La Vie en Bleu (9 page)

“Shush now. What makes you feel so lost?” Berne’s voice beside me
made me cry even harder. Her hand on my back made me shudder.

“You are going to Marseille, he is worried about his shirt, and
I’m fed up of digging.”

The rain, which had started as drizzle, grew heavier.

“I need to see Vivienne. It is our weekend.”

Short of saying, “I don’t care. Why aren’t you pining for me?”
there was not a lot I could say to that. I turned away from her and from Doug
and trudged up the stone bridge.

“Pepe, where are you going?” Berne, not Doug, Berne was the one
following me. Her voice, not his, hers called out to me. She wasn’t even
supposed to care and she was the one who came after me. There was something
very skewed about that. “You must let these things out or they will drive you
crazy.”

“
You
drive me crazy,” was what I wanted to say. Instead I
kept walking, Berne catching up.

“What did he do that was so bad?” I could hear that she didn’t
even want to utter his name. It didn’t make me feel better, it just made the
tears flow faster. “You looked pleased to see him.”

How could I tell her that the only reason I’d thrown myself at him
was the desperation to rid her from my thoughts? “I got mud on his shirt.”

“I can think of nothing better.”

“That’s because
you
love me.” I clamped my hand over my
mouth but the words hung there between us, in our breathing as we started down
the hill towards the town.

“
Oui
,” Berne whispered. “This will always be true.”

I didn’t know if that made the aching more prominent or if it made
it more bearable. My heart did a happy dance just to confirm it. She still
loved me.

“He doesn’t understand me.” I ran my hands through my mud-soaked
hair and sighed. “He doesn’t even notice who I am.”

“Sometimes we do not see the value in what we assume will forever
be ours.”

I glared at her. “
You
did.”

“Look where it got me.” Her voice was filled with defeat. She
stared out at the misty rain clouds.

“You think I don’t love you?” Anger mixed with confusion and
jealousy. “You think I want you to go sauntering off to the city to be with
her
?”

Berne blinked a few times as she took in what I had said. “You
love me still?”

“Of course I do!” I put my hands on my hips. I clung on to stop
from closing the gap between us. “You think these tears were for him?”

Oh, that sounded cold. That sounded terrible. I was a terrible
person.

“Now I am not certain.” Berne’s eyes searched mine. Her
rain-soaked hair dripped water down her strong cheek bones. “You left . . .
Pepe . . . I do not understand.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I closed my eyes for a moment. I couldn’t do
this. There was no choice in the matter. I couldn’t explain and I couldn’t
argue. It was done. I was marrying Doug. I had to. Still, I wanted her to know
one thing. “I love you. I hate that you are with someone else and I hate that I
left you.” I sighed. “I’m so sorry I did that to you. I’m sorry I never called
. . . I’m . . . sorry.”

I wished I could tell her why. She’d make it all okay, she always
did but I couldn’t risk it.

Berne’s lips slid into a smile. “That is something I have longed
to hear. Thank you.” She looked up the road the way we’d walked. “What do you
wish to do?”

“What I want and what I have to do are two different things. I
promised to marry him. He’s not you but I haven’t wasted eight years of his
time not to go through with it.”

Wow, wonderful reason to get married. Well done, Saunders.

Berne stood closer. “I meant about the fact we stand in the street
. . . we walk far from the house.”

To any British person, her proximity was within the massive
personal space zone. A place that only people who you really wanted to be there
could stand. It felt intimate and made my body fizz with excitement. She was
standing there, all nonchalant, mud-soaked and beyond tempting.

“Oh,” was about the only thing I could squeeze out.

Her laughter and the twinkle in her eyes undid me. I hurled myself
at her and wrapped my arms around her. I’d never wanted to hug anyone so much
before. Okay, so I wanted more, I
needed
more but it would have to do
now.

“I make a promise to Vivienne also. It is not a ceremony but I am
loyal to her.” Berne held me tight. The rain dribbled over us. “
Alors
I
do not like that you are with him, I hate this.
Je t’aime tout les temps
.”
She took my hand and led me up a very familiar side street. “You have not seen
my mother in some time. You come, clean, eat.”

“What do we do?” I clung to her hand like she could hold me steady
in the storm of my own making. “Tell me how to do this?”

“We will do it as we always did.” She guided me towards the door.
“Together.”

Chapter Eight

IF DOUG AND Rebecca had wondered where I’d spent the evening, they
said nothing the next day. I was silent at breakfast as Rebecca packed her
overnight bag and told me all about her confidence that the foundations would
be dug out soon.

All I could think of was the meal in the Chamonix house and how
much Madame Chamonix had welcomed me like a long lost child. Although it
appeared she was not as close to Berne as her father because they didn’t work
together, Madame Chamonix doted on Berne and it was returned with fervour.

When I’d sat through lunch with my mother and Doug, I had answered
as I was meant to, neither of them noticing that my mind was elsewhere. Berne
and I had sat with her parents, chatting about the wonder of the food, the fact
that the winds along the Ardèche were unseasonably strong this year, and
Marseille’s narrow victory over Monsieur Chamonix’s belovèd Lyon.

As my mother dragged me onto the plane and we landed in Paris, she
was so busy looking at all the designer options that I doubted she noticed my
mental absence. Berne had walked me home, her hand strong, holding mine. She
had told me of how she planned to take over her father’s business, perhaps
expand it in times when there were less local jobs into making stone
sculptures.

I tried on dress after dress as though I wanted to wear it.
Smiling at the right times was easy, I seemed trained to do so. Behind those
smiles I replayed one moment over and over.

“
You should head inside. You will get cold again.”

I couldn’t let go of her hand, I couldn’t let go of her. “Thank
you for taking me home tonight.” I felt over the calluses on her palm. “Seeing
them, catching up . . . it was perfect.”

“
Oui
, it was.”

Her eyes glimmered in the moonlight with unshed tears. In my
foolish intention to wipe them away, my thumb traced over her smooth skin.

“Why do you always make me want to sing?”

She nuzzled into my palm and kissed it. “Because around me, you
let the truth free,
non
?”

I brushed her hair out of her eyes and stepped forward. “And what
is that truth?” For some reason, my heart had squashed all logic and was
driving me onwards.

Berne leaned her forehead to mine. “That you are more than what
you appear. That you are another woman inside that shell.” She brushed her lips
over mine. Hovered. Waiting. Waiting for me to answer. Electricity rippled up
and down my arms as I looked up into soft, gentle, patient eyes. Her eyes.

Uh oh.

“Why can only you see that?”

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and sank into a kiss. Every
pore thudded with the contact, with the relief, with the elation. Her mouth
swept circles around my every sense. Her kiss seemed to reach through the mist
I had found myself wandering in, pulsing like a light up ahead. Blindly, I
followed, my lips desperately searching. Thirsty, parched emotions flooded with
the building moment.

I had to breathe. I didn’t want to let go. I needed to breathe.

We broke away. Breathy, ragged kisses, wanting, searching for
more. Warmth, soft strong shoulders, her hair glossy and thick between my
fingers. I placed my forehead to hers. It felt so real, so needed that I
whimpered. I needed her so much.

“
Bon nuit
, Pepe.”

I pulled her back to me at the sound of her name for me, managing
to whisper words between kisses. “
Dors Bien
, Bebe.”

Her response was to pull me closer. She dragged me under once
more. Her hands running up and down my back, soothing the aches from the work.
Soothing the ache in my heart. “I must go now.” She pulled me back and held me
at arms’ length as her chest rose and fell. “You must be bright for your
mother.”

She made no attempt to leave. I made no attempt to let her go. Our
kisses had confirmed everything to us both. How could we pull this off when
just kissing her felt so good?

“I hate mornings.”

A movement upstairs finally drew us apart. A sultry smile touched
her lips. “You did not hate them so much with me.”

Mean, mean and sly. “That’s because waking up with you was a
reason to greet every day with joy.”

Berne’s eyes darkened. She moved forward but the sound of Rebecca
calling out stopped her.

“
Bon nuit
.” She shot it at me as though she hated having to say
it at all.

She spun on her heels and strode away. I stood helplessly
watching. Unsure that she would ever be that close again. I took in every
moment, the rugged rocky roadway under her feet, the way she moved, the way her
hair bounced along behind her. I leaned against the wall, wishing I had the
courage to follow but knowing that, for her sake, I couldn’t. It had to stop. I
had to let go, somehow. How did you let go of the love of your life?

“Phillipa, are you listening to me?”

I nodded to my mother, smiling to cover my lapse in concentration.
Could heartbreak be an ongoing thing? It had been long enough that I should
have been over it by now.

“Do you want these or in the other style?”

Looking down at the shoes, I blinked back Berne’s soft smile. If I
was marrying her, which ones would I have chosen? I pointed to a pair on the
side. I liked how her eyes travelled over my legs when I wore heels. I liked
knowing how I held her undivided attention. “Those.”

My mother picked up the others, unflattering, boring. “She’ll take
those,” she said to the shop assistant in French.

If that wasn’t a reality check, what was? I
wasn’t
marrying
Berne. She would be drooling over some other woman in Marseille by now.

I was marrying Doug. Somehow I doubted if either he or my mother
really cared who lay beneath the polite manners and well-choreographed
responses. It didn’t matter what I wanted, what I needed. Berne needed me to
stay away from her. She was better off without a coward like me.

Besides, I would cease to be myself as soon as I walked down the
aisle. I’d cease to be anything but Mrs. Doug Fletcher, the mother of his
children.

Yippee for me.

PARIS IN THE springtime.

Technically it was early summer and the city felt alive with an
energy I couldn’t explain. The weather was warm and the cafés poured out onto
the ancient streets. There was nothing like people watching the Parisians. You
see, they were so very different to the rest of France. They were the capital’s
dwellers and they carried themselves with extra confidence. Men sat
cross-legged in shirts with jumpers tied around their shoulders. Others in
polo-necked jumpers, jeans, and suede jackets. They just looked like culture.
Of course, the younger generation looked like they did back home, texting,
giggling, or wandering around in packs and yelling to one another.

I’d consoled myself during the afternoon, watching young couples
wander to and fro as I stood diligently being fitted for this and that. It
reminded me of when I’d visited with Berne. One young boy strolled along with
utter confidence. He threw his empty pop bottle in the air as he tried to act
nonchalant for the girl beside him. She gazed up at him, attempting to look
bored but I could see her nerves from where I stood. An odd ritual that I was
sure happened the world over for the young and in love.

I’d followed Berne down the same street towards the Eiffel tower.
She’d been animated, dazzling me with the history of the city and making me
laugh at her impressions. I knew I’d carried the same adoring look, attempting
to cover it with some kind of coolness.

Young love in Paris, what a perfect way to start the summer.

I had lived in that memory during the evening until Doug and my
father flew up to meet us for dinner. The very chic restaurant was exactly what
most women would be awed by. The cuisine was perfect, the maître d’ was
everything you could wish him to be and Doug looked every inch a prince.

I felt as though I were watching the whole thing on a screen.
Someone else’s life that I’d stumbled into. How had that happened?

I’d kissed her. She’d kissed me back.

“So how is the little project coming along?” my mother asked when
Doug went to the men’s room. She had an odd smile on her face that made me
wonder if she’d drunk a bottle of red by herself.

“I’m certainly feeling it in my back.”

She and my father laughed as he patted her hand. Had they
both
been drinking?

“How far along?” Her eyes twinkled.

“Not long, it’s going to be closer to Christmas than I would
like.”

My father clasped his hands together. “How wonderful. Such a gift
for the new year.”

Quite taken aback that they were so pleased with my professional
life, I found myself quite flushed. They’d never really taken an interest in my
work before.

“When will we get pictures?” The tone in my mother’s voice made me
smile. She really was interested, wow.

“I’m thinking of creating a study, you know at each stage of
development, so that I can document it.” I picked at the napkin. “It’ll be good
to have when we go for more later on.”

“You sound so calm about it all,” my father said. “How wonderful that
you feel so confident.”

“Well, I’ve got great support and I’m not alone. So it’s perfect
and perfect timing really after leaving
that
place.”

My mother “mmm’d” in agreement. “They never appreciated you, I
told your father . . .” She nodded to him. “Didn’t I? I said, ‘They don’t know
what a gem they have.’”

“She did,” my father confirmed.

Wow, I’d never seen this side of them before.

“And bagging a catch like Doug,” she said, making my father nod in
hearty agreement. “Wonderful man—”

“Wonderful,” my father added.

“And to think in college we were worried.” She laughed.

I didn’t. How had I made her worry in college? I’d had the best
marks in the year for a start.

“Hanging around with those girls who were
less
than
reputable.”

“You mean Rebecca?” I had never been one for a million friends.
Women tended to find me hard to figure out, so most of my social group was
male.

“Yes, well, the less we say about her the better.”

“Now, Daphne,” my father said. “Rebecca is a wonderful young
woman.”

“Oh, you would say that after she fixed your car.” My mother
looked over her thick-rimmed glasses at me. “Hopefully now, you’ll move in more
acceptable circles.”

Are you kidding me?
was the first thought, followed by a sudden nausea that my mother
felt such a thing about Rebecca. “She
is
acceptable.”

“With all those tattoos? And that hair . . .” My mother clapped
her hands in a dramatic show of disgust. “No wonder she can’t get a man.”

“She doesn’t want one,” I hissed through my teeth.

“What is she going to do when you’re busy, hmm?” my mother asked.
“What then? She can’t just tag along everywhere.”

“Why not?” I knew that was borderline teenager but I felt like
someone had thrown the ice bucket down my back. “A ring doesn’t mean a
lobotomy.”

At least I hoped it didn’t. What if that’s what Doug would order?
I shook that thought free. Not good.

“You hardly want her
influencing
the little one.” My mother
beamed at my stomach.

I looked down to try and see what she was gawking at.

“Little what?”

Had I dropped something?

My father laughed. “You were the same, Daphne . . . grumpy and in
a daze.” He beamed at her, patting her hand as though she were a pet pooch.
“Such a torrid time.”

My mother leaned into him. “Sent you out to buy onions at three in
the morning . . .” She turned to me. “You’ll need to take a good look at those
toes because if Doug is anything to go by you’ll be twice the size I was.”

The penny finally dropped.

My stomach seemed to drop into the abyss with it.

Oh shit.

“Everything okay?” Doug sat next to me.

I stared ahead, my mother’s mouth moving yet I couldn’t hear her
words.

“Pippa, you okay?”

Oh shit.

They thought I was . . .

Oh shit . . .

Nausea swished around in my stomach. All that perfect French food
cried out in panic and readied arms to make a break for it.

“She’ll get like that.” My mother was in my face now, her hand on
my head. “We should get her back to the hotel, rest up.”

Why, why would they think such a thing?