Chapter 30
She felt oddly nervous when she got in her car at quarter to seven to make her way to Lucien’s.
It was dark, her warm breath making tiny clouds of steam as she’d exited the house.
She’d made sure to feed Gabi before she left and stroked the little cat’s head, feeling the tremble of her excited purring.
‘I won’t be long, baby,’ she’d told her.
She’d opened the letter and seen the blue edge of her passport before flinging it on the table.
Sure, it had arrived sooner than expected.
Just not soon enough for Christmas. She had zero chance of getting there now.
It felt almost as if the passport were mocking her and if it hadn’t been such an important document, she’d probably have chucked it on the fire.
Sainte Anne was a mile out of Eymoutiers. She’d passed the sign before on her way to the nearby town of Bourganeuf but had never really paid attention to the different roads that turned from the main route, never thought to explore farther as she whizzed through.
But it wasn’t her sense of direction that she was concerned about: she’d looked up Lucien’s address online and even clicked Street View to double-check the surroundings.
Besides, she’d spent a few weeks now watching him carefully create a reproduction of his home in watercolour – she’d probably be able to recognise his house a mile off.
She was nervous because, despite Lucien’s assurances, she wasn’t sure whether she’d be intruding.
And nervous too about meeting Annabelle who was so very sick.
She didn’t want to do or say the wrong thing and ruin what might be their last Christmas together.
Breathing deeply, though, she continued.
She could hardly renege on the invitation now.
In the back seat were the presents she’d bought, wrapped in festive paper, and a bottle of spiced wine she’d purchased from an artisan at the market.
Ahead, all she could see was a patch of darkened road illuminated in her headlights – the ice crystalising on the snow making it sparkle and dance in her vision.
She’d connected her Christmas playlist to the car’s sound system and turned the volume up now, trying to get into the festive mood once again.
Despite everything, she’d felt quite excited earlier, but her emotions were so all over the place that it was hard to hold on to that feeling of seasonal cheer that came over her from time to time, before it was replaced by uncertainty, anxiety or sadness.
There was so much to be grateful for. But despite everything she’d built here, she still felt insecure.
Something about Steven still nagged at her subconscious: every time she thought about him, she’d feel a shiver of something she couldn’t name.
As if on some level she knew that she didn’t have the whole picture.
She was grateful, of course, that her parents and Harriet were fine, although disappointed they weren’t there to celebrate with her.
Sad that she’d spent so long making the garden into a festive wonderland that they’d only get to see in photos – which really didn’t do it justice.
She’d certainly created a stir in the small town – the most locals would do on the exterior of their houses was string some lights along a railing – but she hoped that she wasn’t simply advertising herself as different or, worse, a little bit mad.
As she passed the sign for Sainte Anne, she shook her head as if to dispel the negative thoughts and turned her music up once again.
The song throbbed through the small car, and was probably even audible outside the vehicle, but on this empty road she was hardly going to worry about noise pollution.
Monsieur Rémi’s words seemed to echo in her head.
When you love someone, you should not let anything get in between you.
Especially at Christmas. She thought of how he’d rushed home to be with Marion all those years ago – how he needed to be close to her at any cost. How she’d wished Steven had moved heaven and earth to get to her, despite the demands of his job.
Now, she had the document she needed to rush to him. But it was too late. Christmas was just hours away.
Wizzard began their familiar refrain and she forced herself to sing along, until the feeling of forcing herself turned into something more natural and she began to enjoy belting out the words.
And there it was again, the fizz of Christmas spirit, dampened by her earlier mood, rising up through her again.
It was Christmas Eve; she was off to celebrate.
Snow clung to the fields and gardens, rested on the roofs of the houses she passed.
Her car disturbed small patches of white underneath itself at times, sending the sparkle of ice droplets into the air.
They’d dance in front of her headlights like tiny stars.
She turned left off the main road and followed a rather bumpy track alongside a field.
By the time she got to the end where it curved to the left, she wondered whether she might have made a mistake.
But then she saw the three stone houses he’d mentioned and beyond it, the house that looked so familiar, even in the gloom.
She pulled up and switched the engine and headlights off.
But Steven remained in her mind. And the guilt rose up again.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she googled ‘ferries to UK’ and found that, as she’d thought, there were no services running on Christmas Eve.
Then she searched ‘LeShuttle’, expecting the same thing.
Only there were trains. Reduced in number, but trains all the same. Even on the day itself.
Gradually a plan began to form. She could go to Lucien’s this evening, then go home and pack a bag.
Grab a short catnap, then get up at three, and be at Calais by twelve.
Then on to LeShuttle and of course the UK was an hour behind, so if boarding was relatively quick she’d reach Folkestone by around twelve UK time.
Meaning she could actually get to Steven by 2 p.m. his time on Christmas Day.
All was not lost. She felt a fizzing sensation inside her, a sense of excitement. She was going to be one of those romantic heroes from Hallmark movies who make the mad dash to be home for Christmas. Surprise her husband! And her family!
As she exited the car, she could smell the comforting scent of an open fire in the air, and the windows of Lucien’s house were lit with the bright yellow of electric light.
The upper windows were curtained, each a different colour, but he’d left the ones in the lower windows open, and she could see a little of the interior as she walked slowly towards the garden gate.
A Christmas tree was visible, and the shadows in the room danced as someone moved inside.
Clutching her presents to her, she freed one hand to lift the gate catch, then made her way through and along the garden path, feeling for a moment as if she were walking into Lucien’s watercolour, into a house that existed only in a painting.
Nicola lifted her hand and pressed the doorbell which sounded inside the house.
Footsteps were audible almost immediately and Lucien flung the door open, grinning widely.
He was wearing an apron and there was flour on his cheek; he looked almost comical.
‘Nicola!’ he said. ‘Merry Christmas and welcome to our home!’
Matthieu appeared behind him, using his father as a shield as he took her in. ‘Hello, Matthieu!’ she said, and he disappeared completely, running back along the hallway and through a door.
‘He is just shy,’ Lucien said, leaning forward and kissing each of her cheeks.
It was the first time he’d done this and it felt strangely intimate, although she knew that French people often greeted their friends this way. He smelled of pastry and spices and beneath that, the clean, fresh smell of soap and shampoo.
She stepped inside, feeling nervous. Lucien had warned her that Annabelle was confined to her bed most of the time, that they’d had a hospital one set up in the living room so that she could be around family.
She was on oxygen, and looked frail. ‘But she is excited about Christmas anyway,’ he’d reassured her.
‘Are you sure it’s OK that I’m here?’ she asked him softly as he took her coat and hung it on a rail in a hallway cupboard.
‘Yes, of course!’ he said, in what felt like an unnecessarily loud voice. ‘We love company at Christmas.’
There was nothing for it but to follow his lead and make her way through the doorway at bottom of the hall, the same one that Matthieu had disappeared through just moments before.
Lucien had told her Annabelle was pleased she was coming and she hoped it was true. Hoped, too, that she’d be able to talk to Lucien’s wife and disguise the sadness she felt on her behalf.
‘Bonjour!’ a voice said the moment she walked into the room.
It was a large kitchen diner, with an enormous ‘bar américain’ across the centre.
On one side, there was a table set with gleaming glassware and white porcelain, a small sofa and chair that looked as if they’d been pushed out of position.
And a bed, its moveable back pushed into an almost upright position.
Annabelle was there, smiling. She wore a red silk blouse, its vibrant colour seemingly out of place with the blue of the bedsheet. The covers were pulled up to her waist, and a clear wire snaked over the back of the bed, just visible on her cheek and under her nose.
Despite her predicament, Annabelle’s blonde, wavy hair shone. She’d applied make-up and her eyelids shimmered silver in the light. She looked frail and thin, but her smile was wide and genuine.
‘Bonjour, Annabelle,’ Nicola said, walking over to her. She wasn’t sure exactly how to greet her hostess; but Annabelle reached up and clutched her hand briefly in greeting.
‘It is lovely to meet you at last,’ she said.
‘You too,’ Nicola responded, trying to keep her eyes on Annabelle’s face and not let them drift to the oxygen tube, the bed, the things that reminded her that her hostess was gravely ill.
It took a while to relax. She wished she could have a glass of wine, but clearly with hours of travel ahead of her, this was impossible.
As it was, she sipped orange juice and listened to Annabelle as she spoke about Lucien – how they’d met at high school, married young.
How it was only during pregnancy that she’d discovered she’d had a heart defect from birth.
She’d become tired, began passing out. When she told this part of the story, her voice lowered; clearly she didn’t want Matthieu to know.
She’d undergone surgery after Matthieu was born to correct it, but it hadn’t gone well. Medications had worked for a time, but the symptoms had continued to worsen. ‘And now I am here,’ she said, gesturing at the bed. ‘At thirty-two!’
‘But it will be OK,’ Lucien said at this point, walking over from the cooker, spoon in hand. He leant down and kissed his wife’s head. ‘Because I believe that you will get your heart.’
She laughed. ‘Lucien has always been an optimist,’ she told Nic. ‘But I think even he is challenged right now.’
Lucien laughed, but Nicola saw a flicker of something cross his face.
Sadness, maybe even despair. ‘I have hope,’ he said simply.
‘All we need is a little luck.’ He rested his hand briefly on Annabelle’s shoulder before suddenly crying ‘merde!’ and rushing to the cooker to stir whatever he’d left on the hob that had started to smoke.
‘Anyway, I am tired of talking about myself,’ Annabelle said. ‘I want to know about you. What possessed you to move to rural France when you could have moved to Paris?’ She smiled widely.
Nicola found talking to Annabelle surprisingly easy.
After a time, she no longer had to ignore the tube or the bed or the fact that Lucien’s wife seemed so frail.
Because she stopped seeing these things and instead engaged with the woman in front of her, shared her story, found pleasure in making her laugh at some of the faux pas she’d managed to commit since arriving.
‘I cannot believe you told Monsieur Rémi that your chatte was frozen!’ Annabelle laughed. And for the first time, Nicola was glad that she’d had a few mishaps since moving. Because mishaps and disasters plus time make anecdotes that you can share with others, once the embarrassment has subsided.
As they talked, Matthieu came over, still eyeing Nicola with a mixture of suspicion and fascination, and leaned into his mother, eventually climbing up, next to her, on the bed.
His mother wrapped her arm around him, still talking, and he snugged into her – the rosy hue of his cheek contrasting with her pale skin.
Nicola watched them, feeling a mixture of pleasure and pain at the picture of love that she saw in front of her. The poor boy. And poor Annabelle.
Instead, she sipped her drink and chatted and laughed, and despite the strange and rather sad situation, began to feel the anticipation and excitement of the season.
She would do her best to help them all feel as happy as possible, then shoot home before heading to the people she loved for Christmas Day.