Chapter 4
Her bedroom was still in half-light when she woke the following morning.
Under her feather duvet, she was warm and relaxed, but as she sat up, the air from the room rushed into the space she’d made and a shiver went through her.
Perhaps this wasn’t the time to try to save money on the heating after all.
Her mind went to Steven, to Christmas. She’d made him promise last time he was here – at the tail end of summer when the evenings still felt long – that he’d sort out his leave for Christmas.
It was always a tricky time of year at the hospital, and often he’d have to work a few shifts over the festive period.
Other staff had children, and he’d always stepped up to support them so they could have time off on these important days of childhood.
This, surely, had to be their time. ‘I’ll cope without you for a couple of months, as long as I know you’ll be here then,’ she’d told him.
And he’d asked as soon as he’d returned to the ward. ‘Got it!’ he’d told her excitedly that night. ‘Susan said they could hardly quibble after the shifts I’ve put in over the years.’
Of course it wasn’t his fault, or Susan’s, or anyone’s really, that the cards had fallen in this way and that he’d been asked to cover after all.
Her Christmas happiness paled in comparison to the needs of the poor kids stuck in hospital at this time of year.
But that was the problem, wasn’t it, of being married to someone in Paeds.
You were always less important than the work, and never felt you had the right to be even disgruntled about it.
Only she was disgruntled. She was annoyed at Steven, at the situation, at her own inability to create the life she’d assumed she’d have by now; Steven’s cancellation had exposed the emptiness she still felt here.
Yes, she’d made some headway with Lucien, but he could hardly be described as a friend yet.
The closest she’d come to making a connection before Lucien had been when she’d fallen into conversation with a woman in the supermarket, who’d asked her whether she was new to the area.
Her French had been good enough to engage in basic conversation, and there’d even been a moment when she’d considered asking the woman if she wanted to grab coffee.
Only her mouth had begun to feel dry, her tongue, heavy and reluctant.
And the moment had passed before she’d had time to seize it.
Other than race after the woman like a romantic hero in a romcom and extend an invitation after the conversation had come to a natural end, she didn’t really have any choice but to continue her sad little grocery shopping for one and kick herself for missing her chance.
And friends from home had sort of fallen away.
She’d had people at work she used to talk to, but when she’d left, few of them had kept in touch.
The odd message on social media was about it.
Maybe the only thing they’d had in common was work.
Or maybe it had been the redundancy that had made them back off, as if it were catching.
Other friends… well, they’d fallen by the wayside in previous years as she’d been sucked more deeply into her career. There were people she could email. But no one really other than Harriet whom she felt she could call.
She forced herself out of bed and pulled on some joggers and a hoody – a messy outfit to finish the attic in. Yesterday she’d moved the boxes to the top of the stairs; today she’d try to lift or slide each one down so she could sort through the contents in the light.
She’d had to leave the solid chest of drawers and matching wardrobe in situ – they were far too heavy for her to consider moving.
But perhaps in any case she’d need a little furniture there for her artwork and brushes.
The room would just need sweeping, then she’d get a builder around to quote for some Velux windows so that the attic would be filled with natural light.
* * *
Later, as she made her way down to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee and grab whatever bread she had left, her phone buzzed.
It was Lucien.
Can I come and do another lesson today? I have some time.
She replied:
Of course!
See, she told herself, flicking on the kettle, I’m in demand already.
Taking her steaming cup to the window, she looked out over the countryside that fell away in front of her.
The snow had begun to melt slightly in the bright morning sun and she could see glimpses of grass and leaf poking through the thin covering.
Beyond, on the narrow road that weaved through the village she could see vehicles making their way along, unencumbered by the conditions.
Earlier, she’d heard the rumble of a snowplough taking away the worst of the snow from the route.
Mum had often said ‘things look better in the morning’ and thinking back to her near despair last night, she couldn’t help but agree. Of course she’d never tell her mother that she thought, smiling and blowing the steam from her drink.
When her mobile buzzed again in her pocket, she almost laughed. Surely this couldn’t be another person booking a class?
It was Steven. She swiped her thumb to answer the call and put him on loudspeaker. ‘Hey, you!’
‘Hi, Nic. Everything OK?’
‘Yeah, not bad,’ she told him, reminding herself that although he had taken her passport to England with him, it wasn’t strictly his fault that things had turned out that way. ‘You?’
He laughed, or let out a sound that was a bit like a laugh. ‘I’m OK.’
‘The snow’s thawed a bit. I was worried last night – it came down in buckets.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Although everyone seems to be carrying on as normal. Not quite like at home.’ Last time it had snowed in the UK, the news had shown endless pictures of skidding lorries and vehicles stuck in snowdrifts.
People had complained about schools closing.
Children had rushed to the hills with sledges. It was front-page news.
Here, it seemed, it was business as usual.
‘That’s good.’
‘I looked up the tracking on the passport, by the way.’
Her heart leapt a little. ‘Did they say when it would arrive?’
There was a pause. ‘Probably on the twenty-seventh. But you never know.’
Her heart sank once more. She tried to keep her lip from trembling.
But it was hard. Hearing his voice but being unable to touch him, have him hold her and make her feel safe, was almost torturous.
Steven was her rock, the person she turned to in a crisis.
And there was something about not being able to see him even if she wanted to that made her miss him more. ‘Yeah. Thanks,’ she managed.
‘Nic?’
‘Yes?’
‘Are you trying not to cry?’
How could he tell? ‘No.’
‘Nic?’
‘I’m just a bit upset.’ She wiped at her eyes, annoyed with herself.
He gave a deep, heartfelt sigh. ‘Yeah, me too. This really sucks. You know, sometimes I think…’
‘What?’
‘It’s daft.’
She let out a spluttered laugh. ‘Steven, this is me you’re talking to. The Queen of Daft!’
He chuckled. ‘OK. Well, I suppose I’ve been worried that you might get used to living without me and all my erratic shift patterns. And might… I don’t know. Prefer it?’
She laughed, sobbed, almost simultaneously. ‘Steven, there is no chance of that. I promise. If anything, I’m falling apart without you here.’
‘Well, I obviously don’t want that either…’
‘Tough, you can’t have it both ways,’ she joked.
‘Come on. Things seem bleak now. But think about it. You’re not working any more. You’ve got every day to do whatever you want! You’re stuck in the most gorgeous village I’ve ever seen. There are, like, three patisseries a stone’s throw away. Roaring fires, snow, chocolat chaud.’
‘I know.’ It all sounded so wonderful when he put it like that.
‘And I know you have one or two pupils right now, but the retreat won’t be ready until summer. So you’re basically on holiday.’
‘Well, hardly…’
‘And next Christmas, I’ll have left this job and we’ll be together.’
She sighed, feeling her mood improve a tiny bit. ‘I guess.’
‘OK, so what are you doing this morning?’
She told him how she’d begun to clear the attic. Today she’d go through the boxes to check for any valuables before throwing away the old papers or junk they contained.
‘When I come, I’ll paint it all for you,’ he said. ‘We’ll make it into a beautiful studio.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Come on, this is just a hiccup.’
‘OK.’
‘What are you going to do after the boxes?’
‘I’ve got a lesson. But not till later. Not much.’
‘OK. Well. I’ll make a suggestion then. You’re going to put on your warmest coat and scarf, march to the village and order yourself the most disgusting, indulgent French pastry you can lay your hands on.
Then, when you get home, you’re going to light the fire, put your feet up, make an enormous hot chocolate and thoroughly spoil yourself. ’
It did sound good. ‘I am?’
‘Yes, that’s an order.’
In the background, there was a voice, followed by a brief ‘hang on’ before Steven muted the call.
‘Sorry,’ he said a moment later. ‘That was Susan.’
‘You’re at work?’
‘Yeah, locker room.’ He paused. ‘I, um, had to stay behind to sort out some papers. I’m off home in a sec.’
‘Right.’
He coughed. ‘Look, I’d better go. But chin up, love.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Atta girl.’
And the line went dead.
It was an odd way to end the conversation. No ‘I love you’s or proper goodbyes. But perhaps he’d been at work still, tucked in the locker room after working late.
‘Love you too,’ she said to her silent phone.