Chapter 29
Madame Grenaud is perched precariously on the edge of the sofa, the evening news a welcome guest at this dinner party.
I don’t join her; I think Florian realises that it would be too cruel to insist that I do, so I pour the two of us some wine and hide in the kitchen, acting as an entirely useless sous-chef.
‘What are we having?’ I peer over to the stove where something dark and rich is simmering down.
‘Boef Bourguignon,’ he shrugs as if he might as well be chucking some chicken in the microwave and hoping for the best. ‘Here.’ He holds up a spoon for me. ‘Taste it, you can let me know if it needs anything else.’
‘I think we both know I’ll be next to useless at providing culinary advice.’
‘Still.’ He swings the spoon in the air, pouting a little until I give in, leave my glass on the side and let him scoop some sauce onto the spoon.
I try to take it off of him but he scolds me until I stand there like a guppy with my mouth wide and he deposits the liquid onto my tongue directly and then stands there, waiting for my reaction.
‘It’s good. Really good.’
‘I’m glad. Now go set the table.’ He winks.
I do as he says, retrieving some placemats and mismatched crockery. ‘God, I’m going to miss the food here,’ I say to the room, beginning to organise the table into three distinct little areas. Check that there is enough distance between everyone in case things get difficult.
We work in a busy silence, Florian stirring something rather vigorously whilst I focus on folding napkins into little shapes.
‘I think we should talk about that,’ Florian says quietly.
‘About what, my textile origami?’ I gesture to a wonky swan with a flourish.
‘About you going.’ He doesn’t look at me, focusing intently on hooking out something from his pot with a spoon.
‘Oh.’ I stop decorating, look out of the doorway to where Madame Grenaud is perching, eyes still fixed on the TV.
I rescue my wine from the sideboard and lean back against the sink, eyes fixed on the back of Florian’s head, willing him to turn around so I can at least gauge where to pitch my defence.
‘Well, we can talk but my flight’s on Sun—’
‘I don’t think you should go.’
I’m not shocked that this is where the conversation has headed. I think I’ve been waiting for him to say something since I had bought it up the night I kicked him out. He is pretending like it isn’t happening; I think in some way he actually thinks it won’t.
‘You don’t?’ I keep my voice soft and measured.
‘No.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘I think you’re happy here.’ He brings his shoulders up to his ears.
‘You never saw me in London, maybe I’m happy there too?’
‘Are you?’
‘No, but that’s beside the point.’ I scoff at how stupid it all sounds.
Of course I wasn’t happy there, but I had survived it by convincing myself that it was the grief talking, that I could be anywhere in the world and it would feel just as terrible.
The reality of how wrong I had been was starting to set in.
Besides, the one distraction I had tried to make in London was now back in his glossy apartment, probably trying to forget about the ordeal I had put him through.
Over here, grief still woke me up in the morning and followed me around until I went to bed, but in the day when I was having drinks with The American or cooking a meal in the apartment or spending any period of time with Florian, then that feeling dulled, it became manageable.
He turns around then. I am unsure if he did ever find the thing he was so desperate on fishing out of his dinner.
‘Don’t go,’ he says simply, sadly. I know now that he has grasped the magnitude of the situation, the reason I had been so unwilling to see where things might go in the first place.
‘I have to!’
He looks slightly disgusted at my inability to stretch my little imagination to a place where I could want to stay. ‘You don’t “have” to do anything.’
‘I have commitments, my parents, I mean I don’t have anywhere to live here when my lease is up.’
‘We can sort something out. The American loves you, I’m sure she’d let you have the apartment for longer.’
‘It’s not that simple!’ My voice frays at the edges and it’s enough to loosen Florian’s dogmatic resolve. He comes over to me, taking my hands in his. He chases my eyes around with his until I can’t avoid looking him square in the face.
‘Ava, I cannot accept that I only have four days of this until you go… it’s simply not enough time.’ He brushes some stray hairs out of my face, his thumb resting on my lips. ‘Delay your flight, stay at the hotel… stay here?’
I shake my head at his last comment. He doesn’t mean it. He’s grasping at straws. He pulls away.
‘I’ll come back.’
He scoffs, crosses his arms like a petulant child. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Hey, come here.’ I hold onto his shoulders and then lock my hands together behind his neck, keeping him close to me. ‘I promise I’ll come back.’
He relents, relaxes a little. ‘When?’
‘Soon. I need to do some things, tie up some ends…’
‘What are you doing back there that’s so important?’
‘I… I can’t say, not yet.’ I don’t like lying to him.
Especially when it feels like Florian’s ‘thing’ is radical honesty.
But I also don’t like the thought of my life without this book.
It is the only thing that I have truly done for myself and before there was Florian, before there was even Archie, there was a bashed-up diary with blank pages ready for me, all of me.
And I will tell him soon, when everything’s finalised, when there’s a final approved manuscript, I will hand it to him, let him see for himself what it really is.
Not my attempt at profiting from Ettie’s death, but something that has meant that I could keep living in a world without him in it. He can’t hate me for it then.
‘So many secrets,’ he murmurs into my ear.
I slacken. Unravel. His breath is warm at the crease of my neck.
I can feel his steady breaths, thinking about what to do next.
I want him to kiss me. I want him to press his lips into my neck in long drawn-out pulses.
I am bereft when instead of doing that he pulls away and looks at me with a wink. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
‘Dinner tomorrow,’ I tell him.
‘I think that might be a good idea,’ he smirks and then a timer goes off and we jolt back into the reality of why we are here, of who is sitting in that room next door, most likely pretending to be watching something on the TV.
I am been prepared for dinner to turn into many things. I’m not prepared for it to be a relatively uninteresting and normal affair.
The food is delicious, and we eat it in a polite and comfortable silence, offering around the various accompaniments to each other, filling up our plates, thanking Florian.
I am mainly a bystander in the conversation, and I am grateful for it.
We choose Florian as our neutral middle ground, his art and upcoming commissions proving a fertile ground for a few minutes of distraction until we are finished, and I offer to take the plates.
‘Just leave them on the side,’ Florian gestures, heaving in the large ceramic casserole dish.
‘Sure?’ I waver and he nods emphatically.
‘I think this is the most uneventful dinner we’ve ever had. Don’t want to ruin it now.’ There is a look of sheer relief coupled with a dash of confusion. I think I might have the exact same expression on my face too.
We re-join Madame Grenaud who has started to unpack some hunks of cheese onto a wooden board.
‘You didn’t have to do that, Mama,’ he softly scolds but grabs some plates from the side.
‘Well, you cooked, it’s nice to contribute.’
‘Ooh!’ I squeak, remembering my own offerings in my bag.
‘Wine!’ I run to the sofa where I had thrown my bag when I came in but instead find it in the corner by the fireplace.
Florian must have cleared it away. I find the wine quickly but something is off; there’s more room in the bag than there was before, it’s lighter too.
I start to play a game of spot the difference until there is a knowing and all-consuming worry that transcends over me.
‘You alright, Ava?’ Florian calls out, aware that I’m taking too long.
‘I’ve lost it!’
‘Lost what?’
‘My diary, I had it, it must have fallen out of my bag by that bench. I need it.’ I rush to the door, grab my coat.
‘It’s just a diary, Ava, we’ll look for it in the morning…
’ I think of all the people that might have visited that place after us, the others that will get there tomorrow for the sunrise, hundreds of people all able to get there before we can, people that might find it and read it, take it or bin it.
I think of the work, the hours and nights spent spilling my guts into its pages.
The last chapter, how I won’t be able to write it again because I can’t even remember what it says.
My whole life. My whole future is in those pages.
‘It’s not just a diary, Florian!’ I shout. He looks like I’ve hit him square across the jaw.
‘No, it’s not…’ Madame Grenaud breaks up the conversation. She is still sitting in her chair, a small smile on her face, her hands tracing over the patterns on my diary that she has placed on the table. ‘But it is incredibly enlightening.’
I can feel the life draining from me, and a heavy, uncomfortable dread makes itself at home in my chest. This can’t be how he finds out. ‘Give it back.’ I run to her, try to snatch it back, but she whips it out of my hands.
‘Not yet,’ she tuts.
‘Mama? That’s Ava’s…’ I catch Florian’s confusion, the way he is standing back, looking at the book that he had dismissed hours earlier.
‘Oh, I know. I know a lot more than you think I do. I mean, it’s not exactly a secret, you plastering yourself all over the internet like that.’ My blood stops circulating. My stomach lurches. I feel a wave of adrenaline-induced nausea come over me.