Page 54 of Daring to Love

13

Amelie

Ican’t believe the sight before me.

It has to be a mistake.

“Daddy?”

He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and glowers at the enormous gift basket on the dining room table. Not only is it filled to the brim with my favourite cheeses and cracker, but there’s also a glitzy collar for Monty, some catnip and toys, but that’s not even why I keep my distance, my faithful cat purring in my arms. No, in the very centre of the basket, a newspaper rests neatly folded, its glaring black-and-white letters both tempting and taunting me. Daring me to read it. A yellow post-it note with the words Read me is attached to the front page.

My heart firmly lodged in my throat, I bite down on my lip, because while I ache for him, I’m still undecided. It doesn’t take a scientist to work out who sent it, I’m not sure I’m ready to face whatever it is he’s written.

Mon dieu, how I miss him.

“I think you need to read it, sweets,” Maman’s gentle voice breaks me out of my stupor, and I glance behind me at the touch of her hand pressing down on my shoulder.

“Bloody hell, woman, really?” I look back at my dad as he paces back and forth between us and the table. “After everything that, that…snake has put her through, you want her to bleed even more?”

“Shush, Graham,” Maman snaps. “It’s up to Amelie if she wants to read it or not. But as her mother, I’m allowed to give her my opinion as well as my advice.”

I’ve heard that tone of voice from her many times – the one that brooks no arguments – though never aimed at my dad, but as I give him another cursory glance, I can’t help but crack a small smile at the exasperation written on his every feature.

“I don’t want her to get hurt, my love…”

“I’m already hurting, Daddy.” I take a step towards the table and hand Monty to my dad. “It can’t get any worse.”

His frown deepens but I know best how to handle this situation. As I raise my head and keep his gaze, he can have no doubt about how strong I actually am, because the worry that shines back at me lessens, and he nods.

“Right. Do you want your mother and me to leave you alone while you read it?”

I shake my head.

“Please stay.”

“I’ll go make some tea. It’s the British way to deal with a crisis, after all.”

I smile back at her, grateful at her attempt to make me feel better, but it isn’t really working. The truth is I feel numb one minute and filled with sorrow and anger the next. I don’t know what’s up or down anymore – I ache in both body and mind, as if I’ve been struck down with the flu, and I hate the amount of weakness that’s overtaken me in a matter of twenty-four hours.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that love makes you feel that way, and yet I am astonished of its voracious power.

I take a deep breath as I reach for the paper in front of me, removing the post-it note, and as I do, the photo that Fin told me was his favourite is revealed to me – the one that shows me in mid-air. The one that made me see myself in a different light when I saw it for the first time. Underneath it, there’s a caption that immediately awakens a flicker of hope inside me.

The powerful Amelie Winters – the young woman who not only captures the hearts of her audience, but mine as well.

Fully invested to read the article through, I turn to the correct page and sit down at the head of the table. My body trembles, but a new sense of purpose has come over me, and I am determined to read everything Fin has to say. My eyes widen as I take in the full spread he’s given me.

Dear Readers,

Yesterday, my editor did you a disservice: he broke the carnival rule as a journalist and chose to print a piece about a young woman which was never meant to see the light of day.

You are probably asking yourself, why not? What was wrong with it? And I will answer your questions in a minute. But first, I have no other choice but tell you that the chief editor of this newspaper, Erik Beckmann, is a liar and a thief. He took my notes, twisted and turned them until they fit the type of story that he believed he had to print in order to sell copies of his newspaper.

The aim of great journalist is to tell the truth – that is something I have always and will continue to strive to do – but there are many things he printed which hold no truth to them, and therein lies the problem: he was not driven by the truth.

He was driven by greed.

Unfortunately, we all know that greed has never been a promoter of the truth, and I cannot sit by and let what you read yesterday go unpunished.