Chapter 31
‘Voila!’ Lucien said, placing an enormous platter of different cheeses on the table.
‘Wow!’ Nicola said. ‘I thought… Didn’t we just eat?’
Lucien and Annabelle laughed as if she’d made a hilarious joke. ‘We have only had three courses!’ Lucien said.
‘How… um, how many courses are there?’
‘Five. Or perhaps six,’ Annabelle said, then smiled at Nicola’s expression. ‘You do not have this in England?’
‘Well, we have a big meal… but nothing like this.’
‘Yes, and they must eat all of their Brussels sprouts,’ Lucien said.
‘Really?’ Annabelle looked astonished. ‘You have a meal of vegetables?’
Her face looked so shocked that it was impossible not to laugh. ‘Not quite,’ Nicola said and explained the traditional British meal.
Annabelle nodded. ‘It is not so different. Many French people do enjoy turkey with chestnuts, but we are not fixed on this. We would not panic if we couldn’t buy a turkey at Christmastime.’
‘Yes, why limit yourself!’ Lucien said, helping himself to a wedge of brie and spreading it on a piece of baguette. ‘There are so many foods to enjoy.’
Nicola had thoroughly enjoyed the canapés – tiny bites made with salmon and cream cheese. And Lucien’s onion soup had been delightful. ‘We often have escargots,’ he told her. ‘But I know that they are not always to British taste.’
‘Yes, what is it with you guys and snails?’ Nicola had joked.
‘Ah, we French are lazy,’ Lucien had said. ‘We like prey that are easy to catch!’
He’d then served a delicious chicken and fennel dish, cooked with clementines. And some sort of potato. And she’d expected some sort of pudding that she’d either refuse or nibble at – she knew when she was beaten – and maybe a coffee.
The cheese platter had been unexpected.
‘So you have this instead of dessert?’ she asked, trying to nibble politely on a piece of cheese and hoping that she didn’t explode.
Lucien laughed. ‘No, there is still dessert. I have made b?che de Noel.’
‘Yule log?’
He made a face. ‘That does not sound as appetising.’
‘No, you’re right.’ She nodded. ‘And that’s… it?’
He laughed again. ‘Oui, unless you want truffles. I have made some just in case.’
‘I think I might be full by then.’
Lucien picked up another piece of cheese. He seemed to still have plenty of room and she watched, fascinated, as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the mouthful. He then opened one eye, looking at her askew. ‘You do not feast at Christmas?’
‘Well, we do,’ she said, thinking of the long winter afternoons picking at a tin of Quality Street despite being full to bursting. ‘But perhaps not as much.’
‘I should have served thirteen desserts. Then you would have found out what a feast can be like!’
‘Thirteen desserts?’
‘Yes, it is a speciality. But I went easy on you. I have just made one.’
‘Why thirteen?’
He shrugged. ‘It is tradition. Something about the apostles I think.’
‘Wow. That is a lot,’ she said.
Lucien laughed. ‘Your face is a picture,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m glad you decided to stick to one. I don’t think I could cope with much more!’ she said. Then, ‘Not that it isn’t delicious. It’s been absolutely amazing! But… well, I’m pretty full.’
‘The trick is to eat only one or two canapés,’ he told her.
She blushed. She’d eaten five – feeling hungry and not knowing what was to come. ‘I’ll remember that next time.’
Lucien picked up yet another cheese morsel. ‘For you, I think, Christmas is more about the season, the presents. And the lights. For us, Christmas is mainly about the food.’
‘Next year,’ she said, ‘you guys can come to us and I’ll cook you a British Christmas lunch with all the trimmings.’
They suddenly fell silent, both probably thinking that next year might look very different.
Lucien looked over her shoulder to Annabelle’s bed.
He’d pushed it close to the table so she could be involved in the meal, and after the initial awkwardness of the arrangement, Nicola had been able to relax, chat with both of her hosts equally, watch fondly as Matthieu insisted on leaving his chair and sitting with his mother instead.
But now as she followed his gaze, she could see that Annabelle looked astonishingly pale. She was awake, but lay back against her pillow more heavily, her untouched cheese plate resting on her lap.
‘My love,’ Lucien said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m just a little tired. It’s OK.’
But he was up, adjusting the oxygen tank, looking at his wife carefully. ‘Do you want me to call the doctor?’
‘I think I just need to rest.’
‘No, I will call him just in case.’
‘But it’s Christmas.’
‘But it’s you. There is nothing more important.’
Nicola felt the tiny piece of cheese she’d tried turn to sawdust in her mouth. A panic ran through her. Matthieu buried his face against his mother’s shoulder. ‘I should go,’ she said, pushing her chair back.
Lucien hardly seemed to hear her. He was stroking Annabelle’s hair, looking into her eyes. And suddenly all the pretence they’d managed to build up seemed to fall away. Annabelle was desperately ill, and this was a family coping with something unimaginable.
Nicola quietly cleared the plates from the table, stacked them neatly by the sink. Part of her wanted to stay and clean up, but she felt in the way, as if she were intruding on something that wasn’t really for her to see.
‘Should I go?’ she asked Lucien when he came over to her from Annabelle’s side. ‘Or can I stay and help? Look after Matthieu perhaps?’
He smiled, sadly. ‘I think it is better that we are alone for the doctor. But thank you. It is appreciated.’
She opened the door, then turned. ‘Call me?’ she said. ‘Let me know what’s happening? And if you need me to help with Matthieu tomorrow. Or anytime. Well, you know where I am.’
Her bag of presents was still in the hall, so she brought it in quietly and put it at the base of the tree where other presents glistened, untouched.
Then Lucien walked with her to the front door.
When they were out of earshot, he put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said. ‘I think it’s just been a bit exhausting for Annabelle.’
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ she said.
He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, do not say that. You have made all the difference. Annabelle really enjoyed talking to you, I can tell. We have run out of things to say to each other. The pain of her illness, it takes over everything sometimes. We pretend, for Matthieu, of course, but it is always there. Your stories, your presence, were a distraction. You took the saddest Christmas imaginable and made it happy for a time.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I hope so.’
‘You did.’
To her surprise, Lucien suddenly gathered her into his arms in an enormous hug.
She put her arms around him in turn. It struck her then that she hadn’t been hugged for months.
For a moment she thought he might be crying, but when he stepped back again he was smiling a little.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘And Merry Christmas.’
‘And to you.’ Although it felt wrong to say it, really. Clearly the Christmas they were having was not going to be full of joy, the way it should be for a couple and their young child.
The journey home seemed to go more quickly than before, and she soon found herself driving the deserted high street in Eymoutiers, the lights still gleaming in the crisp, dark night.
It was almost eleven-thirty and her body ached with tiredness.
She’d turn up the heating – to hell with the cost – give Gabi a quick stroke and get herself to bed.
Hopefully she could still her mind after this evening’s events and sink into the sleep she desperately needed.
Even if she’d have to be up again at 3 a.m.
Tomorrow, on the journey, she would think more about ways she could help Lucien.
She would get to Steven and show him just how much he meant to her.
She would make the most of her good fortune – because how could she look at her life as anything less than lucky when she’d just spent the evening the way she had?
Perhaps, she thought, she’d even send a little wish to the angel for Annabelle’s health. After all, it wouldn’t hurt.
The first sign that something was wrong came when she rounded the corner and saw that her gate was open.
She’d fastened it after herself when leaving earlier that evening, she was sure of it.
Then she saw tyre tracks snaking across the driveway and onto the lawn.
The snow had been kicked up and was covered with footprints.
There was a van she didn’t recognise parked haphazardly, its wheel on one of the flowerbeds she’d dug over before winter, barely visible under the snow and in the light from her headlamps.
She was alone. If some Christmas Eve opportunist had broken in, she had no idea what to do. It was close to midnight, and she had no near neighbour. There was nobody in the house to greet her, no one she felt she could call.
The Santa and sleigh blinked in merry oblivion, completely unaware of her plight. Was it that that had made burglars think they should target her house? Did her colourful lights make them believe that her house would be a treasure trove of Christmas gifts for them to help themselves to?
The light was still on in the kitchen, and she could see movement inside, two figures in black making their way across the room.
A lump formed in her throat. She took out her phone and rang 17 for emergency services, her thumb hovering over the ‘call’ button as she watched, her heart thundering in her chest.
Then the front door opened, and a man with a large bag began making his way towards the van.
He stopped, seeing the headlights of her car, and rushed back inside, taking the bag with him.
Another figure appeared at the window, then another at the door, all gazing into the night and seeing she had returned.
She’d stopped just beyond the gate, as soon as she’d seen the wreckage of her front garden, and couldn’t make out the miscreants’ features.
Hopefully they could barely see her either.
Perhaps they imagined it wasn’t just a woman on her own, but a car full of people ready to take them on.
Perhaps just her presence would scare them off, get them out of her home.
Adrenaline rushed through her veins. She pushed open the car door and stood in the icy darkness, switching off the engine and plunging herself into shadow.
Her finger pressed ‘call’ on the phone. Then, picking up the only weapon she could find, a large stick she’d picked up on a recent walk, and leaning against the garden wall, she began to walk forward, anger coursing through her.
How dare someone break into her house on Christmas Eve!
How dare someone come to her home and take advantage while she was out!
Knowing how dangerous and foolish it was to try to confront someone in this situation but somehow not caring, she found herself propelled forward towards the steps that led to the open front door.