It’s going to happen, I tell myself. My God, it’s really going to happen. I’m going up to his room and my heart is thumping so hard I’m sure the reception lady can hear it too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
LAUREN
On the second floor we make our way along the corridor, passing oil paintings of Corsican coastal views, their colours dulled with age. The hotel is traditional with bumpy stone walls, intricately tiled floors and none of that sleek keycard business. It’s a regular key with a hefty metal fob the size of a letterbox cover. I don’t know if it’s a flurry of nerves, but there’s some fumbling with it as James jabs it into the keyhole, jiggles it and finally succeeds in unlocking the door.
Once inside the room, he takes my hand. ‘Come see the view,’ he says, opening the louvered doors that lead onto a balcony. He makes tea, which I’m not sure either of us wants, but we drink it anyway, sitting side by side on spindly wooden chairs overlooking the sea. ‘So,’ he says, ‘you were telling me about Frank?’
On the way here I thought we’d fall straight into bed. But now, even though James is flying home tomorrow, it feels as if we have all the time in the world. So why rush things? It’s beautiful out here, the calm sea glinting beneath a crescent moon, and a million stars twinkling above us.
‘The message he put out was that he wanted to scale things down while Charlie was little,’ I start to explain. ‘I’m sure that seemed a bit weird to some people. But he managed to make the switch quite smoothly, and whenever he was photographing cookware or watches or whatever it happened to be, there’d be no one else there. No make-up artist, no models – no one to witness his comedowns or ranging hangovers. And he insisted on working that way,’ I add. ‘He didn’t want a client sending over a stylist or an art director or anyone else to oversee things. He didn’t want anyone breathing down his neck, as he put it. If they wanted Frank to do the job, they had to let him get on with it by himself.’
‘Did he do these shoots at home?’ James asks.
‘Yes, in our spare room, which he set up as a still-life studio. And I started helping him, watching and learning along the way.’
‘Amazing! It really is,’ James says, slowly shaking his head. ‘I mean, you are.Youare amazing.’
My heart seems to turn over. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ I say, all in a rush. Yes, I learnt all those skills, but at fifty-one I still don’t know how to accept a compliment. Instead, I toss it back like an embarrassing hat.
‘But you’ve achieved so much,’ he insists.
‘There’s a lot more I’d like to do …’
‘Like what?’ He seems genuinely keen to know. It’s entirely new, this meeting someone who appears to be interested in what I do.
‘I’d actually really love to write a cookbook.’ I’m surprised that I’ve even told him this. Not even my friends know; not because it’s some dark secret. But it seems pointless to even mention it until there’s some chance of it actually happening.
‘What kind?’ James asks.
‘One about Corsican food,’ I reply. ‘Not just with local recipes but a real feeling of the island, the markets, the producethat grows here. I’d do the whole thing – the words and photos. I’ve got it all planned out in my head and I even know what the cover would look like …’ I laugh. ‘So, that’s my dream. It’s a bit niche, don’t you think?’
‘I think it sounds wonderful,’ he says, with such sincerity I want to hug him.
‘Well, thank you. That’s good to hear!’
‘I think you could do it,’ James says simply. ‘I really do.’ And then, so softly and gently I almost feel as if I’m floating, he kisses me.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, just looking out to sea. A young couple are paddling around in the shallows together, laughing and splashing each other. ‘Isn’t the sea amazing here?’ I remark.
‘It’s fantastic. I swam before breakfast this morning.’
‘That’s the best time! I often do it myself,’ I say.
‘Does Charlie ever swim with you?’ James asks.
I shake my head. ‘Not anymore. I mean no, not at all. Although he used to love it …’
He’s frowning now. ‘Did something happen?’
I exhale slowly, figuring that I don’t want to tell him tonight. The last thing I want is to dampen the evening by going into it all. ‘Yes, it did. But it was a long time ago.’
James seems to know not to press me for details. ‘Maybe it’s just a matter of time,’ he suggests, ‘and he will again one day?’
‘Yes, maybe. We’ll see.’ It’s been averylong time already, I reflect. But who knows what can happen when we least expect it?
I smile and lean over and kiss this man who’s lifted my heart, and we get up from the balcony seat and go back into his room.
