Chapter 29
Christmas Eve, and Eymoutiers high street had been transformed.
An enormous stretch of road had been closed off for the market, and as well as the shops carved into the old buildings that lined the street, there were stalls with colourful awnings as local craftspeople vied for Yuletide custom.
Music was playing softly, a mixture of carols and seasonal songs, and it seemed the whole town had come out to wander the streets and pick up last-minute candy canes, small pottery gifts, or to buy coffee and waffles from pop-up vendors, and meet up with friends.
She didn’t really have much to buy – only some sort of gift to bring with her to Lucien’s.
And perhaps something for Matthieu, too.
Having never seen their house, other than the picture Lucien had shown her, she had no idea what he and Annabelle might like.
Instead, she found herself buying yet more trinkets for her family and Steven – even though it would be well into the new year by the time any of them were received.
There was something about Christmas, when the feeling of the season finally reached your heart, which made you feel more generous, more at one with the world than you usually did.
And although she’d been convinced that it wouldn’t happen this year, she found her heart soar as she made her way along, exchanging bonjours, handing over twenty-euro notes and breathing in the scent of spice and coffee, fried waffles and crêpes.
No more snow had been forecast, but a white blanket of it still remained everywhere but on the roads.
It was a white Christmas for sure, but a practical one.
She tried not to think of how perfect it would have been to have Steven here, to light the fire – for her to show off her newly acquired fire-building skills – and snuggle on the sofa looking out at the crisp whiteness in the garden.
Or if Harriet and her parents had come, as she’d hoped, so she could have shared the beauty and wonder of a different sort of Christmas with them.
But she wasn’t going to let herself dwell too much on that.
Monsieur Rémi – she still struggled to think of him as Antoine – had said that luck was relative.
That we often only saw it in retrospect.
And when she’d been lying in bed last night trying to go to sleep, she’d thought again about all the ways she could describe her life as lucky.
She had vowed then to be more grateful, even when things went wrong.
If Antoine could think of himself as lucky, well, so could she.
This morning she’d been unable to sleep, and instead had come downstairs at about 4 a.m., suddenly inspired, pulling out a piece of watercolour paper and beginning to sketch a picture from memory.
By 8 a.m. it had almost been finished. Before leaving for the market, she’d slipped it into a drawer. She’d put the final touches on later.
She bought a waffle from the stand, holding the hot snack in a napkin and trying her best to nibble it with dignity, despite the generous layer of dripping chocolate the stallholder had applied.
‘Joyeux Noel!’ a voice called, and she turned to see Chloé with another woman she didn’t recognise. ‘Are you all ready for tonight?’
‘Yes. I think so. Almost.’
‘Well, have a lovely time.’ Chloé stepped forward and swiftly kissed both her cheeks. ‘I will call you in the new year, d’accord? We can get coffee?’
‘I’d love that.’
An hour later, she forced herself to be decisive.
She’d been wandering the market in a bit of a stupor, but she was due at Lucien’s around 7 p.m. and had to wrap presents before that.
Antoine’s daughter was due to arrive just before lunch to whisk him away and it would be good to get back in time to say goodbye.
She’d miss him, she realised. Even though they’d only just connected, there had been something nice about knowing he was there – the yellow light in the window, the smoke from his chimney (although she wasn’t sure how comforting that would be going forward), the odd wave.
But he would be back, indeed had spoken about renting a house in the centre of town, while things were being rebuilt next door.
In the end she chose a handmade wooden game for Matthieu, together with an enormous bag of bonbons, and a basket filled with local delicacies for Lucien and Annabelle.
She’d debated whether to buy a blanket – there had been some hand-crocheted ones on a stall that were beautifully made – but had decided they might associate that too much with sickness and that she ought to play it safe.
She was just walking back along the high street to leave when there was a sudden squeal.
She looked around and saw two children charging in her direction; they raced past her and then she saw him, the figure of Père Noel, his beard slightly lopsided, standing in a long red cloak handing out lollies to the children.
She was almost certain that the guy inside the suit was the mayor – she’d met him when she’d first arrived in the town.
But luckily the children, in their Christmas excitement, were fully convinced.
The walk back on the slightly slippery pavements was a little challenging now that she was weighed down by all her gifts, but she’d opted not to drive because parking would have been a nightmare.
Villages and towns liaised with one another so that Christmas market days didn’t clash, meaning whenever one was held, it would attract visitors from the surrounding area.
It was nice the way everyone seemed to come out whenever there was an event, but it did create a parking issue and she’d rather risk the icy pavements than try to squeeze her car into a tiny snow-scattered space.
Parking had never been her forte, and now, with her driveway and the fact that the car parks and roadside spaces were rarely even half full, she’d become lazy, finding easy spaces to park in with plenty of margin for error. She didn’t fancy her chances with a more challenging space at this point.
Back home, she shook off her coat and piled her shopping on the table. Antoine, who’d been sitting by the fire, looked up from his book. ‘Mon Dieu, you have bought enough for an army!’ he said.
‘Not quite.’ She grinned. Although piled up on the table, it did look like rather a lot. Still, she was supporting local businesses, she thought, trying to justify the fact that her bank balance was probably looking a little worse for wear.
Once she had made Antoine a cup of herbal tea, she made her way to her bedroom to call Harriet.
They’d spoken early yesterday but she wanted to wish her sister Merry Christmas Eve and make sure everything was OK at home.
And reassure her, too, that she was perfectly happy.
The last thing they needed was to have to worry about her as well as recover from the shock of the accident.
There was no answer. She called twice for good measure, then left a message.
She tried her mum’s mobile too – they’d spoken a couple of times since the accident, and she’d been reassured to hear the usual cheerful tone in her mum’s voice.
Something about the accident had brought home to her the fact that her parents were getting older, more fragile.
Even though car accidents weren’t an age thing, she’d felt a sudden protectiveness over them and found herself worrying more than she’d used to whether they were OK.
It was odd when Mum’s mobile rang out too. Ordinarily, she’d answer within a ring or so. Once she’d even picked up a call in the theatre and nearly got herself chucked out. ‘Hi, Mum. Just ringing to wish you a Happy Christmas Eve!’ she said on the voicemail. ‘Speak soon.’
It wasn’t worth calling Dad’s mobile. It usually lay at the bottom of a kitchen drawer, completely out of charge. He tended to let Mum field the calls and pass the phone where necessary. She drummed her fingers on her bedside table for a minute then decided to call Steve.
To her surprise, he answered.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you’d answer!’
He laughed. ‘Don’t sound so disappointed.’
‘I’m just surprised. Aren’t you at work?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ He paused. ‘Yes, I am. I just… I popped back to my locker just when you called.’
‘That’s lucky.’
There was a noise in the background: the chatter of a radio down low. ‘You’re listening to the radio?’
A pause. ‘Oh, that! It’s just… one of the others must have left it on. Christmas music, you know. ’Tis the season and all that.’
‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. Of course. Look, sorry love, I better go.’
‘Right. OK. Speak later?’
‘Definitely. Love you.’
‘Love you too.’
She tried Harriet again, wanting someone to reassure her that Steven probably sounded odd because he was stressed, or because he’d answered his phone at work. But there was still nothing. The voicemail cut in almost immediately, as if the phone were switched off. The same with Mum’s.
Something cold flooded her chest and she tried to tell herself she was being ridiculous. It was Christmas Eve! They were probably at a carol concert or something, and had simply turned their phones off.
To take her mind off it, she pulled the painting from the drawer again.
It had come together quickly, but it looked studied rather than rushed.
Inspiration had taken her and something natural had come through in her art; rather than overthink it, she’d been lost in the moment and somehow the picture had come to life under her brush.
She filled a pot with water and pulled out her small watercolour palette, mixing a dark flesh colour and carefully adding detail of light and shade. The face, already beautiful, took on a lifelike quality.
An hour on, she covered the painting and washed her brushes. She wondered whether the whole idea had been ridiculous, whether she ought to tuck it away rather than gift it. Whether it might do more harm than good.