knew that gesture of old. He made it when he was about to say something he was nervous about but really wanted to say. He’d done it when he asked if she would go out with him; when he’d asked her to marry him; when he’d asked if she’d thought about them trying for a third child. To all those things she’d said yes; but now? What was trembling on his lips? Uneasily, she went over to the coffee machine, asking, ‘Okay, so you want one?’
He nodded but didn’t say anything, his hands flat on the table.
‘For fuck’s sake, Tom, you’ve come a bloody long way just to sit at that table,’ she snapped, the tension finally exploding in her. ‘What do you want to say?’
He looked at her, the hands twitching a little. Then he said quietly, ‘I know this is probably far too late. But I’m so sorry, Lottie.’
The hollowness in his voice struck deep into her, but she could not let it show. She said, her tone quiet again, ‘You are going to have to tell me, Tom. You know that, don’t you?’
She saw his Adam’s apple move up and down in his throat. He nodded and put his hands flat down on the table again. Here it comes , Charlotte thought, as reasons for his behaviour over the last couple of months flashed into her brain, each more heartbreaking than the next.
‘I quit my job,’ he said.
For a moment, she couldn’t process it, could only gape at him.
‘I’ve quit my job,’ he repeated, adding, ‘I called my boss from the Eurostar this afternoon.’
‘This afternoon ?’ Her voice rose steeply. ‘Tom, this—this shit of yours has been going on for months! So what the fuck does quitting your job this afternoon have to do with anything?’
He winced at her tone. Good .
‘Everything,’ he said. ‘I—’ Emotions ran across his face, and it made him look more like the Tom she knew. ‘It’s been quite a while since I’ve felt okay there. Much longer than months.’
‘You never said,’ she said, staring at him.
‘How could I? I couldn’t see the point of what I was doing anymore, it felt hollow, empty. But I was so embedded in the whole thing, I couldn’t see a way out. And moaning about my privileged life, my brilliant career’—he gave a bitter laugh—‘well, that would reveal me as a total loser in front of everyone. You, most especially, Lottie. You cope so well with everything—your work, our kids, life in general. Whereas I …’ The words had come tumbling out, like floodwater over a dam wall, but now they ceased as abruptly as they’d started and he sat there, looking at her with such a desolate expression that it caught at her throat.
‘No, Tom,’ she said thickly. ‘You know I’m not some kind of superwoman. You can’t use that as an excuse for not telling me what you were going through. I would never have thought you a loser! You must know I would have tried to help if only you’d let me in. You have put me through absolute hell, and now you want to blame me for it? That’s not fair.’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. She wouldn’t cry. Not now.
‘Oh, Lottie,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m not blaming you. I know you tried to help but I couldn’t bring myself to talk, let alone to act. And the longer it went on, the harder it became. Then, when you left, I thought we were finished. I’d driven you away and that was almost … a relief.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘I thought you’d do better without me—’ He broke off and Charlotte almost jumped in to shout at him, but he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, halting her words. ‘But when Elise came round and gave it to me with both barrels,’ he went on, ‘when she told me how unhappy you were, when she said how you’d tried so hard to soldier on, despite it all, then I saw clearly what a narcissistic self-pitying coward I was, throwing away everything that has ever meant anything to me. And for what?’ His eyes were bright with unshed tears. ‘For bloody stupid macho pride!’
Charlotte felt a strange sensation in her chest, as if something that had been squeezed tight was beginning to deflate. It hurt, but so had the pain that had been lodged deep inside for months. ‘Oh Tom,’ she said, sadly. ‘We used to tell each other what we felt, even if it was hard. When did we stop?’
He looked at her, a question in his eyes. ‘I don’t know, Lottie. I suppose it just happened.’
She remembered her thoughts earlier, in the garden. ‘It did, to both of us.’
There was a silence. Then Tom said hesitantly, ‘I—really—I really don’t want to lose you, Lottie, but I understand if you—if you can’t forgive me for …’
He broke off and she touched his hand, very briefly, and the flicker of hope in his eyes wrung her heart. ‘Let’s not say any more right now,’ she said. ‘It’s very late and we’re both exhausted. In the morning, we can see better what things look like.’ She pointed to his bag. ‘Did you book into a hotel?’
He nodded. ‘It’s not far.’
‘Forget it. Stay here tonight. In one of the spare rooms,’ she added. ‘You’ve stayed here before—I don’t need to tell you where everything is.’
He nodded, the ghost of a smile on his face. ‘Okay, Lottie.’ And he picked up his bag and headed for the stairs.