January 2017
Over the weeks that follow, I come to accept that Eve’s death is closure. Paul and I are finished, but for Mollie’s sake I’m civilised and I’ll never stop him from seeing her. No one understands better than me, the desperation of being separated from your child.
When Paul leaves hospital, he moves into Les Quatre Vents, camping out with some makeshift furniture and a chemical toilet. I don’t ask him how he copes. Once he finishes the renovations, maybe we’ll sell it. Or Paul can stay on there himself and figure out a way to pay me off.
I’m keeping an eye on the Brexit developments and what this will mean for people like us, who are living and working in France, but haven’t been here long enough to apply for the permanent carte de sejour that would give us the right to remain after the UK leaves the European Union. We still don’t know what the French government will decide.
Perhaps Mollie and I will stay in France, perhaps we’ll return to England, but whatever happens it will be my choice.
Le Bar les 4 Vents is in my sole name—Paul insisted on it when he feared he might be made bankrupt or sent to prison, so I can make my plans without consulting him or anyone else.
Lilianne and Henri still work for me in Bar les 4 Vents and I’ve detected a slight thaw in their mutual awkwardness. I won’t be speculating on a rekindled relationship. I’m finished with matchmaking.
Paul kept on perpetuating the myth that the bar wouldn’t support us as a family, and that he would have to keep returning to England to take short term contracts, at least until the holiday gîtes were renovated and bringing in income—but he was wrong.
The bar has been doing rather well. It easily covers our living expenses and I’m banking a substantial profit. If Mollie and I stay on in France, I can afford to rent a house or maybe, with help, we could renovate the attic flat above the bar.
Some people might wonder how I could face staying on here, on the site of the fatal accident that occurred on my doorstep. Perhaps the bar is jinxed, says local gossip: Anton couldn’t make it pay, and now this—but Eve’s death has attracted even more customers to the bar. People drive out from Limoges specially to see the spot where L’Anglaise died, depicted in Le Populaire by a photograph of a single red shoe lying in the centre of the road.
For forty-eight hours, no one picked up the shoe.
Or maybe we’ll go back to London. Now I have the experience and confidence, I could take on a pub. I love the work, the buzz of getting to know my regulars—even the cooking. And there’s another dream I’ve been nurturing—if we found somewhere close to Zak, maybe Owen could live with me for part of the week. I haven’t shared this idea with anyone but it’s something I should thank Paul for.
If he’d been with me in France from the beginning, I’d still be hovering in his shadow and would never have found the confidence to make my own decisions. From now on, no one will choose my future. Only me.