La Petite Amelia was exactly the same, and Amelia and Georges just as warm and welcoming as they had been back in the summer. They showed me to my room, the same one as before, where I wandered around, unpacking my clothes, bouncing eagerly on the bed like the little girl I’d once been—to test the mattress—and gazing from the window at the garden, still beautiful in the thin February sunshine. The lawn glowed thick and green, and lustrous color still shone from the borders.
Sitting on a comfortable chair at the window, I texted Rose and Mum, and then, with only a slight hesitation, texted James to let him know I’d finally arrived in St. Malo and that I hoped he was well. A sheaf of leaflets and cards on the bedside table caught my eye, and, thumbing through them, I came across a flyer for La Bar, advertising their up and coming events.
The Pilgrims were heavily billed in great bold letters and showed the one date in February for their “Up Close and Personal” mini-concert. There was a picture of the band, all young men with long flowing hair, Blake posing in the middle wearing tight trousers, a bare chest, and a sultry expression. Frowning, I wondered what had happened to Blake’s band T-shirts. He certainly didn’t seem to wear them anymore.
Suddenly curious, I googled them, searching for their debut single, “Baby, You’re a Doll.” I’d heard it before but listened again to the heavy bass guitar and screaming vocals. “Oh yeah, baby, you’re a doll, doll doll, you make me rock and roll, roll roll, you kill me when you move, move, move, and make me wanna groove, groove, groove.” Hmm, okay, I wasn’t a song writer, but compare those lyrics to, say, “Ruby Tuesday,” and would “Baby, You’re a Doll” make the charts, or did people nowadays not listen or even care about song words?
For a split second, I wondered what on earth I was doing in St. Malo, searching for somebody who, clearly, didn’t want me and who, clearly, couldn’t write decent song lyrics. I immediately felt bad. Blake was on his way up a long hard road, and I was comparing the words of his songs with classics written by the Rolling Stones. Was I losing it? He would obviously improve with time and experience.
My phone beeped, and a message from Rose appeared on the screen, wishing me good luck, and would I please let her know as soon as I found Blake. Mum replied in a similar vein but, as yet, there was no reply from James. My heart sank. It had been weeks since I’d seen him, and, not really wanting to admit it even to myself, I had to face up to the fact that I missed him. I missed so many things about him. His warm hand holding mine, his tender kisses, our crazy conversations, and our long ambling walks when we talked and talked and talked.
All these thoughts swirled around and around in my head, but resolutely, I pushed them aside and, shrugging on a jacket, decided to go out. Maybe a brisk walk along a chilly beach would make me feel better and, once I’d got the impending meeting with Blake over and done with, surely that would cheer me up too. It was hanging over my head like an executioner’s axe.
My phone beeped as I made my way out of the B&B and down to the tiny secluded beach, where I’d spent so many hours sunbathing in the summer. Glancing down, I saw that at last, it was a message from James.
Hi, yes, I’m okay. I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ruby. Take care. Thinking of you. J x
I’d dreamt of doing this, of coming back to St. Malo, to walk the sandy beaches and sit in a dark corner in La Bar drinking red wine and watching Blake perform on the stage. But now that I was here and all my dreams coming true, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be here at all. What had Rose lectured me about? Something about the grass being greener on the other side? I vaguely remembered her words. “A classic case of assuming the grass is greener on the other side, Ruby. And it isn’t, it really isn’t, it’s a mirage!” Well, I was beginning to think she could be right, but only time would tell—oh yes, only time would tell.
My thoughts went back to the day of the court case and what an eye-opener it had been. I recalled the dark old fashioned room and the scary-looking judge who had turned out to be so kind. I recalled the musty smell of the courtroom, the dark, somber brown of the seating and the paneling on the walls, and the judge, presiding like a god high up in his chair, wearing a long black gown and a light curly wig. His features were sharp as pencils, and his gaze from hooded eyes as penetrating as a mighty eagle’s—or, I think with a shudder, a vulture’s. I felt, in this dark, gloomy place, that I’d gone back in time by a hundred years or more and that at any moment, people would come streaming through the old oak door wearing shawls and clogs. It amazed me that this man had the power to say whether or not my stepbrother, Michael Fisher, would be granted access rights to his daughter, Leah.
Mum, Dad, and I sat quietly on a bench watching the proceedings. Rose couldn’t get time off so soon in her new job, so it was just the three of us as support for Michael, who sat nearby wringing his hands with anxiety, his face white and pinched. Priscilla, her black fringe dangling in her eyes, lips a pale sheen of pink, sat almost proudly with her boyfriend, Ray Lister, a great hulk of a man, broad shoulders hunched beneath his coat. He had huge meaty hands but the face of a child, all snub nose and doleful blue eyes. Mum and I exchanged a glance, Mum’s eyebrows raised as if to say, “Hmm, an interesting combination.”
Michael’s solicitor, Ralph Butcher, took to the floor and gave a heartfelt speech, outlining the facts of Leah’s birth and the subsequent breaking up with Michael by Priscilla—Ms. Fenton—with the words, “You’re not needed now. You’ve done your bit.” And also the fact that she had said that she would always prevent him from seeing his daughter and that she had pretended to love him to get what she wanted—a child. It was pointed out that Mr. Fisher had been traumatized by the break-up so soon after his child’s birth and had suffered a breakdown resulting in the loss of his job, a job with a local newspaper that had not only given him a very generous salary but that he had excelled at. He then talked of the house in Bosham that Mr. Fisher had bought for the sole reason that Ms. Fenton had agreed to live there with him, but immediately took back her word on this and proceeded to steal his money—in fact, to bleed him dry—and once again, left him, taking her daughter with her.
I watched Priscilla’s face change at Ralph Butcher’s words, all the various emotions flitting across her face, none of which were sadness or even shame. Her expression was more defensive and even gloating than anything else. She read as easily as a book. I noticed Ray Lister giving her sneaky sidelong glances, his smooth pudgy face bland. Oh, to know what he was thinking.
The solicitor went on to say that Mr. Fisher was now employed, had sold the house in Bosham, and was in the process of buying a property in Emsworth close to his recently reunited family, where he would be able to provide a warm and loving home for his daughter. He recommended visiting rights of every other weekend, Friday to Sunday, the starting date to be agreed between both parties, and once during the week, Wednesday afternoon, which would be reviewed when the child was of age to attend nursery and school. At the end of his speech, he gave a slight bow to the judge and quietly took his seat.
Priscilla’s solicitor took his turn, outlining the facts that Ms. Fenton had told him. That she wasn’t keen on Mr. Fisher having visiting rights, as she didn’t want her daughter to be confused by the erratic presence of her father; that she didn’t feel she could trust him to maintain any visiting rights; that she only wanted what was best for her child, blah blah blah. I felt sorry for the poor man for his attempt at having to bulk out his speech with absolutely zero concrete facts. There was nothing he could say against Michael, as all the faults lay at Priscilla’s door, and all the real facts had already been said by Michael’s solicitor, Ralph Butcher.
There was a brief, tense silence before the judge spoke, his voice surprisingly warm and reassuring, belying his forbidding looks, as he said, “After listening to both sides of this somewhat sad story, I find Mr. Michael Fisher to be a man with a good heart, who has been prevented for the past two years from forming a close and loving relationship with his daughter, Leah Fisher. I fully agree with Mr. Fisher’s solicitor, Mr. Ralph Butcher, that Mr. Fisher be granted visiting rights with his daughter of every other weekend, Friday to Sunday and every Wednesday afternoon. This arrangement is to be reviewed when Leah Fisher becomes of age to attend nursery and school.” At this point, he fixed his steely gaze on Priscilla and said, “You will be in contempt of court if you breach a court order.”
I remember then the sighs of relief as the proceedings ended and the judge stood up and disappeared very suddenly through the black curtain behind him, putting me in mind of a coffin vanishing into the ether at a cremation. There was a scuffle of feet as we all trooped outside, and I saw Michael’s joyous expression as he raised his arm in the air and shook his fist in celebration of such a brilliant outcome to the struggles of the past two years.
The beep of my phone brought me back to the present, and I saw I had a text from Rose, asking if I was okay and wishing me luck for tonight. Oh my God, yes, The Pilgrims concert was tonight and, glancing at my watch, I realized that I really should be getting ready. What should I wear, though?
Blackness stood hard at the window, and the garden, shrouded now in near darkness, looked creepy in the gloom, the branches of the trees appearing deformed and twisted. Primulas glowed pink as a child’s night light, and a soft patter of rain began to fall. I pulled the heavy crimson curtains across the window, hiding the view, and went to take a shower.
Gazing into the mirror, I carefully applied make-up, blow-dried my hair, and after dressing in jeans and boots, I wound a scarf casually around my neck and slung a leather jacket over my shoulder. Yes, definitely a rock-chick look for The Pilgrims. You couldn’t get more rock and roll than Blake Edwards. Taking a glance in the mirror, I gave myself a thumbs-up sign and, letting myself out of my room, went downstairs for a drink in the bar to get myself in the mood.
The bar was cozy with lamps dotted around, throwing pools of light onto the wooden floors, and a real fire crackled majestically in the massive stone fireplace, reminding me, with a stab of nostalgia, of that lovely snowy day in the Royal Oak with James. Couples sat at tables drinking wine or elaborate cocktails, and most of the stools at the bar were taken by a group of men who chatted animatedly in broken French while enjoying their pints of beer with gusto. I drank a glass of wine with Amelia and Georges, who, when I told them about the concert, said they were big fans of The Pilgrims and had seen Mr. Blake performing many times at La Bar.
They obviously didn’t connect the young man I’d spent so much time with in the summer as being Mr. Blake, as they didn’t say anything about him or ask me who my companion had been. I suppose they thought it was none of their business who this crazy English girl wanted to go out with or why she was back here holidaying barely six months after her initial visit. Or perhaps, as was more than likely the case, they’d simply forgotten.
“You enjoy St. Malo?” asked Georges
“Oh yes,” I told him eagerly. “It’s a fantastic place.”
“You come live, maybe?” asked Amelia.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I told them with a shrug. “I have family in England—Mum, Dad, and a twin sister.”
“Oh my God,” said Amelia, raising her hands to her face, her eyes large. “There is two of you?”
“Two of you?” echoed Georges.
“Yes,” I said. “She’s called Rose—my identical twin!”
“You bring her here. We would like to see this other one of you, Ruby.”
“Yes,” I said before saying goodbye and taking the walk to La Bar. “Maybe next time I will.”
There were crowds milling around outside La Bar as I neared it, and two beefy-looking men were on the door checking tickets and bags. People chatted eagerly in French and in English and, as I walked inside, I noticed that there was a table displaying T-shirts and hoodies, the band name The Pilgrims etched on the front in thick letters, together with a picture of the four guys, a mass of long wavy hair, tight trousers, and bare chests, Blake always resplendent, in the middle as the lead singer, the draw of the group. As he certainly seemed to be with the number of girls I saw literally swooning over him with the words, “Mr. Blake gorgeous,” and “Sexy Blake.” There were also posters of all sizes, even life-size ones. If it had been Blake’s dream to become a pin-up, it was certainly about to come true.
Putting the T-shirt into my bag, I queued at the bar, listening to the loud rock music that was playing—music by Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Whitesnake, and Free, and then made my way through the crowds, managing to find a dark out of the way corner where I could merge into the shadows. But not before a red rose for Valentine’s was pushed into my hand by one of the bar staff as he weaved his way amongst the crowds, carrying a large overflowing basket.
It was standing room only, as most of the tables and chairs had been cleared away to make room for a makeshift stage, where a drum set and microphones were already in place. As it was only a small place, the crowd was close and hot bodies jostled against each other, as if in a sauna or a steam room. A burst of excitement shot through my veins along with the red wine, as well as dread at what I would say to Blake when I finally got to confront him after the show.
Without warning, the music suddenly stopped, Jon Bon Jovi silenced in his prime, and the lights dimmed. The silence was long and intense, so intense that everybody seemed to be holding their breath until all of a sudden, a loud drum roll sounded and the lights on the stage glared bright white and hot. A loud, manic cheer came from the crowd, and everybody raised their arms and flashed their phones, and before I could blink, the opening bars to “Baby, You’re a Doll” reverberated everywhere, around the walls, the ceiling and the floor, buzzing through my body like a dentist’s drill. And at last, they were there—The Pilgrims, live on stage. The already excited crowd erupted!