Chapter 17
Maxine arrived at the gate. Béa, wearing a short skirt, threw her arms around her. ‘Where have you been, Max? I’m here for ten minutes, but you don’t come.’
Maxine took in her anxious face. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Wonderful.’ Suddenly, Béa was all smiles. ‘Louis loves me.’
‘That’s nice.’ Maxine opened the front door and Béa followed her inside.
‘It’s because of the rosbif. He loved the meat and the gravy and the funny egg puddings. But most he loved the roasted potatoes, how you cook them.’
‘He should love you for you.’
‘Oh, he does – and afterwards he’s so passionate…’
‘Would you like coffee?’ Maxine asked quickly. She noticed that Béa had a bandage on her arm. ‘What happened?’
Béa shrugged. ‘Oh, it is only une petite br?lure – it’s nothing.’
‘A burn? It must be painful.’
Béa sniffed. ‘I did it while I was making the – le repassage with Louis’s shirts.’ She mimed ironing.
‘You iron his shirts?’ Maxine was amazed.
‘He likes it.’
‘I loathe ironing.’ Maxine led the way to the kitchen and filled the kettle.
‘You don’t like to do these little things?’ Béa asked.
‘No – I don’t see why I should.’
‘You don’t love someone enough. Or you’d iron his shirts and make his dinner, just to see him smile.’
‘I doubt it.’ Maxine placed a chamomile teabag in her mug.
‘Did you go to la veillée of Maurice Barron?’ Béa asked.
‘The wake? Yes. I met Fliss and Shirl.’ Maxine thought it was best not to mention Manu.
‘I meant to go but—’ Béa put her hand to her hair. ‘Louis is at work now, and I thought, I’ll visit my friend Maxine for some advice.’
Maxine handed her a cup of coffee. ‘What do you need?’
‘You’re an old woman, so you’re wise.’ Béa put a hand to her mouth. ‘I mean, older than me. Like a big sister. I am forty-eight. You have been through much but I’m still a learner.’
Maxine didn’t understand. ‘In what way?’
‘Louis.’ Béa breathed out in a huff, as if she was exasperated. ‘That man. Sometimes I love him so much that I could kill myself, and sometimes I could kill him.’
‘Don’t kill anyone,’ Maxine said. ‘Love. Be calm, enjoy.’
‘You have a cool head,’ Béa said. ‘It’s because you’re English. The English don’t feel passion. And I think you’ve loved many men.’
‘I haven’t.’ Maxine sipped her chamomile tea but she didn’t feel soothed. ‘In fact, I’ve probably only really loved one man, and he died. Since then, it’s like no other man can ever measure up.’
‘That’s how it is with Louis – he’s the only one.’ Béa wasn’t listening. ‘But we both want our own way – he’s têtu and so am I, so we fight. It’s like we make love or we make a war.’
‘So how can I help?’ Maxine asked. ‘If you’re both headstrong, maybe you need to talk – tell each other how important you are to each other.’
‘Talk?’ Béa made a face. ‘Is that how you make a man love you? I’ve been doing everything wrong.’
Maxine laughed. ‘Nobody loves me.’
‘That’s not true.’ Béa gave a peal of laughter. ‘You tell me this man Russell wants you. And then I hear about you and Jean-Francois Kastell.’
Maxine’s blood froze. ‘What did you hear?’
‘That he took you for a ride on his motorbike.’
Maxine breathed out in relief – thank goodness that was all she’d heard. ‘It was just once.’
‘Perhaps he’s in love with you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘So – what’s your secret, Maxine? You’re in Brittany for just a few days and men desire you.’ Béa wrapped an arm around her. ‘You’re my friend. So tell me – when Louis comes home tonight, shall I be there naked? With a bottle of champagne and a big fried steak?’
‘I’d stop ironing his shirts.’ Maxine noticed how Béa’s fingers covered the sore place beneath the bandage. ‘How long have you been married?’
‘A long time.’ Béa waved her hands to show that it was ages. ‘He’s tired that I have the bad hormones every day. And we have no children. Sometimes I think he’ll find a younger woman.’ Tears shone in her eyes.
‘Be yourself. That’s who he fell in love with,’ Maxine said.
‘What if he says he doesn’t love me any more?’ Béa pouted. ‘He loves me when I do nice things. He loved the English dinner.’ Her brow creased. ‘If he found another woman, I’d kill her. Then I’d take the big knife in the kitchen and I’d cut off his—’
‘You definitely need to talk,’ Maxine said quickly.
‘You’re right,’ Béa agreed. ‘My wise friend, tu as raison. I’ll open a bottle of wine and we’ll talk and everything’s good. I’ll ask him to not complain when I smoke cigarettes. Then I’ll open another bottle…’
‘Do you need all that wine?’ Maxine felt like a hypocrite, just for a moment. ‘Maybe wait until after you’ve had the chat? So your heads are clear first?’
‘My head’s very clear when I drink wine,’ Béa said stubbornly. ‘Right, I’ll go home now and I’ll tell Louis that I’ve spoken with my English friend Max, and she thinks I should tell my husband to show respect.’
‘Well, maybe just share how you feel.’
‘You mean tell him if he’s not a good husband, I’ll kill him?’
‘No, keep it transparent.’
‘I wear a dress he can see through?’
‘No, just – tell him your marriage is important.’
Béa looked amazed. ‘I tell him that?’
‘Yes.’
‘And then what?’
‘Ask him if he feels the same way.’
‘No champagne, no dress he can see through?’
‘Just words.’
‘Words?’ Béa looked perplexed. She finished her coffee. ‘OK. I’ll go home now and make him a big steak and afterwards I’ll tell him with words that our marriage is important.’
‘Right.’
‘Thank you, Max.’ Béa threw her arms around Maxine. ‘Then we’ll go to bed together and—’
Maxine said, ‘Good luck.’
‘Oh, I won’t need luck.’ Béa was on her way to the door. ‘I have my English lady who knows everything about men.’ She turned back to kiss both Maxine’s cheeks. ‘I’ll see you soon and tell you what’s happened. Max – you’re wonderful.’
Maxine watched Béa hurry away through the gate. So Béa believed she needed Maxine’s advice? The advice of a woman who’d slept with a man she hardly knew and was already having romantic thoughts about one she’d just met at a funeral?
In all honesty, Maxine thought, Béa hadn’t got the first clue. No one had. There were no rules, no safety nets. You just made it up as you went along and hoped for the best.
Maxine’s head was still full of the same colliding thoughts as she made dinner, and as she sat in the garden to eat it. And afterwards, as she washed up. Three things were bothering her all at the same time.
Firstly, Béa troubled her; she wasn’t sure whether she was just a lovely, hormonal, passionate woman whose marriage had hit a rocky patch or if she and Louis were doomed. They didn’t seem to see eye to eye unless she ironed his shirts or cooked his food. It wasn’t Maxine’s idea of a good marriage.
Then there was J-F. Sleeping with him ought to mean that she was fond of him, or at least that she wanted to see him again.
But she had no idea how she felt. There was something of the tortured lover about him.
She imagined him at home now, drinking wine, listening to Leonard Cohen or The Velvet Underground.
She wasn’t sure she wanted a relationship with a changeable, moody man.
This was all ridiculous – she was reading too much into it. She hardly knew him. She should just call him and find out.
But Manu Barron kept nudging her thoughts, pushing everything else to one side.
She asked herself why. Because she had seen him on the beach, jogging in shorts?
Because he’d been kind when she’d fallen over?
Because at his father’s funeral, their eyes had met when Fliss had read Andy’s poem?
At that point she’d felt – what? A connection? Something else?
Ridiculous. What was happening to her? She hadn’t been like this before she’d come to France. There must be something in the air.
Maxine shrugged on a light jacket and went outside into the cool evening. The sea was murmuring softly, like a lover calling. Of course, she was thinking of Andy. She always imagined him being never too far away.
She wandered onto the beach, her trainers sinking into damp sand.
The sun was almost set now, a crimson ball blazing in the ocean.
The sky was dappled pink, fading into blue and grey.
Maxine pushed her hands into her pockets and breathed in the view.
It felt good to stand alone on a silver beach and watch the sun dip below the horizon, fading to a pale glow on the waves, before it disappeared.
What had Andy said, all those years ago?
‘I’m going to find our home… and wait for you.’
Maxine had believed him. But where was he? Going to Maurice Barron’s funeral had started her thinking about Andy all over again. He had simply been saying goodbye in the kindest way he knew.
Like icicles dripping down her spine, she realised she’d wasted her entire life loving a ghost.
She shivered.
Maxine turned to walk back to Clotilde’s Cottage. She was cold now; the sea breeze ruffled her hair and the waves whispered that it was time to change. She couldn’t live in the past.
And more to the point, she couldn’t waste the time she had left.
As she walked, Maxine glanced up at the house on the cliff, Rose Falaise.
There was a lamp glowing in the tower, and outside on the terrace, smaller lights flickered.
She could see figures sitting outside, sharing a late dinner, probably lingering over brandy and warm conversation.
Maxine wondered who was there. Fliss, Manu, certainly, Théo too.
Perhaps they had guests this evening, friends, people who had come back after the wake.
Maxine felt suddenly alone but it wasn’t a bad feeling; she wasn’t fearful. She was simply treading water, discovering who she was and what she wanted. It might be love. It might be solitude.
It might be something completely different. She had no idea.
As she closed the door to Clotilde’s Cottage behind her with a clunk, the light had faded outside and the moon hung, a crescent in a dark sky.
It had been a long day, and she was tired.
She wanted nothing more than to sleep and tomorrow would be wonderful.
Like a fresh sheet flung into the air, falling onto the bed, clean and sweet-smelling.