Chapter Fifteen

Lucien

For the first forty-eight hours, I bang my head against a brick wall, figuratively and, on two occasions, literally, but my pale skin bruises far too easily and I decide to stop. I’m convinced I’ve made an error the size of the stately home in which I find myself roaming, alone instead of with Jay, pondering whether I should call him up again and announce I’ve changed my mind.

I’d been thinking of suggesting he take some leave from the hospital for a while. Being an expert myself in trying to present a normal façade at work while simultaneously attempting to deliver excellent patient care and juggling a few teeny, tiny issues in one’s personal life, I couldn’t bear watching someone I love—yes, love, adore, worship, idolise—go through similar unnecessary suffering. And while developing and honing an emotionless mask can be of benefit in many, many situations, I don’t want Jay to ever acquire one. His openness and authenticity are some of the qualities in him I so admire. The broad hairy chest and never-ending supply of cosy hoodies are merely an added bonus.

It was seeing him outside the restaurant with Ellie that did it for me. My first thought was that he definitely has a thing for blonds. She could easily pass as my younger, less pretty sister with her long skinny legs and pale features. Meow! Undoubtedly, seeing them together like that was a shock, and so I behaved like an arse. But even as I walked away, I knew he’d follow later. Well, 90 per cent of me did anyway. I mostly believed every word he’d uttered had been the truth, but thanks to Jules and his sly insinuations, the other 10 per cent needed reassurance. Hearing the overpowered roar of that infernal car pull up on the courtyard within the hour only confirmed what I already trusted. That Jay is kind, thoughtful, and loyal, and he loves me more than he loves her. That’s all that matters. Hearing him say the words with such passion, right here in my kitchen, was the stuff of the best Regency romance novels. But with added swear words…

So, Week One Without Jay passes fairly swiftly in a haze of swinging between congratulating myself for being a relationship genius and giving him space to pine over my absence, and the increasing certainty that I’m an utter twat for letting him go.

At the start of Week Two Without Jay, I begin to miss him, even though he was never completely mine to miss. Heavy limbed, my brain sludgy, I’m reacquainted with familiar symptoms of loss recognisable from the months after my family died. Symptoms that are precursors to a despairing, creeping grey fog continuing without end, like a dreary November. So I take a long overdue fortnight of annual leave from work, curl up in bed, and wait for the wretched fog to fully descend.

And I wait and I wait. By Week Three Without Jay, the fog still hasn’t put in an appearance, so I get up, shower, pick out fresh clothes, force down some toast and, putting it bluntly, get on with my life. Because somewhere on the other side of town, perhaps having a pint in a pub with friends, or packing up removal boxes, or just lying in bed reading a book and having a well-deserved rest, is a man who loves me. And that love gives me the strength to endeavour to be my best self.

My best self is a surprise to Will, but he capitalises on my cautious good humour by asking me to consider a tour of all the estate properties. We have many small cottages and a few farms tied to the estate. Most are inhabited by estate workers and their families, or former estate workers, and a home for life at a reduced rent comes as part of the job package. My father and his father before him never served notice on tenants after retirement; they continue to live in the properties at peppercorn rates until they die or move away. I have no intention of changing this unwritten rule, and those who mock antiquated aristocratic patronage prefer not to notice the good, only dwelling on the bad. If a benevolent estate didn’t exist, then quaint village properties like these would be snapped up by rich weekenders and city folk retiring to the country, pricing local rural families out of the market. But that’s an argument for another day.

Anyway, there is a continual programme of maintenance (never buy a house with a thatched roof) required on these properties that has fallen behind since I took over the estate, a state of affairs that we need to redress. My father personally visited each tenant annually, and from now on, I will endeavour to do the same.

I’m nervous as I dress in my ancient Barbour and country cords, pearls safely hidden inside, and clamber into Will’s old Land Rover to begin the social calls. My biggest fears are sympathy and kindness from people who have known my family since birth, people whose forebears worked at Rossingley before them. But as I sit in a succession of neat kitchens, drinking endless cups of tea and discussing chimney repairs, upgrades to central heating systems, and the like, the fear is gradually replaced by a sense of pride. Pride in my family for having generated such genuine respect over so many years and also in myself for not falling apart at the seams when I listen to all the bittersweet memories of my brother and father. When I finally arrive back home, emotionally drained and with an excruciatingly full bladder from being too polite to decline the hot beverages, the only thing missing is someone with whom to share my fascinating day.

Not every day is easy. Week Four Without Jay finds me finally generating the resolve to throw away the fags. The absence of nicotine makes me ratty and edgy. No change there then, and my colleagues in the operating theatre take the brunt of it. In particular, a cocky young surgeon named Evan feels the sharp edge of my tongue for keeping me waiting. Nothing personal. I experiment with vaping for seventy-two hours, but the sickly smell makes me nauseated, so I go cold turkey and continue to be a pain in the arse. I doubt anyone notices any difference.

Emily vaguely enquires as to Jay’s whereabouts, and I’m suitably vague in reply. On several occasions Jules attempts to get in touch. I delete every text message and screen his phone calls. One of the techie theatre guys helpfully shows me how to send all his calls and messages automatically to a file labelled Old Junk.

Giving up my smoking habit and expanding my meal repertoire simultaneously is probably a step too far, but I resolve to give it a go anyway during Week Five Without Jay. And I fail spectacularly. After three consecutive nights of Waitrose salmon en croûte and broccoli, I’m jittery, anxious, and clutching my pearls like Miss Havisham moments before being engulfed in flames. The food control issues have been around since my time with Jules. I’m going to need the support of an understanding and patient boyfriend to wean me off my set menu of macaroni cheese. Some mountains are too hard to climb alone.

Overwhelmed by neuroses, failure, and rattling around on my own, I escape another bout of impending brain stodginess and fatigue by driving to London and allow myself to be subsumed into the world of my cousin Freddie, who’s taken over the London house during a brief lull in modelling assignments. Twenty-four hours in the company of his youthful exuberance proves to be exactly what the doctor ordered. After hitting Harvey Nics as the doors open, we head for Versace, where he talks me into buying exquisitely delicate lace boxer shorts in every colour available, which I suspect Jay will adore ripping off. Back at the house, we proceed to get very drunk on stupidly expensive champagne before giving each other a makeover. In retrospect, as I gaze at the unrecognisable drag queen in the mirror, we should probably have done the make-up before the booze.

Week Six Without Jay starts with a firm knock at the kitchen door. A rather devilish young man introduces himself. Although I immediately dub him Heathcliff in my mind, he’s actually named Reuben, and apparently, I employ him—he’s one the estate maintenance guys. I hazily recall Will asking me to consider taking him on, despite his unusual background.

Rossingley has a long history of employing ex-prisoners, thanks to my grandfather’s benevolence. This new chap, Reuben, learned his trade in prison, and although he has good references from his parole officer and the prison rehabilitation team, has struggled to find work. After establishing that his crimes hadn’t involved stealing priceless valuables from country estates, I agreed to a trial.

It seems I have inadvertently developed a recruitment policy of which I wholeheartedly approve because in his worn black jeans, flowing white shirt, and dark waistcoat, young Reuben is stupidly handsome. And anyone who flouts conservative contemporary clothing conventions is fine by me, especially when it gives them the air of a rakish eighteenth-century troubadour. With his thick mass of spirally dark curls, held back in a loose bun, a few long tendrils escaping around his angular, clever face, his knowing green eyes slowly appraise me. I feel like Jesus lost for forty days in the Judean desert being tempted by the devil. And that’s before he opens his mouth to speak, when that hot French accent hits me straight in the lower belly.

But it quickly becomes apparent that I prefer flattened Black Country vowels and a man for whom the pinnacle of sartorial elegance is jeans and a soft blue hoodie disguising a hairy chest, over lean, lithe gallic perfection. After showing Reuben to the rhododendron bushes that need cutting back, I leave him to get on with it. By Week Seven Without Jay, Reuben is popping in almost daily for a cup of Earl Grey, a slice of Battenberg, and my regular French lesson. He’s adorably shy and scarcely has the nerve to look me full in the face, blushing prettily whenever he does. Most days, he precedes his visits with some manly gardening activity, and the herbaceous borders around the kitchen door begin to look rather spectacular. I decline his repeated offers to chop up the rest of wood because I’m still hoping to watch my boy Jay do that.

Week Eight Without Jay, and despite pretty distractions, my nerves put in a reappearance. What if he’s met someone else? What if my Stallion has forgotten all about me? What if he’s found that naïve cat-owning soccer fan he thought he’d meet? Over several Campari and sodas, I confess all to Heathcliff in halting, rusty French. He’s probably now under the impression I’m in love with an Italian pony because vernacular terms really don’t translate or rhyme well in French. Reuben is a patient if somewhat silent sounding board. When he agreed to the job, I’m sure he had no idea it would involve listening to the tipsy ramblings of a lovesick earl, but he doesn’t seem to mind—those wide green eyes regard me kindly.

Week Nine Without Jay and his name reappears on the rota at work, although our paths don’t cross as he’s allocated a set of nightshifts immediately. I hover in my office early in the mornings with mixed feelings of excitement and apprehension, but he doesn’t come calling. Unable to wear my pearls in a clinical environment, I start carrying them with me everywhere, turning them over in the pocket of my theatre pyjamas, running them through my fingers. I exist on a diet of apples and granola until Heathcliff notices my pallor and rapid weight loss during one of our French lessons and takes it upon himself to do something about it.

He orders me to eat something more substantial and rustles up a plate of scrambled eggs, warning me that he won’t leave until my plate is clean. The scrambled eggs happen late on Sunday afternoon. My nerves are shot to pieces, and I’m slumped at the table in my comfiest white cotton nightie, grasping at my pearls. As a distraction, I’m doing my best to decline the future conditional of the reflexive verb se défenestrer, but gosh, it’s hard to concentrate. If Jay doesn’t put in an appearance soon, I’ll be defenestrating myself. Heathcliff patiently watches me, those knowing green eyes full of concern. By now, he’s fully up to speed with all of my foibles.

Our intensive lesson is interrupted by a loud thud, and on the first occasion, we mildly raise our eyebrows at each other, then continue with the lesson. Perhaps it was one of the stable doors banging, or one of the gardeners being particularly heavy-handed with a wheelbarrow. Another thud follows an instant later, louder, more of a thwack really, followed by a less heavy splintering sort of noise, and then a thwack again. We look at each other, Reuben frowning slightly. Thwack! It almost sounds as if…as if…as if someone has picked up the axe which happens to be lying on the bench by the backdoor and is…chopping firewood.

I’m peripherally aware of Reuben reaching for his coat and getting up out of his chair. A little dizzily, I stand, too, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest.

“Do you think that’s him?” asks Reuben, smiling at me gently. “The guy you’ve been waiting for these past few weeks?”

“Yes,” I reply, hardly daring to hope. “It is. But…”

“Breathe, monsieur, remember to breathe.”

He’d prompted me just in time; the room had started spinning. I gulp in some air.

“The thing is, Reuben, I’m scared. I don’t think I’ve been waiting for him for just these past few weeks. I think I’ve probably been waiting for him my whole life.”

“Well, then you’d better go and see if he wants to come and join your life, don’t you?”

“But what if this is just goodbye?” I wipe my wet palms down the cotton of my nightie before reaching for my pearls. “What if…” I say in a whisper, “What if he’s only come here to ask me to return his hoodie? I don’t think I’ll be able to bear it, Reuben.”

“From what you’ve told me about him, monsieur, he’s no fool. And only a fool would walk away from you. Come on; I have a feeling that he’s waiting for you too.”