Chapter 20
20
Lismay
‘Bloody hell, old girl.’ Piers heaved himself back onto the bed in their London flat. ‘It’s good to be out of pain. I mean, obviously I’m still in pain, after being hacked open, but not that awful feeling, like rats gnawing at your bones.’ He flumped back onto his pillows with a smile.
‘You should have done it done sooner.’ Lismay levered his shoes off and put them on the floor.
‘Oh, I know, I know. But I thought I could soldier on. It all seemed such a bother.’
‘Well,’ said Lismay. ‘We’ll be back in France for Christmas, with a fair wind.’
‘Everything all right at the ranch?’
‘Connie’s got it all under control.’ She reached over and smoothed his hair out of his eyes. His fringe had grown too long, even for him. ‘We can get all those other little jobs done now. Haircuts. Dentist.’
They’d stayed in the habit of having all those things done in London when they came back. Not that they didn’t trust French hairdressers or dentists – or surgeons, come to that – but somehow it gave their trips home purpose. It made them essential rather than an extravagance.
‘I need some new shirts. I need a splurge at Marks and Sparks.’ Piers waggled his legs. He seemed elated, bright-eyed with relief. Lismay supposed he’d been living with both pain and fear for some time, and they changed a person. But here he was, back to his old self again. She’d started to be afraid she’d lost him for good, but he had come back to her just as she was losing hope.
That last time she’d thought she was losing him had been an even darker time, because they’d never really spoken about the reason until things had come to a head. It had been too private, too personal, too painful for Piers to articulate and he’d drifted away from her, closing himself off. She had seen through his obfuscation, the work demands, the tiredness, his pretending to be asleep, but had been at a total loss as to how to tackle it. Until they reached a crisis.
Alnost forty years ago now, Lismay realised with a start. Forty years since the afternoon when only a massive effort of will on her part meant she hadn’t given up on him.
1985
Lismay watched with her hands clasped as Gérard went to turn on the water. She stood amidst a small group of workmen, all taking advantage of a moment’s respite to have a cigarette. The air was thick with Gauloises and Disques Bleus as they waited around the fountain, clad variously in voluminous shorts and army trousers, thick pea coats and hunter’s caps. Lismay shut her eyes and imagined the water rushing through the pipes. Would there be a leak or a block or would it—
There was a huge cheer and she opened her eyes. There it was, a triumphant plume. It felt like a symbolic moment. A turning point for the chateau. She clapped her hands along with the others, and Gérard took a bow with a huge smile on his face. It had been a labour of love, restoring the pipework, but Lismay had to admit Piers was right. The fountain was magnificent, and gave the chateau rather a rakish air.
So much had happened in the past few weeks. Where once she had thought they would never be fit for guests, now they were turning a corner. Radiators glowed with warmth, new baths and sinks and loos shone pristine white, sanded parquet flooring gleamed. There was still a long, long way to go – there was wallpaper and paint to be applied, curtains to be made, furniture to be bought, and she was going to be working harder than ever, for this was her territory, the finishing touches. It had taken a lot of energy to oversee the workmen, but she was lucky they had seen it as a personal challenge and had taken pride in the restoration of the chateau, rather than being obstructive or lazy or slow, which was what she’d been led to believe might happen. But Lismay had a way of making people want to please her. Their reward was seeing her pleasure.
She gazed at the chateau through a shower of diamond droplets. Life might have taken an unexpected turn, but if fate had decided to put the chateau in her hands, their hands, in order to bring it back to life, and to share it with people, she vowed to look after it for as long as she could. This was her purpose now.
She brought out hot chocolate laced with a little brandy to toast Gérard and the rest of the team, for it was winter, the middle of December, and the cold bit at their fingers while they worked. Afterwards, she floated back into the kitchen with the empty cups. Everything was going to plan. Piers was coming back tomorrow and was going to be thrilled with his fountain. And Marianne and Brad were coming for Sunday lunch. And Cyrille. She felt a little jolt at the thought of him, like a needle jumping on a scratched record, sending her slightly off kilter. It was all above board, she told herself. Lunch was a gesture of appreciation to him for teaching her so much. Her cooking had definitely gone up a level, from competent to capable, and with practice maybe she could become brilliant, like Julia Child, who had taken herself up to dizzying heights by learning, experimenting and never being afraid to make a mistake.
Lismay spent the rest of the day in preparation, making a rich jellied stock from crushed bones to go into the faisan chasseur – there were two pheasant birds hanging in the larder – a round of paté brisée and a sponge for the b?che de Noel . The tasks were becoming second nature as she whisked, skimmed, stirred and sieved with confidence.
At two o’clock she decided she didn’t have enough serving dishes for the feast she was preparing. She could borrow from Madame QH, or Hugo and Jerry, but for some reason she wanted her own. She drove, at high speed, to L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, a tiny nearby town stuffed with antique and junk shops. Here, she spent an hour rummaging, totally absorbed. It reminded her of her old job at the auction house, and the thrill of never being sure what you might find amidst the tangle of other people’s old treasures.
As she searched, she fell upon things for when the time came to furnish the chateau – ornate gilt mirrors, portraits of animals, marble urns, a pretty little chaise longue. She had to resist the temptation to buy them now. Instead, she found a magnificent white soup tureen with lions’ heads for handles, and to her delight there were matching bowls to go with it. She snapped them up, for soup would inevitably feature large on the menu, especially at lunchtime. Spurred on by the feeling of contentment her purchase brought, she bought a snow-white linen tablecloth and matching napkins, a set of engraved knives, forks and spoons with bone handles tied up with string and a dozen etched wine glasses, telling herself they would need all these eventually, so she was only a tiny bit ahead of herself.
By the time she got home, she felt quite elated. As she came back in through the kitchen door, the phone was ringing.
‘Darling.’ It was Piers, and she could tell by his voice that it was not good news. ‘We’re in the middle of a pitch and Alistair has begged me to stay till Wednesday. I’ll have to cancel my flight tomorrow.’
‘Oh.’ Lismay wasn’t sure what to say. She couldn’t complain because Piers’s work was paying for everything. All the things she’d just bought, for a start. ‘What a nuisance. I’ve invited people for Sunday lunch.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to go ahead without me. I’m so sorry.’
Was he? A little sliver of doubt crept in. But she could hardly accuse him of lying. And surely he wanted to see her? She bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly uncertain about their future when a moment ago she had been filled with such excitement.
‘Never mind.’ She managed to sound cheerful. ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday. And I’ve got a surprise for you.’
The fountain was still going strong. It had given her such joy when she came back from L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue and had seen the last of the sun shining through the droplets. But now the thrill had gone and she felt riddled with doubt. She rang off and sat down at the kitchen table. What was behind his delay? Was it because seeing her was a painful reminder of what they’d lost? She felt nettled. It was painful for her too. She’d been loyal, done everything she could to protect him, but she’d given up a lot. He didn’t have a choice, but she still did, even if she had chosen to stay by his side and build a new life here. Taking on the chateau had given her life meaning, but only if he was by her side.
She looked at the perfect pastry shell, the jug of stock, the golden sponge. Her conscience needled at her because now Piers had said he wouldn’t be here, the thought of Cyrille in the house made her feel both frightened and excited. That was wrong and she knew it.
She should cancel the whole thing. But she knew Marianne would be disappointed, and it was her last chance to see her and Brad before they went back to the States. And she couldn’t just cancel Cyrille on his own. That would be unkind. Maybe she should ask someone else? Safety in numbers. Maybe Madame QH – nothing untoward would happen under her gimlet gaze. Or Hugo and Jerry? But they would flirt with Cyrille and vie for his attention and as much as she loved them both they did tend to take over.
Besides, she’d bought everything now, and got halfway through her preparations. It would be a waste to chuck it and it wouldn’t keep till Wednesday. She acknowledged that she had a silly little crush on Cyrille, but who wouldn’t? She could manage it quite easily if she behaved like a grown-up, not a mooning teenager. She told herself all she really wanted was his seal of approval on her cooking skills, and so that was what she would focus on. Making sure that everything was absolutely perfect.
To calm herself, she wrote out the menu on a piece of cream card with her fountain pen.
Tartelettes aux poires et Rocquefort aux noisettes Velouté de champignons Faisan chasseur B?che de Noel Fromage
She propped it up on the table against a mixing bowl and stared at it. It was suitably celebratory but within her capabilities. So why was her stomach turning cartwheels?
On Sunday morning, Lismay checked and double-checked her menu plan and her timings and got all the last-minute prep done. As she hadn’t had to go to the airport to fetch Piers the day before, she’d had time to do nearly everything in advance. All she needed to do was pommes purés to go with the pheasant. Cyrille had taught them that the perfect ratio of potato to butter was two to one, and she still couldn’t quite believe it, thinking of the restrained pat of Lurpak she used to put in when she was making mash. But she had tasted the results, and they were sublime, so she would try it today.
She laid the table in the dining room, even though the decorating hadn’t been done yet. The walls had torn wallpaper and there were no curtains at the windows, but she lit a fire in the fireplace – it wasn’t as grand as the one in the salon , but it brought the room to life. She unfurled her new cloth, spreading it onto the table left behind by the previous owners, and laid out everything else she had bought in L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue: the pretty cutlery, the embroidered napkins, the lion’s head soup bowls, the etched wine glasses. She picked ivy from the garden, trailing it along the length of the table. The winter sun crept in and draped its light over the scene: it looked like a still life, silver, green and white, and she felt a whoosh of pride.
She wanted Piers to see it, to see the proof that the decision they’d made was the right one, for who wouldn’t want to sit at this table? She could envisage their future guests, swarming into the dining room after drinks in the salon , taking their places, exclaiming their delight, waiting to be fed. ‘It’s going to be wonderful,’ she wanted to whisper to him, but he wasn’t here. Just as he hadn’t been here when the fountain sprang into life. She knew it wasn’t his fault, that him being in England was the only way they could make it work, but deep down she worried that it was his way of keeping her at arm’s length, that while he was away from her he couldn’t be reminded …
It’s not forever, she told herself. He’ll be here next week.
Just after midday she ran upstairs to pick an outfit. She’d always worn jeans to the cookery school, so she thought today it would be nice to wear a dress, but then it occurred to her that Brad and Marianne would probably be quite casual, being American, so she didn’t want to make them feel as if they hadn’t made an effort. She dithered, changing in and out of several options, before settling on a pink-and-white striped silk shirt with white jeans, which seemed one up from plain denim.
All the while, of course, she was pretending this effort wouldn’t be for Cyrille’s benefit. It wasn’t, she reasoned. Half the fun of hosting was getting dressed up. She and Jeanne used to spend hours deliberating, borrowing stuff from each other, doing a last-minute dash to Kensington High Street for a puffball skirt or a pair of dangly earrings, back-combing each other’s hair, choking in a cloud of Elnett and singing along to Wham!.
She jumped into the bath, realising she only had twenty minutes to get ready, so she sploshed around hastily and jumped out, wrapping a towel around her and heading for her knicker drawer. She stood looking down into it. At the back was a small parcel wrapped in tissue paper. No one except her would know how much she had spent on the Janet Reger undies she’d bought in Beauchamp Place before they left for France. It was probably mad to buy luxury knickers in England when the French were the lingerie experts, but she’d been desperate to do something to catch Piers’s attention.
They’d never been worn.
She grabbed the parcel and ripped open the tissue, pulling out the pale pink-and-white wisps. When they were first sharing a flat, Jeanne had told her it was wrong to save things for best. ‘You must wear your best every day,’ she had said, with that French matter-of-factness. ‘For you. No one else.’ Lismay had tried to live by that rule ever since, though these had never come out of their wrapping. She’d never felt the time was right. She was too afraid of rejection. But today, she wanted to feel the silk against her skin. For her.
She didn’t check her appearance in the mirror once she’d put them on. She wouldn’t be able to look herself in the eye. She tugged on her jeans, buttoned up her shirt, added a string of pearls – the real ones her mother had given her for her thirtieth – and a spritz of Givenchy. Then she fluffed up her hair. She’d always worn it tied up at the cookery school, but now it rested on her shoulders, pale gold and shiny.
She heard the sound of a car on the gravel outside. She stopped herself from rushing to the bedroom window to see who had arrived first. She wasn’t sure who she hoped it would be.
It was Marianne and Brad, who emerged from their rental car with exclamations of joy. She felt touched that they actually had dressed up: Brad was in a jacket and tie, and Marianne had on a black velvet off-the-shoulder number.
‘I could only just get into it,’ she whispered to Lismay as they went up the steps. ‘It’s probably the last time I’ll ever wear it. Am I totally overdressed?’
‘Not at all. I feel underdressed now. And I don’t know why I’ve worn white jeans when I’m doing all that cooking.’
The two of them were disappointed to learn that Piers wasn’t there, but they were completely charmed by the chateau as Lismay walked them around, asking questions about its history and thrilled by its supposed connection with Pauline Bonaparte.
‘Napoleon’s sister? No way!’ Marianne’s eyes were round with delight.
‘It’s just a rumour,’ laughed Lismay. ‘But I like to think her spirit is still here with us. Though she was quite a minx. She knew how to live.’
‘It must have been complicated, running all those lovers. But maybe her husband neglected her?’ Marianne slipped her hand into Brad’s and smiled at him, as if to reassure him that was not the case with them. He laughed and slung his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him.
‘Marianne’s told you our news, right?’ he asked Lismay.
Lismay glanced at Marianne, not sure if she was supposed to know.
‘I told him I told you,’ said Marianne. ‘He knows I can’t ever keep a secret.’
‘It’s wonderful news. And you’ll be wonderful parents.’ Lismay felt sad they would be leaving the next day. She’d grown so fond of them over the time they’d spent together, slaving over a hot stove. She loved their independent spirit, how they’d upped sticks for three months to come and live the French dream. Of course, not everyone was lucky enough to be able to do that, and Lismay sensed they were both successful enough in their careers to be able to afford the time out, but it still took a certain amount of courage. ‘And we’re going to be putting a nursery on the top floor.’
‘Oh,’ said Brad, his face brightening. ‘You mean—?’
He stopped, realising that’s not what she had meant as Marianne gave him a warning glance.
‘For guests,’ Lismay added hastily, anxious to avoid any embarrassment.
‘I’m sorry.’ Brad put his hands up, pink with mortification.
‘It’s OK.’ Lismay smiled at him. ‘Piers and I can’t have children, sadly. But we’re very happy to have children to stay. I’m going to put bunk beds in the attic. It would be a shame not to allow small people here, don’t you think?’
She was talking too much, as she always did when a conversation got awkward. For a moment everyone stood looking at anyone but each other, scrabbling for how to move on from Brad’s faux pas. Marianne looked as if she was about to cry. Actually, so did Brad. Lismay thought it was probably time for a drink.
Thankfully, a voice called from the hall. ‘ Cou cou! ’
‘There’s Cyrille,’ said Lismay, filled with a mixture of relief and something more syrupy.
Brad and Marianne followed her back out to the hallway, where Cyrille was peering through the doorway. He looked much more soigné than he did when he was cooking or teaching, in cream chinos and a navy-blue sweater, his wild hair tamed into neat curls. He was carrying a huge jar of bottled fruits, which he held out to Lismay.
‘ Vieux garcon ,’ he explained, holding it out to her. ‘It is what we call a man who has been left on the shelf in France. Like me.’ He winked. ‘Cherries, apricots, peaches, plums, strawberries – all the fruits of my garden, bathing in sugar and alcohol. You must not touch until Christmas.’ He held up a warning finger, then made it into a circle with his thumb and kissed it. ‘Then you can enjoy.’
‘That’s amazing, Cyrille. Thank you.’ Lismay took the jar from him. ‘I’m afraid Piers was held up at work so he’s not going to be here today.’
Cyrille took in the news without reacting. Instead, he looked around the hallway.
‘So this,’ he said, ‘is your little chateau.’
‘Not so little,’ said Brad.
‘ Magnifique. ’ Cyrille shook his head in admiration.
‘You missed the tour, Cyrille,’ Marianne chided him.
‘Maybe Lismay can show me around later?’
‘Come through to the salon ,’ said Lismay, feeling warm at the thought of giving him a private tour. ‘I was just about to open a bottle. Of course, it’s not all finished yet. Don’t look too closely. There’s dust everywhere. But we’re getting there. It’s not as sad as it was when we moved in. It was very neglected.’
‘It is always a crime,’ said Cyrille. ‘To neglect something beautiful.’
He put a hand in the small of her back as she paused in the doorway waiting for Brad and Marianne to pass. It was a simple gesture of chivalry. She wanted to stand there forever, feeling the warmth of his fingertips through the silk of her shirt, but she was the hostess, so she moved forward into the room, feeling pride at the sight of the fire she had lit, the bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket, the plate of tartlets resting on an old coffee table she’d found in an outbuilding.
‘There’s furniture to buy still,’ she said. ‘But I think this is my favourite room in the whole house.’
She went to grab the bottle but Cyrille was there before her, twisting the wire, easing the cork out with the cage still intact until there was the gentlest pop. He looked very at home, standing next to the roaring flames, lifting a coupe off the tray and filling it, then handing it to Marianne. Almost as if he belonged there.
Lunch passed in a blur of pleasure and laughter. Lismay was a very laid-back hostess. Their dinner parties in Fulham had always been very relaxed and she didn’t stand on ceremony. She always made sure everything looked beautiful and the food was delicious, but once everyone had a drink in their paw she let the evening take its natural course, with no formality. Despite the grandeur of their surroundings, this relaxed attitude seemed to work here too. Marianne and Brad weren’t allowed to lift a finger – ‘you’re the guests of honour and you have a long journey tomorrow’ – but Cyrille jumped up and helped her clear plates or bring in the next course. He moved so easily around the kitchen, as if it belonged to him, and for a moment she imagined him at the helm of the Chateau Villette. What a draw that would be.
She felt ashamed for having such a treacherous thought.
‘ Dix sur dix ,’ Cyrille told her as she brought out the b?che de Noel . It was topped with hazelnuts wrapped in spun sugar, which had been the most difficult challenge. ‘Ten out of ten. I think perhaps you are my star pupil.’
‘You’re not allowed to have favourites!’ Marianne protested.
Lismay plunged her cake knife into the yule log. She felt flustered, being singled out, even though she knew Cyrille was joking. Or was she his favourite – but for other reasons? She could tell Marianne had noticed a frisson between them. Her new friend was very perspicacious, Lismay realised, and she felt self-conscious every time Cyrille touched her arm or made a comment that was directed at her alone.
‘I’m very proud of you all,’ Cyrille corrected himself, putting a hand on his heart, his eyes twinkling.
Over cheese, there were plans for Brad and Marianne to come back and visit as soon as was practical.
‘And you guys must come out to us!’ urged Marianne. ‘You should come skiing. Come to Vermont. Brad’s family have this crazy old house there. It’s almost a ruin, but it’s right near the slopes and it’s such fun. Although I guess I won’t be skiing this season …’
‘We’d love that. Piers is a very good skier,’ said Lismay, aware this was the first time his name had been mentioned during the meal.
Cyrille didn’t say anything. He just topped up his glass with Gigondas.
‘Anyone’s welcome any time,’ said Brad. ‘It’s open house the minute the first snowflake falls.’
Lismay jumped up to snap on a few lamps and put another log on the fire, for dusk was closing in. Outside they could see the moon rise through the bare windows, hovering behind the plane tree, and an owl hooted. The table showed all the signs of an afternoon well spent: empty bottles, the remains of the b?che , a half-devoured platter of cheese, all amidst crumbs and wine stains and crumpled napkins.
‘Coffee?’ asked Lismay. She could sense the end arriving. She wasn’t sure how it would play out. She felt nervous. What would Cyrille do? There were millions of sparkling particles between them, tiny atoms of desire that were almost visible, like dust motes.
‘Actually, we should go,’ said Brad, pushing his chair back.
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Marianne. ‘I’m feeling quite at home here. And don’t you want help in the kitchen?’
‘Oh gosh, no. You needn’t worry. You’ve got stuff to do.’ Lismay shook her head.
‘I’ll help,’ said Cyrille. ‘I’m very good at washing up. I’m very fast.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lismay. ‘I really appreciate it. It’s horrible being left on your own to clear up after a jolly lunch.’
Marianne was staring at her, one eyebrow slightly raised.
‘Come on, honey.’ Brad put his hand on Marianne’s shoulder. ‘We have to leave for the airport first thing and we still haven’t finished packing.’
Marianne stood up with a reluctant sigh. ‘This has been a dream of an afternoon. I’ll never forget it. This place is going to be amazing, Lismay. You and Piers are so lucky.’
‘I know. I have to pinch myself all the time. It’s been a dream come true for us. We’re so lucky to be the guardians of the chateau. I hope Pauline would feel it’s in good hands.’
The words came out as smoothly as if they had been rehearsed.
Everyone moved towards the hall, and Lismay gathered their coats from the bottom of the staircase where she’d hung them on the newel post. Outside, she hugged Marianne close. ‘Let me know when the baby arrives. And look after yourself.’
‘I will,’ promised Marianne. ‘And be careful,’ she added, sotto voce . ‘He’s very charming. But I know a player when I see one.’
Lismay flashed a glance over at Brad and Cyrille, who were shaking hands and clapping each other on the back in a display of male camaraderie. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ll just mercilessly use him to help me clear up and see him on his way.’ Her laugh rang out in the cold night air, bright with falseness.
‘You’re sure you’ll be OK?’ Marianne’s hands were on her upper arms, her eyes filled with concern and doubt.
‘I’ll be fine.’ Lismay knew her reassurances were glib.
Cyrille strode across the gravel and came to stand by her side as Brad and Marianne got into their car and drove off. The two of them stood at the bottom of the steps and waved until the rear lights disappeared through the gate. Lismay shivered in the cold – or was it with anticipation? – as Cyrille turned to her.
She’d expected a smile, laughing eyes, an air of conspiracy as he leaned towards her. But his expression was serious, and he almost seemed to be backing away.
‘I have to go too,’ he said. ‘After we’ve done the washing-up.’
She stared at him. She’d been poised for him to wrap himself around her, to kiss her for the first time, to run his fingers through her hair.
Emboldened, she reached out and put a hand on his chest. ‘Can’t you feel it?’
She knew he could, for she could feel his heartbeat. But he put his hand over hers and moved it away, and she felt her own heart falling.
‘What you have here is wonderful,’ he told her, his voice low. ‘This place is everything. I cannot ruin someone else’s fairy tale.’
He was right, of course. What she and Piers had here was extraordinary, and they were so lucky, and it was incredibly exciting. But oh – how she longed to be touched, to be kissed, to be swept away to that blissful oblivion she missed so much. She’d had it once with Piers – it wasn’t that they didn’t have chemistry. They’d never really tired of each other in the bedroom, even when they’d been eighteen months into trying for a baby and it was starting to be apparent something was wrong. It didn’t seem to affect Piers, until that afternoon with the consultant when they’d got the final verdict. He hadn’t really touched her since, just the occasional hug when he arrived or left at the airport, or a dutiful peck on the cheek.
Time seemed to be dragging, the seconds as long as hours while she decided what to say. Cyrille seemed rooted to the spot, the night air ruffling his curls. Was he expecting her to protest? Was he putting the onus on her, so that he couldn’t be blamed if they threw themselves at each other? She knew perfectly well that if she stepped forward and pressed herself against him, put her lips on his, he would give in. His closeness made her insides swirl. Why did lust always cast a spell over you, giving you a sense of urgency that made you want to throw caution to the wind, made you feel as if giving into it now, right now, was the only thing that mattered? She only had seconds to decide.
‘Okey doke,’ she said brightly, stepping away from him. ‘You needn’t worry about the washing-up. Honestly. It’ll give me something to do.’ She looked at her watch. ‘And Piers is calling at six. We always talk on a Sunday night. It’s our little custom.’
Mentioning Piers broke the spell immediately. The moment was gone; the spark between them extinguished. Cyrille looked a little shocked that she hadn’t protested. He must have been expecting her to make the first move.
‘OK.’ He nodded. ‘Night, then.’
‘Night,’ she said. ‘And … thank you for everything. You’ve taught me so much.’
Not just about cooking, she thought.
It was too dangerous to kiss him goodbye, even on the cheek. Instead, she gave him an awkward little wave, ran up the steps and in through the front door, slamming it shut behind her. She leaned back against it for a few moments. Would he rush after her, banging on it to let him in? She waited but there was nothing, only the sound of his engine starting up. She heard his tyres squeal as he set off down the drive. A getaway car. The chateau felt chilly with disapproval, as if it knew the direction her mind had been taking.
‘You must have seen a lot worse,’ she told it, defiant, then ran up to her room, leaving the fire blazing and the washing-up to wait.
She stripped off her clothes, screwing her underwear up into a little ball. She pulled on her nightdress, climbed into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. Her head throbbed with heavy red wine and disappointment. She must not cry. If she started, she wouldn’t stop.
For there had been a moment, when she’d looked at Cyrille in the moonlight, when she’d glimpsed a doorway into another future. Maybe even a future with children of her own. The chance for her own flesh and blood.
Had it been cowardice, or loyalty, that had made her turn away?
Or had it been the fear that there was no such chance? That she would have been a minor distraction for Cyrille, a little bit of fun, a way for him to prove that he was irresistible? She would have ruined everything for a brief thrill, a selfish need to prove her own attraction. For it was vanity as much as anything that drew her to him. She knew that, deep down.
Marianne had known. She had seen Lismay’s vulnerability, her naked hunger. Was it wrong, to want to be wanted? She had seen the way Brad looked at Marianne and it had been everything she longed for. What had she done wrong, to be left out in the cold like this?
She was so confused. She was so sad. She was so lost . Even though every day had purpose and she had achieved so much, it was as if she was accelerating towards a future that had been forced upon her and she hadn’t had a chance to examine her feelings, let alone express them. She suddenly felt very alone and wished Marianne was still here. She thought she might have been a good person to talk to, but she’d never know now. Maybe she should call Jeanne? But the thought of explaining everything was abhorrent. She couldn’t verbalise the visceral draw she had felt towards Cyrille. It would sound cheap and self-indulgent. How could she explain it hadn’t been pure lust, but a pull towards what might have been?
Downstairs, she could hear the phone ringing. It echoed through the chateau, bouncing off the stone floors. She didn’t want to talk to Piers. She didn’t want to think, she didn’t want to feel. All she wanted was black, velvety sleep and the comfort of oblivion from the question that was going to gnaw at her for the rest of her life.
What if? What if? What if?