It was raining when Bel woke, still curled stiffly in the orange chair, her cardigan pulled around her shoulders. The room was chilly – she could hear the wind whistling around the door – the stove, which she’d forgotten to feed in her misery last night, now gone out. She felt creaky, bone-cold and old, as she set about raking the ash, then collecting kindling and logs from the outside store by the porch. It would be hours before the water was hot enough for a shower. Her instinct was to fetch a nice warming coffee and a bacon roll from Martine’s, but she was concerned Louis would be doing the same thing. And it was also an expensive habit she knew she had to break.
Standing watching the flames take hold, and enjoying the heat spreading across her face, she felt a sudden pang for his situation. It was all very well sleeping in the van when the weather was clement, the sun shining, but today would be very bleak. Stop it. She shook herself and went upstairs to put on some warmer clothes.
Later, she made herself a strong cup of coffee and a thick slice of buttered bread and honey from the farm shop. I’ll stay in and bake today, she decided. Even if the result was rubbish, like last time, the process would be one in which she might lose herself for a while, forget what was going on down the lane.
Pressing, pulling, rotating the soft, claggy dough under her hands on the ash worktop, she slipped into a soothing rhythm. Thoughts fell away, until there was nothing but the smooth doughball against the heel of her hand, the hiss of the stove, the quiet puttering of the radio, the soft grey coastal light of morning struggling through the casement.
She’d just set the bread to rise in a large oiled bowl covered with a tea towel – she would normally have used cling film but she didn’t have any – and placed it on the side of the Rayburn to prove for a while, when there was a knock at the door.
She wasn’t surprised to find Louis standing there, damp and hopping from foot to foot, a beseeching look in his eyes, wet hair poking out from beneath his sodden anorak hood.
Resigned, Bel beckoned him inside.
Carefully wiping his trainers on the mat, he went over to the stove and stood against it, rubbing his hands together, then fanning them above the hotplate lid. ‘I’m bloody freezing,’ he complained, glancing around. ‘Any coffee going?’
Seeing her look, he added, ‘I’m sorry about all this, Bel. I know I’ve no right to be here. You’ve been so kind.’ He let out a long sigh. ‘Ben at the pub says I can rent one of his rooms from Monday – which is when I start the job. So you’ll be shot of me soon.’
‘Great,’ she said unenthusiastically, thinking, This mess wasn’t thrust unfairly upon your delicate shoulders, Louis. But his old sense of entitlement was flexing its muscle again.
‘By the way, I gave him your name and address for the reference,’ Louis went on. ‘Hope you don’t mind? I don’t imagine he’ll follow it up. He’s pretty desperate. But you’re the only person who could possibly vouch for my cheffing skills.’ He gave her a charming grin.
I loved this man once, Bel thought. He was my whole life. It seemed like an odd notion now. But under the glow of his smile, she felt the edges of her resentment melt, just a fraction.
When he came down from the shower he’d requested, he looked clean again, his hair scraped back off his face and secured in the usual ponytail, although his clothes were still crumpled and none too fresh. Wandering over to the proving bowl, he lifted the cloth. Without asking, he poked his index finger into the dough, then shook his head. ‘Not ready yet.’
‘Leave it alone. It’s my bread,’ she said, regretting the childish outburst as soon as she saw Louis’s eyes widen.
He came over to where she was sitting, pretending to read. Perching on the wooden chair, he said earnestly, ‘Talk to me, Bel. Please. Tell me how you’re feeling. Let it out. I can take it.’
Bel slowly lowered her book to her lap, trying to stay calm. ‘I honestly don’t see the point,’ she said tiredly. And she didn’t. But she felt the anger rising, like the dough. ‘What exactly are you after, Louis? Chapter and verse about how I coped when you took off with the girl you’d been fucking under my nose for months … taking the van and every last cent?’ She saw him flinch and was perversely pleased. ‘But if that wasn’t bad enough, now I have to listen to your justifications and take pity?’ She shook her head, and intoned with heavy sarcasm, ‘Let me see … You weren’t yourself, you had a mad moment, it didn’t work out as planned, and now things are hard and you’re truly sorry. Have I forgotten anything?’
‘No. I’m ashamed to say you’re right on the money.’ He met her eye, his expression craven. ‘Look, I realize you’re angry, Bel, but please …’
He didn’t continue and she wasn’t sure what he was asking of her.
Silence fell. Bel’s heart was thumping with rage.
‘I don’t want your pity,’ he said quietly. ‘And I don’t expect you to forgive me right now. I know I’ve behaved like an arse, but I’m not a complete idiot.’ He was staring at her intently, his expression so yearning it was her turn to flinch. Then he added fervently, his voice rising, ‘What can I say, Bel? What can I do to convince you?’
Surprised, she asked, ‘Convince me? Of what?’
There was a long pause. He seemed to be struggling with something in his mind, his eyes blinking fast. Then he said, ‘You know I still love you.’
Bel could not have expressed in that moment – either to herself or others – her emotions when she heard Louis’s words. They were bouncing around in her head, creating a jumble of disbelief, sadness, anger, doubt … But overriding all of these there was confusion.
Stumbling over her thoughts, heart pounding, she remembered Patsy’s advice for just this situation. ‘I …’ She faltered before she’d even begun, finding herself quite unable to be ‘clear’.
Louis held up his hand. ‘OK, OK, I shouldn’t have said anything so soon. I’m sorry. I’m such a fuck-up at the moment. Things come out of my mouth when I don’t mean them to.’ He gave her a searching look. ‘But it’s God’s honest truth, Bel.’
She looked away, wanting to avoid his craven expression. Do I still love him? The question took root in her brain. But she ignored it. This was not the time. Now all she wanted was for him to leave her alone.
Finally summoning a modicum of Patsy’s clear-headed strength, she said, ‘Please, Louis. I can’t deal with this. Just go.’
He looked resigned, as if he’d expected this response, but not defeated, as his next remark implied: ‘My bad. I knew I should have waited.’
There was silence, the air between them flat and dead, as if they’d both run out of steam.
‘You know we owe Dad a ton of money.’ Bel finally spoke – the debt, she felt, the one issue between them she was confident in addressing. ‘I emailed you about it in France, but you never replied.’
Louis gave a despondent sigh. ‘Yeah. I know. Sorry. There’s not much I can do about it at the moment. But I promise I will, Bel. I totally promise. Half of the debt is mine, of course. More than half. I can start paying it back as soon as I’m earning what I should be.’
Which isn’t right now, thought Bel, glumly.
She held her breath as he thanked her politely for the shower – she’d never got around to giving him coffee – and opened the front door onto the miserable Sunday. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered again, as he trudged off down the path.
She exhaled, found she was suddenly really cold, almost shaking. Getting up, she went over and stood, as Louis had done earlier, against the stove for warmth and comfort. Remembering the bread, she lifted the cloth and poked it. The dent made by her finger stayed and she knew it was ready to be knocked back and put into the tin for the second proving.
Bel curled in the chair as the loaf cooked. She loved this waiting time, almost soporific, the place filled with warmth and the promise of a slice of fresh, crusty bread. She was trying to focus her thoughts on what Louis had said. I still love you. His words rang in her ears. She tried, for a moment, to imagine being his partner again: making love to him, waking up to his face on the pillow, watching him cook, dealing with his intensity and passion. Do I still love him? She returned to the question – aware the switch from loving to not loving wasn’t so easily flicked off. No clear answer presented itself. As she rose from the chair to rescue the bread, she did know one thing, though, for absolute certain: I don’t trust him.