Chapter 3
The next morning, she watched a little car make its way along the driveway and pull up next to her white Nissan.
She felt her stomach flood with nerves the way it always had before a presentation at work, or actually whenever she had to meet new people.
She tried to remind herself she’d feel at ease once she and Lucien, her first pupil, met properly.
It was just nerves, anticipation, making her tense.
Starting art lessons was an important part of their eventual business plan. She’d always painted a little, even taking on the odd commission, but this time she was going to be stepping fully into her artistic side.
She’d decided to advertise locally as a way of dipping her toe into the water. Then, once Steven was here, they’d work more on the house, get it ready, and she hoped to run art retreats – painting and relaxation for stressed-out executives and art enthusiasts.
In some ways, she was strangely grateful for her nervousness. It took her mind off her ruined Christmas and focused her mind on the present.
Last night she’d rung her younger sister Harriet for a little sympathy, but it hadn’t quite gone as planned.
‘Poor Steven,’ her sister had said after she relayed the story.
‘Poor Steven? It’s me who’s stuck here at Christmas.’
‘I know, but he’s working. And in that horrible flat. Now he’ll be alone too.’ Steven’s parents had emigrated to Australia five years ago and only made it over once every couple of years.
‘He can go to your place.’
‘True. But he’ll be missing you.’
‘I suppose.’
Harriet’s tone was amused. ‘Come on. Where’s this New Nicola you keep going on about?’
Nicola was starting to regret confiding in people about her makeover plans. ‘She’s lonely! Come on, how many songs are there about being lonely at Christmas? It’s a thing. A legitimate thing.’
Harriet laughed. ‘Oh, sis.’
‘What?’
‘I love how you’re quoting your favourite philosopher, George Michael.’
‘Actually, it’s Mud.’
‘Mud?’
‘Yeah. Mud sang “Lonely This Christmas”,’ she said, not sure if she should be proud of or embarrassed by her knowledge of seventies Christmas classics.
‘Fine, but I’m pretty sure Georgie said “nobody ought to be alone” at Christmastime.’
‘That’s from Home Alone. George sang about giving his heart away at Christmas,’ she began.
‘You know, I wasn’t worried about you before, but I’m kind of getting worried now,’ Harriet said.
‘Oh, very funny.’
‘Honestly, I think it might be good for you to be on your own this Christmas. Think of it as a Christmas detox. Free up some brain cells from those memorised lyrics.’
‘Harriet, I grew up with Mum’s Christmases. I’m a lost cause.’
‘True.’
‘Well, look. If it’s any consolation, Christmas isn’t going to be a blast here either.’ Harriet had already bent Nicola’s ear off about her impending Christmas with their parents. ‘It’s going to be intense without you here to absorb some of Mum’s… enthusiasm.’
‘Yeah, sorry about that.’
‘Look, I know you hate driving long distances. But what about the tunnel?’
‘It’s Christmas for the tunnel too. I haven’t checked, but if the flights are booked, the tunnel’s bound to be.’
‘Maybe not?’
Nicola paused. She’d written off the idea of a ferry or one of the Channel tunnel trains in the past; the idea of driving eight hours was a bit nerve-wracking. But maybe it was better than being alone.
‘I should check.’
‘Yes. You should. See! I bet you’re glad you called me.’
‘Harriet, you’re an angel!’
‘An angel who deserves an enormous Christmas present?’
‘Well… we’ll see!’
Harriet was right: Nicola logged on to LeShuttle and found there were plenty of places left. The ferries had the same story.
Christmas was saved!
All she had to do was to get Steven to post the passport with a courier or forty-eight hour service or something, and voila!
Plus, she could choose a later date to travel, rather than cancel any art lessons.
Clicking on the link for a ticket on the 23rd, she rang Steven’s number. And as luck would have it, he answered.
‘Steven!’
‘Nicola!’ he mimicked her, laughing. ‘You sound happy.’
‘I am. I think I’ve solved the Christmas problem.’
‘Oh, that’s good. Look, I’m sorry about the passport thing. But if it’s any consolation, I put it in the post this morning, so at least you’ll have it after Christmas.’
Something heavy sank in her stomach. ‘You… you’ve posted it?’
‘Yes! Didn’t seem any point holding on to it. And I know you can’t get a—’
‘What… what service did you use?’
‘Don’t worry. I got recorded delivery!’
‘Did you get forty-eight hours or—’
‘Well, no. It was twenty pounds more and like you said, it wouldn’t have got there in time for the flight even then.’ He sounded wary.
‘But… there are trains! Ferries! I was going to get you to send it via courier so I could…!’
‘Oh. I just didn’t… I know you hate driving. So…’
‘Oh for God’s sake! Steven!’
But it was too late. The document she needed was mixed up in a pile of Christmas cards and presents, and there was no way she’d be sure of seeing it until after the festivities had ended.
* * *
Harriet was usually a dab hand at cheering her up.
But after ending the call, Nicola still felt a flicker of sadness.
She could cope with being alone right now – just. But Christmas was a bridge too far.
A young man got out of the car; then, slinging a canvas rucksack over one shoulder, made his way to the front of the house.
Taking a deep breath, Nicola went to answer the door, fixing her face in what she hoped would come across as a friendly smile rather than a grimace. ‘Bonjour!’ she said.
The man looked to be in his mid-twenties – younger than he’d sounded on the phone.
His hair was dark brown, full-bodied and flicked casually at the side.
But what struck her most was his smile. It was charming, gentle, the sort of smile that comes from someone completely at ease with themselves, who is expecting to enjoy whatever comes next.
‘Bonjour,’ he said, his eyes crinkling slightly as his smile widened. He stuck a hand out for a shake. ‘Lucien.’
‘Nicola,’ she said, unnecessarily, then stood back to let him in.
He took off his thick beige coat, revealing a white shirt underneath, paired with well-fitted black jeans.
She probably should have told him to wear something he didn’t mind getting ruined, but it was a little late for that now.
‘Come through,’ she said, taking his coat and hanging it on one of the hallway hooks for him.
As promised, he’d brought a few sketches with him, together with a photo of what he was hoping to paint – a farmhouse, set back in a field, overgrown on both sides with long, unkempt grass.
The photo was sun-drenched, the sky a vivid blue and the scenery around almost glittering in the light.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nicola told him, and he grinned.
‘It is my house.’
‘Well, you’re very lucky.’
‘Ah.’ He flung his arms wide in an elaborate movement that was somehow very French. ‘But it is no more beautiful than your house, Nicola.’
‘Thank you.’ It was hard to know whether he meant it or whether he was being polite. Certainly, when they’d first viewed this place, she’d been swept away. It was difficult to remember those feelings now, in the bleak mood she was in.
He wanted, he explained, to paint the picture which had been taken in ‘the perfect summer’. ‘It was a moment when everything seemed almost magical. I want to try to capture it if I can. It will be a Christmas gift, if I can paint it in time.’
Luckily his sketching, although rudimentary, showed promise.
She showed him how to mark out the outline for his watercolour, how to pass the pencil lightly over the paper so that it would barely be seen in the finished piece.
He worked in silence, his tongue poking occasionally from his mouth like a child’s, deep in concentration.
Something about him – perhaps his boyishness, or his enthusiasm for the work – put her at ease and she found herself chatting away to him. Had he grown up around here? What did he do for work? He seemed equally interested in her. Why was she here? What art medium did she prefer?
Then, rather awkwardly, she nodded towards his wedding ring. ‘You’re married?’
It was almost as if she’d drawn a cloud over the sun. He nodded briefly. ‘Oui.’
The change in his tone was marked and she wondered suddenly whether he thought she was coming on to him.
‘I’m not… I don’t…’ she found herself saying, before realising that explaining might actually make things worse. ‘I mean, can I make you a coffee?’ she said.
He seemed to perk up again at the offer and the former comfortableness returned. She made a mental note not to ask about his marriage again. Perhaps he just thought it too personal a question.
When he left, she stood at the window watching his car drive away and hoped that he’d continue to come as he’d promised.
It wasn’t so much that she relied on the twenty euros he’d paid for an hour’s lesson – her redundancy payout had been almost a year’s salary, and the art retreats and her commissions were where she hoped to generate most of her future income.
But it was a connection, someone local, and that felt important.
The contact with another human, someone whom she wouldn’t need a passport to actually see, cheered her up and she began to look at things in a more positive light.
So, she’d be alone for Christmas. Steven would come in January, probably, and they’d celebrate then.
She’d do all the things she’d longed to do at Christmas: eat a whole box of chocolates, work her way through her Tbr pile, indulge in some of her favourite authors, and forget about the pressures that sometimes came with the season.
No board games. No flung Monopoly boards. And no King’s speech.
* * *
She was just finishing the last of her bread – an enormous loaf that she’d bought two days ago – toasted with some melted brie, when the first snowflake drifted past the window. It was light, small, a hint of itself, but she found herself rushing to the window like a child.
Where had the snow gone in recent years?
She remembered stomping through foot-deep snow on pavements when she was a child, rolling a snowball around the garden until it was too big to move.
Not snow angels – she’d never liked lying in the snow – but snowball fights, footprints and sculptures.
Then back inside for hot chocolate with Harriet.
The magic of a snow day when the world stopped, schools closed and she’d felt free.
Snow had become more of a nuisance in her early twenties – stopping trains or making journeys difficult.
Then it had seemed to disappear altogether; she’d almost forgotten about it as a weather possibility.
But the single flake, followed by another and another, had her almost squealing.
She imagined the garden, blanketed in the white stuff, fresh and new and unsullied by footprints. It would look completely beautiful.
But as she watched the snowfall gain confidence and thicken, saw how it was landing stubbornly on the road, saw the grass begin to disappear beneath it, saw one or two cars outside slow to a crawl, their full beams doing nothing to break through it, she began to realise that snow in her situation might not be as brilliant as it had first seemed.
Feeling the familiar anxiety begin to bubble, she moved away from the window, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she did.
The jeans and jumper she’d dressed herself in this morning looked smart, but her face above them was creased with anxiety.
Her brown, shoulder-length hair, which had a tendency to do its own thing, looked messier than usual – she’d obviously raked her fingers through it without realising.
And her mascara was smudged. Hopefully it had been in place when Lucien had been there, as it made her look slightly unhinged.
She smoothed her hair, ran a finger under her eye to remove the black from her skin, straightened her shoulders and tried to smile. The woman in the mirror looked more like her again.
It was all a case of image, she thought.
You could paint a picture of a cottage as homely and secluded; you could look at snow as charming and beautiful.
Or you could decide that the cottage was isolated, cut off.
That the snow was dangerous and troublesome.
It was all a matter of how you viewed it, how you worded it.
If she’d learned anything from her ten years in advertising, it was how using the right language could turn something from ordinary into a desirable must-have.
‘Come on, Nic,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘You’re better than this.’ All she needed was a bit of mental rebranding: the snow was beautiful, France was an exciting new start and Christmas on her own would be… restful. Relaxing. Indulgent.
Then, as if to prove that she wasn’t going to let a bit of snow scupper her plans, she retrieved a roll of binbags from under the kitchen sink and made her way upstairs.
There, she opened the small door at the end of the corridor that led to another small staircase, narrower than the first, the wood of each stair worn to a smooth dip in the centre.
Today she’d clear the past from the attic, and soon the room would become a pivotal part of her future.