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All morning, my eyes keep straying next door, but I don’t see him at all. My mind plays the usual bargaining tricks.
What if he’s still asleep? He might have walked all night and needed a lie in.
What if he’s down the hill in the garden fixing something?
What if he’s gone to the village?
And eventually…
What if he had an accident last night and he’s lying somewhere in a field with a broken leg or worse? It would explain the lack of coffee, the silence next door, the closed shutters.
This idea takes hold on my mind until I become convinced it must be true. It’s all I can do not to rush out searching for him.
“Why don’t you take a break and have lunch?” Pierre joins me a little later. “I’ll keep an eye on the shop.”
“Actually…” I hesitate. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Of course.”
“I’m worried that Hal didn’t might not have made it home last night. Would you nip next door and see if he’s there?”
Her eyes flick to the window that faces his side, then back to me with a sad smile. “He’s there. I saw him go into one of the chalets a couple of hours ago.”
“Are you sure?” I ask sharply, wanting her to be wrong. “You sure it was him?”
She nods, her eyes full of sympathy.
My throat tightens. Nothing in my life has ever hurt so much as this crushing disappointment. I try to breathe, and it comes out as a gasping whimper. Blindly, I rush into the house, up the stairs to the bathroom, close the door behind me and lean on it as dry sobs squeeze through me.
It’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, it’ll be alright, I keep whispering. You can survive this. You’ve had other breakups before. My voice comes out hoarse and ugly.
You can start again. Go somewhere new. Go to New Zealand and stay with Sophie and Mum.
It doesn’t help, it makes me feel worse. So, I stay in the bathroom waiting for a little strength.
In the end it is the fear that makes me move.
The idea that a relationship which started as a holiday romance could do this to me, leave me in pieces; that is a scary idea. I’m thirty years old for crying out loud. I can’t fall apart over a man and hide in the bathroom shaking and whimpering like a little girl.
So, I wash my face and dry it, brush my hair and stare at my own reflection in the mirror.No more tears. Do not cry. Be strong and keep your self-respect.
Deep breath.
Then I open the door and go downstairs.
It works.
Sort of.
The afternoon sun shines through the window, so I wear my dark glasses, which helps a lot. As long as no one can see my eyes, my smile can fool anyone. I even resist the temptation to ask Pierre if she’s seen him again.
By half past seven, the effort of holding it together has sapped all my energy and I go to bed and can’t hold back the tears.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Elodie
On Sunday, there is a message from George Du Montfort. He invites me and Grandad to a meeting at the Municipalité in a week. Pierre, who brought the letter is oddly apologetic.
