His body goes rigid. As he takes a step backwards he’s holding me at arm’s length, staring down at me.
‘And you’re casually mentioning this NOW? Were you even going to tell me, or were you simply planning tovanish?’
My insides are shrivelling and my voice has shrunk to a squeak. ‘I didn’t want to spoil the evening.’
‘Well congratulations, you did a great job there. Where are you going?’ He doesn’t give me time to reply, and his voice hardens. ‘Don’t tell me, it’s Paris, isn’t it?’
I nod.
‘So what the hell happened to talking through the options before you decided, like we agreed?’ His hand is shaking on my shoulder. ‘There are so many viable alternatives, if only you’d asked first.’
I’m keeping my voice level. ‘Believe me, it’s the only way that works for me. Otherwise I have to pay Maude back … and get loans … and it’s all … just too complicated …’ My words tail off and even though I clear my throat I still sound as defeated as I am. ‘The truth is, I’m not brave enough for anything else.’
His hands drop and he lets out a snort. ‘No, Clems, this is you ducking out, you’re pressing the self-destruct button, yet again. Despite everyone believing in you and wanting to help you, you don’t give enough of a damn to even try. You couldn’t be surrounded by any more love and support. If you truly cared aboutanyof this, andanyof us, you’d stay and fight and make the Little Cornish Kitchen work.’
‘I – I – I …’
As he takes another step back his voice is like cold steel. ‘Don’t say anything more, you couldn’t be more clear. I’m sorry I read this so wrong. Now please let’s go home.’
He strides ahead and I stumble along the beach edge three yards behind him, swallowing back the sour saliva and cursing myself for messing up so spectacularly.
When we reach the top of the stairs back at Seaspray Cottage he pauses for a second by his door. ‘Have a great time, I hope Paris gives you everything we can’t.’ From the way he spits out the words, he means anything but that. And as I hear the scrabble of Diesel’s feet on the floorboards I catch one last glimpse of his face. Seeing his expression more tortured and angry and hurt than I’ve ever seen I feel like there’s a knife twisting in my chest.
Then I make a dash to my bathroom and wretch up two jugs of sickly strawberry cocktail into the toilet.
And that was my last night in St Aidan.
38
Paris
Balconies and chin rests
Tuesday, a week later
When I get back to my little room in Paris, the traffic’s so much louder than when I was last here. I was counting on the twinkling outline of the Eiffel Tower at night to plug the gaping hole left by the view of the stars over the bay with the lights of random fishing boats bobbing far out at sea. But somehow it doesn’t. Not straight away. Although the biggest hole of all is somewhere between my chest and my stomach and eating doesn’t make that one go away. However many patisserie windows I look in, I’m not even tempted. All I want to do is curl up in bed with my head under the covers. But without Pancake’s firm furry back to rest my chin on, without her purr blowing in my ear, and without the overlay of the breakers thrashing on the sand, my brain won’t switch off. So, for the first few nights instead of sleeping, I lie with my eyes open and my heart aching.
I don’t get the luxury of missing everything from St Aidan. Before I get out of Charles de Gaulle airport, Sophie’s emails are pinging in. Since she signed for Siren House she’s been super-busy transforming her visualisations into orders, and she’s running every one past me so I don’t feel left out. She’s asking what I think of artisan solid wood Swedish media units and Broste Copenhagen toilet brushes – yes, really. Basically, she spends every waking secondandmost of the time she should be sleeping scrolling through Scandi websites. The amount she’s spending you’d think she’d bought a county not just a teensy castle.
Much sweeter, Milla’s messaging for advice on colours for her new room. The Pinterest board she’s made is vibrant and most of the pictures could have come straight out of Laura’s flat. When Sophie finds out she doesn’t want a million shades of white, I’ll hear the howl from here. Meanwhile, Plum’s Facebook messaging me, asking what Joe’s up to, Joe’s Facebook messaging, telling me what Plum’s up to. Nell’s Twitter messaging the goss about the latest singles’ hook-ups in between tax returns, and for every cup of Liptons I make for Maude, I’m getting a selfie of Nell and George with their checked shirts running into each other. And George is texting to ask where I’ve put the sugar. So as far as the St Aidan crew are concerned, they’re acting like I haven’t left. All except for Charlie of course. I saw so much of him before, but now there’s nothing. Which given what happened isn’t surprising, but it still makes the chasm in my insides get huger by the day not smaller.
In other areas life moves on. Maude is adding honey to her vinaigrette, she’s dumped artichokes and moved onto blanched chicory and she’s added tuna steak to her favourites list so I’m visiting the fish and oyster caravan every day. But hurrying home from the market with a bag smelling like the quayside in St Aidan only makes me feel more homesick.
The mermaids must know I’m struggling because they’re sending mini parcels. Every day there’s one of Plum’s tiny seascapes and something else too. There was a postcard wrapped in tissue with a picture of the bay sayingI’ve forgotten all about work in St Aidanin blue splashy letters over the photo. Then there was a cockle shell, with sand from the beach still clinging to it. A starfish wrapped in a strand of seaweed. On Saturday, a strawberry tart in an individual Crusty Cobs box arrived in a million pieces but was the first food I’ve properly tasted since I got back. Then there was a tiny tin of Gourmet Kitty potted shrimps and pearl barley, which I didn’t eat but which made me laugh.
It’s a good thing there’s so much interaction with St Aidan to distract me. After working for George and fitting in the singles’ nights what I have to do here for Maude seems insignificant. I can see why the mermaids were dismissive when I once called it a career. I did try a batch of mini cupcakes to liven things up, but Maude simply pulled a face and asked for one of her individually wrapped apricot sponges instead. It took a double Porn Star Martini to get her over the shock.
Then on Tuesday, a week after I arrive, just when things should be getting better, my morning goes every kind of bad. First of all, the postman comes but there’s no parcel. I know the seascapes couldn’t go on forever, and they were only ever about settling me in, but for some reason when there isn’t one I’m so gutted I could cry. Which isn’t helped when Maude gets all pre-menstrual about her Liptons not being strong enough, when it’s exactly the same it has been for months. Then I go to the fish stall and they give me a double load for being a loyal customer. Which in fairness I am. But it still means that by the time I call in for my usual coffee at the cafe, the smell of the sea floating up from under the table and is doubly evocative and makes me weepy. Then before my coffee arrives, an email from Sophie drops in my inbox with pictures of the serviettes and rugs she’s bought for Thursday’s picnic at Seaspray Cottage. Any of those on their own, even all of those together, I’d have coped. But a second email comes. All it says isWish you were here,Clemmie Oranginabut, when I scroll down to the photo of Milla’s rainbow birthday cupcakes, I can’t hold back the tears.
Mostly they remind me how much I miss Charlie. But once I manage to shut that out, when I think of everyone in the garden at the cottage, I know I have to be there too. Even though I can see the top of the Eiffel Tower in the distance from my tiny table on the pavement here, deep down I know that staying another week or another month isn’t going to change how I feel. Back in April, Paris was the only place in the world I wanted to be. Now it’s August there are still things here I love but there’s somewhere else I’d rather be. I can sit here and be miserable, or I can take control and go and do what makes me happy. An email to George is a good place to start.
As soon as I’ve quashed my sobs and blown my nose I begin to I tap it out:
Hi George,
Paris isn’t quite as fab as I remembered, so I’m looking at those options again …
However professional I’m trying to sound, I can’t bring myself to say re-visit.
