Even so, the fact that she and Charlie are still in contact has slightly lifted my gloom as I drive over to Irene Craven’s. I could grab at this as reason to send Lauren a message:It was nice of Charlie to contact Esther. She was really happy to hear from him.But should I even discuss the comings and goings of our kids? Would both of them resent it? They’re human tripwires, highly tuned to parental interference or even comment. I thought the toddler stage was confusing, when you made them scrambled egg because theylovedscrambled egg, then one day they pushed it away, scowling, as if you’d presented them with vomit on toast. One minute they’d be clamped to you like a baby monkey; the next they’d bristle with irritation when you happened to enter the room they were in.
But really, all that was a walk in the park compared to the workings of a young adult’s mind.
I’m turning all of this over as I park up in Irene Craven’s street. They’re neatly kept terraces with tiny front patio gardens. Hers, it turns out, is home to countless ornamental creatures arranged on the flagstones: foxes, badgers and a not exactly lifelike, but admittedly striking iridescent metal stork.
I press the doorbell, happy now at the thought of Bob coming to us for a temporary stay. It’ll be fun, I think, to have him around. He’s an affectionate old boy, andit’ll be something else to take my mind off the glaring void in my life where Lauren used to be.
The door opens and a tall, thin elderly woman in checked trousers and a peach sweater greets me with a look of disappointment, as if she’d expected something better. ‘Mrs Craven? I’m James,’ I start, aware now of the scramble of Bob approaching. He tumbles out of the door and fusses around my legs. ‘Hello, boy!’ I crouch down to greet him. At least someone seems happy to see me.
‘I don’t know what you’re going to do with him,’ Irene says, shaking her head.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say, straightening up. ‘He can come and stay with me until Tony’s home—’
‘That’s the thing,’ Irene cuts in, frowning now. ‘They called a little while ago. The hospital, I mean. Tony died this afternoon.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
LAUREN
I keep telling myself there are good things about not seeing James anymore. For one thing – although I’m not a pessimist normally – I used to find myself thinking,Is this too good to be true, this being in love thing? Is it possible at fifty-one to not only have a holiday romance but for it to carry on back home when we have our own lives and jobs and families to keep on top of?
Well, now I don’t have to entertain such thoughts! Aren’t I lucky being all on my own again?
I hadn’t actually intended for this to happen, or even thought it through. Yes, I’d been bitterly disappointed about our little off-grid adventure and, in truth, I’d also felt a bit stupid over the intensity of my preparations – all those ingredients, meals and wine packed, pub meal booked, all that. But I’d also told myself that of course Esther had to come first and anyway, Charlie and I would have a wonderful time together.
I hadn’t really thought beyond that. But after Cornwall it felt like everything had shifted. Our messages were short and to the point, then seemed to fall away. It felt tooawkward somehow, and I decided that, rather than keep checking my phone like a lovesick fifteen-year-old, I’d roll up my sleeves and get on.
Fired up by our trip, I worked night after night on a cookbook proposal. Naturally,A Corsican Kitchenwould be filled with recipes. But I also have hundreds of photographs from my trips to the island over the years, of the food markets, the boulangeries and charcuteries, the olive grove by my parents’ place, the farm where a woman who’s almost as old as the hills makes goat’s cheese in the barn; the cafés with their perfect breakfasts of hot chocolate or excellent coffee in a handleless mug, served with the flakiest, butteriest croissants; the swathes of wild thyme and the orchards resplendent with clementines, apricots and almonds to be toasted and ground into the most wonderful tarts and puddings.
All of that could go into the book too, along with snippets from my mother’s own handwritten recipe collections, the blue ink fading, the pages yellowing with age. I photographed pages and pages when I was there in the summer, which she found amusing: ‘What d’you want with my scrawlings?’ My heart quickens as I gather everything together; all my ideas, recipes, photos and love of the island bundled up into what, I’m sure, could be a wonderful book.
Of course I wish James was here and I could share it with him. But as time slips by, it only confirms that his life is already full to capacity and there’s no room in it for us to be together.
And that’s fine, I tell myself, as I sit up late researching literary agents and finally, with hope in my heart, send off my cookbook proposal.
Yes, it really is okay to be on my own again, I decide. It’ll just take a bit of adjustment, that’s all.
*
I used to think I led a very ordinary kind of life, doing my work but mainly focusing on Charlie, helping with his homework and answering his endless questions about how the solar system worked (until it became patently obvious that he knew far more about that than I did). Although my recipe work was taking off, I wasn’t terribly confident. For a long time, at the back of my mind, I was still living with the fact that I’d spent so long with a man who’d neglected us and cheated on me; and more recently our son had started to push me away too, and soon he’d be gone and I’d be alone.
It scared me, if I’m honest. I wasn’t sure about this next stage of my life – how it would look and feel. But since last summer things have happened.
For one thing, I fell in love. It might have been too good to be true, that lovely cocoon we were in on a beautiful Mediterranean island. But it’s shown me that Icanlove someone. I can give myself like that, and will never again settle for a dreary man who springs straight off me after sex and starts going on about the fuse in his oven.
Other good things have happened too. Charlie and I grew closer again in Cornwall, which would never have happened if I’d taken James instead. I also know he reached out to Esther, and that they’ve been chatting a lot, because she has plenty of time on her hands at the moment. That’s the phrase he’d used: ‘reached out’. It made me smile, because he’d have scoffed at that not so long ago. I know he’s felt pushed out by Remy, even though he’d rather put his hand in a fire than admit it to me. But my son has a sparkle back again and it’s lovely to see. I haven’t heard from Esther about doing more pictures – but maybe it’s awkward for her now. Anyway, I’m sure she has plenty of friends who can help out.
So, yes, so many good things have been happening, andif a wave of sadness rears up, I quickly quash it, keeping busy, busy, busy. After Cornwall I’ve been cold-water swimming with Kim. She was right; I can’t think of anything that could be more exhilarating except … James pops into my mind again; specifically those many, many lovely nights we spent together. But they’re consigned to the memory bank now.
I haven’t even been to London since we broke up. I haven’t had any reason to go there. But one grey winter’s morning I check my emails and almost fall off my chair when I see a reply from a literary agent:
Dear Lauren,
Many thanks for sending us your proposal forA Corsican Kitchen. The team and I really enjoyed it and wondered if you would be able to come to our office so we could talk it over and see where to go from here? If so, please let me know a convenient time for you.
With best wishes,
Juliette Lloyd
