LOVE IS IN THE HEART: Verne Estate Series, Book 4

9. ALISTAIR

Once again, I destabilise her and I understand that she’s really wondering if she has an interest in answering my question. I raised my hand in front of me as if to stop her.

“Don’t answer that question. We’re saving it for when you’re chained up in the basement.”

She raises her cup of tea to her mouth, but I note the amusement in her eyes. I also take a sip of my tea. She chose Earl Grey, like me. It’s ridiculous, but I like this idea.

“You don’t have the face of an Alistair,” she said, putting down her mug.

“Ah, yes? And why?”

“Alistair is a 90-year-old grandfather who takes out his dentures at night before going to bed. He wears plaid slippers, and his grandkids have taken all the booze out of his cupboards, so he has to settle for cough syrup when he wants a little pick-me-up.”

I burst out laughing. One of those uncontrollable laughs that start in the pit of the stomach and shake the chest with spasms – pleasant, I must admit.

“I don’t know if I should feel offended that you basically just said I have the least sexy name in the world or amazed that you described my grandfather so well, who I was named after.”

“You stole all his alcohol and you’re serving me tea? Not very nice of you. Actually, I believe that you carry your first name well. Who drinks tea when it’s barely dinner time?”

“It was to help you warm up. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not wasting my 24-year-old single malt on a girl ordering multicoloured cocktails.”

I’m referring to the drink she threw in the face of the couple she was arguing with at the restaurant. She begins by frowning. Then when she grasps the meaning of my sentence, she changes her mind, turning a little pale.

“You... you were there when…”

“When you had the most theatrical exit I’ve seen in a long time? Yes, I was having a drink at the bar.”

Now she looks embarrassed, and all trace of the light conversation we’ve had so far disappears. I’m sorry for bringing up the subject. Whatever happened at the Cafe de la Place seemed to affect her deeply.

“Don’t move, I’ll be right back,” I announced, heading towards the living room.

“Maybe I should go,” she said, still not getting up from her chair.

Her shoulders are slumped, and I internally berate myself. We were breaking the ice and having a good time, and now I ruined everything in seconds. I took the bottle of scotch from the bar. It’s not the 24 year old, but it’ll do. Back in the kitchen, I grab some glasses and serve the two of us.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said. “Especially since I have an empty stomach.”

I open a cupboard, take out a packet of crisps and put it on the table between us.

“Sorry, the only thing I have in common with Gordon Ramsay is his nationality,” I said, hoping to lighten the mood.

And it works. Her lips tilted slightly. She plunges her hand into the package, she pulls out a handful of crisps that she puts in her mouth. I do the same, and for a moment we only hear the sound of crispy potato flakes crushed by our jaws.

I sip my whiskey as Romy goes a little more freely. When her glass is empty, I refill it. She observes the kitchen around us.

“I thought that no one lived in this house, it’s been years since it was occupied, right?”

“It’s actually my parents’ vacation home, and we used to come here in the summer.”

I won’t specify that lately, even in the summer, no one has set foot here.

“You’re on vacation?”

“Not exactly. But I’m here temporarily.”

She nods her head but doesn’t ask for more. I don’t add any additional details.

“It’s funny, I thought I would be celebrating my engagement. And instead, I find myself drinking whiskey and eating vinegar crisps with a stranger from England who’s temporarily on a non-holiday in the area. Life is strange sometimes.”

I didn’t answer anything, still stuck on the first part of her statement. She would be celebrating her engagement? I think back to her pretty blue dress, her heels, her hair. Yes, she was a bit more dressed than for a simple weekend dinner with friends. But all the same, there’s something that doesn’t really fit into this scenario.

“The man you were talking to, was he your boyfriend?”

She snorts.

“He was... he was nothing at all. Forget it, it’s just me fooling myself. He never wanted me.”

I saw her eyes water with tears and I didn’t know what to say or what to do. Crying women is something I can’t handle. Especially when it’s an attractive adult crying. It’s beyond my abilities. Actually, I’m afraid to do something crazy, like hugging her. So I do the only thing that pops into my head. I give her another shot of whiskey, which she drinks in one.

Not sure if this is a very good idea that I had.

Romy hands me her glass. I hesitate to refill it, but the look she gives me dissuades me from refusing her anything. This time, instead of swallowing it in one go, she observes the amber liquid carefully. At least, that’s the impression I have – something tells me that her mind is far removed from this kitchen and any consideration of alcohol.

“Do you want to have children, Alistair?”

“Uh…”

This is certainly not the kind of question I was expecting tonight, talking with a near-stranger whom I have just rescued from drowning in a Mediterranean downpour. And above all, my instinct tells me that this may not be the time to give her an honest answer. Moreover, she continues without waiting for it:

“Me neither, at your age... How old are you actually?”

“Twenty-seven,” I answered.

“Well, me neither, at your age, it was something I didn’t think about,” she said, shaking her hand carelessly. “I told myself that it would happen one day, that I had time. The problem is that I’m 38 now!”

She pronounces this number as if it were taboo. I understand the root of the problem: her biological clock is itchy.

“Thirty-eight isn’t that old, with advances in medicine…”

She gave me a sidelong look.

“Don’t bother. If I need to hear stories of mothers conceiving at 46, I have my girlfriends for that, and even a dozen magazines in my dentist’s waiting room that cover the subject.”

In the end, I think the best thing is to remain silent. A tear rolls down her cheek, I grab the box of tissues off the counter and hand it to her. She thanked me with a slightly sad smile. I would like to find the words to comfort her, to tell her that everything will be fine, but I can’t. Not that her problem seems insurmountable to me, but rather because I’m not equipped to cheer someone up, while I’m not sure that I have overcome my own demons.

“Simon was one of my last chances,” she sighs, twirling her finger on the rim of her glass.

I know it’s wrong, I should do everything to change the subject and make her forget this evening, but my curiosity takes over.

“Simon, was he the man who accompanied you?’

She nods.

“And the woman?”

“Sabrina is my employee at the bakery... and his fiancee.”

That’s why she seemed strangely familiar to me. She’s her assistant.

“And you weren’t aware that your boyfriend and your colleague were together?”

“Simon wasn’t... Let’s say our relationship wasn’t official.”

“You were his mistress?”

She rolls her eyes.

“No way!” she was offended.

“Hey! No judgment on my part, just trying to understand.”

“Simon and I are friends, and sometimes…”

She wrinkles her nose.

“And you fell in love with him?”

“Yes.”

“And what made you think he was too? Or at least, why did you think you were going to end up engaged?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

I shrug my shoulders.

“You don’t have to answer them.”

She remained silent for a moment. I take this opportunity to get myself a glass of water. If I have to drive her back, it might as well not be alcohol. Besides, I serve her one too.

“I don’t think he ever saw me as more than a friend. But I thought maybe it was because he was not allowing himself anymore, knowing he was away most of the time. So when he told me he was changing jobs and would be here full time…”

“You said he would finally allow himself to love you,” I finished for her.

“Something like that. But I hadn’t thought that there would be another younger, prettier woman…”

I don’t like what she just said. Romy is a very attractive woman. Shapes where needed, from her voluptuous breasts to her heart-shaped buttocks. Her freckled porcelain skin responds to the slightest emotion. It would be lying to say that since the beginning of this evening, I haven’t imagined once how I could have fun making her blush. There are also her cat eyes, green as absinthe, and her hair with copper highlights – they are the icing on the cake. As for her age, it’s just a number, and I myself would have easily guessed she was just over thirty. As they say, it’s all about what we think that’s important. I know people my age that would make most white-haired people in this village look like carefree youngsters.

“Romy…”

“Please don’t say anything. The last thing I want is to be pitied. I shouldn’t even complain. There are far more serious things in life.”

She sits up and begins to put away the few things we have scattered on the table. Her balance isn’t very assured: as I suspected, she drank more than she thought. I’m about to tell her that I’m going to walk her home when she asks me:

“Do you have flour and eggs?”