‘What for?’
‘For how I was back then. I was selfish and I made life so much harder for you and Ettie than it ever needed to be. The person you met back then, it wasn’t really me, not the person I am now, or at least trying to be. In therapy they made us write a list of all the people we’ve hurt that deserve an apology and on the top of that list were you two. I wrote out this letter and everything, planned on coming back in the summer and giving it to you both and then… well you know what happened. When you left, I thought that I was never going to get the chance to apologise and explain until I saw you yesterday and something kind of took over. I’m sorry if I scared you, it wasn’t part of the plan. But I just needed to say my piece. It’s different now.’
I kick some dust around by my feet. ‘It’s a shame that Ettie isn’t around to hear it.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘That’s something that I’m going to have to live with for the rest of my life.’
I feel bad. I know his sadness, understand that stabbing the knife into someone who is already prostrate on the ground is a pretty shit thing to do.
I look at him, how his jaw has tightened and his eyes are looking everywhere except at me. ‘Hey,’ I say, my voice losing its sharpness. ‘He would be really happy to know that you’ve changed, Florian, I think he always knew you would one day.’ I take my keys and start to move towards the door, hoping that this might be the end of the ordeal.
Florian hovers. ‘You know where I am if you need me for anything,’ he adds hopefully.
‘That’s kind.’ I manage a straight-lipped smile. I have no intention of seeking him out for anything, there is nothing that he could offer that I would be remotely tempted by. ‘But I’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t doubt it but still, the offer’s there.’ He is standing metres away from the door, as if to show that he isn’t a threat, that even though he has stalked me, sent messages via my shopping and stolen a perfectly good bottle of wine, he is a decent, upstanding member of society.
‘Good night,’ I nod at him and shut the door behind me.
Chapter 10
Istare at ablank screen for a whole hour and a half. Well not literally, of course, that would be maniacal. Instead, I sit at the breakfast bar and look at a blank Word document on my laptop, the cursor flickering to an invisible beat. I glance at my phone and then Instagram scrolling magically sucks up twenty minutes. I stare back at the Word document vaguely frustrated it hasn’t miraculously become populated with something profound and worthwhile. I sigh, go back to Instagram and the cycle continues.
It’s Sunday morning, a day I had usually reserved for writing. It was easy to do back home. It wasn’t like I ever had any wild weekend plans that took precedence. Mum would wake me up at eight with a coffee and bowl of Fruit ’n Fibre. I would eat it in bed and brainstorm what I wanted to say and then I’d migrate to Dad’s study where I’d start to write.
I hadn’t told my parents about the blog in those early days when I was lucky if a post earned a few hundred likes, mainly because I had started it in the hour on a Thursday that I was meant to be in therapy. Mum had actually stumbled across it herself; there was a small article dedicated to grief in herWomen & Homemagazine and my account got a mention. She had cut out the segment and presented it to me over an Easter breakfast – she used to like sharing the latest ‘griefluencers’ with me. I came clean then, had the wonderfully strange experience of seeing my parents’ utter excitement and pride that I had done something worth celebrating, that my half-finished English degree and their patience in waiting for their only child to be successful had finally paid off. Mum brought it up any time she could, to friends, neighbours, her doctor when we ran into him in the supermarket, and it felt wonderful in a way that I never truly expected. So, when the book idea came about, I let them in on it from the beginning. It was nice to have someone to celebrate with, to toast the deal too, to hold me accountable when suddenly it all became a little too real. They were counting on me too.
They aren’t here to make me breakfast now, they aren’t here to shoot me judging glances when my screen time overtakes my writing time and I realise just how much writing isn’t a solitary existence; I need the accountability of someone watching.
I type out a title –The return. I bold it. I italicise it. I underline it. I change it to a different font. And then I close my laptop and replace it with the diary, the scrawling record of my deteriorating mental state.
I write the date, close my eyes and try to clear my head. The nib touches the paper and then it happens. The words start flowing verbatim from my brain, a stream of consciousness so removed from what I present to the world that it’s like having a conversation with an entirely different person. I like her. She is angry. No. She is furious.
Florian’s name is mentioned twelve times, which means that as much as I pretend that yesterday’s meeting was a closure of sorts, it has done the opposite and that he has riled me more than I would ever care to consciously admit. Archie’s there too, somewhere in the middle.
When I reach the end of the page, I slam the book shut.
At six, I leave the apartment in favour of the first night market of the year, which is pretty much Monpazier’s equivalent of Glastonbury. The soiree is the one event of the week where the elderly ladies will take their hair out of their fresh set and silk scarves.
There is an unmistakeable buzz in the air of life returning. The sun sits low on the horizon, not quite day but not quite night either. The streetlights start to click on as I trace the short walk back to the centre. The steps are easier now; every memory doesn’t sit quite as heavily as it had done a few days ago.
I hear the party long before I can see it. At first, it’s the sound of an accordion, a rhythmic guitar and violin, and then the voices come in. The singing is entirely in French, slightly drowned out by the instruments desperately fighting to stay in tune. Then there’s the conversations, the laughing, the passionate arguing, children squealing and chairs scraping on the cobblestones.
It is as if the place has expanded, unfolded. There are people in every corner, huddled around a hog roast, mingling under the market hall, drifting from stall to stall laden with plastic cartons of chips and mussels and paella. Scattered around are rows of trestle tables and benches, all dressed with tablecloths, mismatched tableware and half-drunk bottles of wine.
And I realise I’m smiling.
I walk the perimeter, floating through memories of all of the summers that Ettie and I would take a night off from the café. We’d put on clothes that we hadn’t worked in and – armed with our own wine, cigarettes and tablecloth – would choose our table for the evening. We’d chat with friends and get drunk enough that, just for one night, this was the best place to be in the entire world.
Eventually I see The American, perched on a table in the very centre of the covered market. She isn’t alone; instead she is surrounded by people laughing, jostling for her attention. They are all united in the way that they are not French. Working here, you learned to spot it, could differentiate between a tourist and an expat. Monpazier has always had a thriving little expat community, mainly retirees who organise social evenings and movie screenings to ensure that everyone would get through the winter socially unscathed. I had thought about going to one once, until I told Ettie and he had looked so disgusted with the thought, I decided otherwise.
I get closer to The American. Her cackling becomes more defined and then I notice the unmistakable redness in her cheeks from what looks like the second bottle of wine.
‘Having fun?’ I ask.
‘Ava!’ She greets me enthusiastically. ‘Sit down, here, move over!’ She beckons me to a seat next to her and then clicks her finger at a face I don’t recognise, an older gentleman with a red cravat. He pretends to be irritated but passes over a large glass with a wink.
‘Merci,’ I smile.
