But she had always prided herself on being strong and independent and after an hour of self-pity she had wiped her eyes, taken a deep breath and given herself a stern talking to. Screw him, she thought. She was young and beautiful, with money in the bank and no ties to anyone or anywhere. She could literally do anything or go anywhere she liked. She was truly free and how many people could say that? It wasn’t a terrible situation to be in. By the time the train arrived in Paris, she was feeling almost positive. He was the loser in all this, not her.
But then checking into the hotel, she felt another wave of grief for the future that had been taken away from her and she lay on the bed and glanced across to the other side where Pete should have been, smiling back at her and beckoning her to him, and she allowed the tears to come again. She hadn’t cried in years and now they were all coming at once, a river spilling down her face, down her body, on to the bedspread. She cried, she raged, she thumped the pillows and then she collapsed, exhausted. After a few minutes she went to the bathroom to clean herself up, then picked up her coat and purse and went downstairs, exiting the hotel on to the busy Parisian street.
She wandered around for a while and then found a bar, feeling the rush of warmth as she walked in and ordered a glass of red wine. She looked around at the rest of the customers, all in groups and pairs, chatting animatedly among themselves, not even noticing the British girl sitting there, alone, the world having crashed down around her. It was amazing how she could go from feeling hopeful to hopeless so quickly, she thought. Was this going to be her lot for the next few days, weeks and months? She couldn’t bear it. This was why she hadn’t fallen in love before, why she had always called off relationships before they got too serious. It was agony.
One minute she was thinking about jumping on a plane and heading off to Australia – it was spring there, what a wonderful time to go back to the country she had loved when travelling – and the next she was thinking of Pete, his face, his smile, his arms wrapped around her, enveloping her in the lemony smell of him, and realising that she may never see him again and everything else just seemed futile. Perhaps she should go to her dad’s house and wait for him there? Maybe he would come.
She sipped her wine and let herself imagine for a minute that Pete was there with her, sitting opposite her, clinking glasses and saying cheers as they realised that they had actually done it. She indulged in the thought that she had won, that she had got him all to herself, that they had their whole future ahead of them and that the only thing they needed to think about was where they were going to go for dinner that evening. But the image quickly evaporated. It was no good to think like that, she was on her own now and she might as well get used to it. She thought about her dad’s house. Maybe it was just what she needed right now, a bit of time alone, a project to get stuck into. She could refurbish the house while healing her wounds and then make some major life decisions after that. If she felt happy there she could start the B&B business she had been dreaming of. If it was too lonely being there on her own, she could walk away at any time and make a new plan. As the wine warmed her insides, she felt more resolute. Yes, she had a plan. She ordered another glass of wine and a steak and frites, Pete’s favourite dish, and afterwards she went outside and took a walk along the River Seine, absorbing the city, its lights, people, colour and vibrancy. She breathed it in one last time.
She travelled south the next day, not wanting to stay in Paris any longer without Pete there with her. She checked into the B&B they had stayed in together just a few weeks before and walked down through the village to her father’s house. The front door was stiff and she had to use her shoulder to push it open.
Inside, she looked around at the dark, dusty rooms, running her fingers along her father’s belongings, his writing desk and his dark leather Chesterfield armchair, breathing in the scent of him which was surprisingly only slightly masked by the musty smell of a house uninhabited for a long time. He was the only man she had ever loved, her father, until Pete. Her two great loves, gone from her life, one by tragedy and one by choice. She located the back-door key, hidden among a pile of papers on the kitchen table, and stepped out onto the veranda. Even though it was a cold, grey autumn day and the neglected garden had become overgrown and wild, the view was still breath-taking. Unspoilt, untouched countryside, save for some farmhouses and gîtes, surrounded her. All she could hear was the trees blowing in the breeze and, in the distance, a dog barking. Her dad was gone, Pete too. She was alone again and she would have to get used to it. Looking around she nodded to herself, this was as good a place as any to do that. She took one last look around and then, shivering, went back inside.
She started
