It had been a steaming day in Spain, the soil cracking beneath their feet in the foothills. They bought more bottled water in the little shops as they crossed the border on the way back. It was cooler up in the mountains, surrounded by mist and smudges of cloud which hung and shifted and disappeared. The peaks rose like crowding giants, watching over the sunken lakes and dipping green valleys. The red sports car stopped outside a little white house which nuzzled in the crook of a hill purpled with heather. Jean-Luc turned a key and they went inside, carrying bags of shopping. Evie touched the wooden table and the white-plastered walls, and she peered into the tiny kitchen while Jean-Luc knelt by the fire and coaxed the sticks to catch light, sending sparks flying up the chimney. She put her shopping on the table and he found a bottle of dark liquid in a glass cabinet and uncorked it, pouring them each a small glass. Evie took a sip and held it in her mouth: it was warm and sweet and strong. She closed her eyes for a moment.
‘Pacherán: it is an honest French liqueur. To good health.’ Jean-Luc spoke as he unpacked, putting bread and cheese and fruit in the kitchen. She sat down in the armchair and felt the warmth of the fire flare from the grate, the shadows flickering high on white stone walls.
‘I love this cosy little cottage.’ She sank back into cushions and closed heavy lids. For a moment, she and Jean-Luc were back in the market in Spain, holding hands, tasting cheese and buying bread. They were inside the cool museum, looking at Dalí’s installation of Mae West from the steps, excited by the colours, the painted eyes and the sofa-shaped lips and the coiled curtains of hair. Evie was eating paella in a street café and buying colourful pottery for their home. She must have drifted off to sleep, her head crammed with their day together, when she felt the pressure of his hand on hers. She smiled and snuggled into the armchair, and the air hung with the aroma of brewing coffee.
She drifted in and out of sleep. She could hear him playing the guitar, his soft resonant voice. She breathed out and imagined him in the cottage as a younger man with Hélène: it had been Hélène’s cottage and now it was his. Evie hoped they had spent good times together, that his life with Hélène had been as fulfilling as hers was now with him. The logs crackled and spattered in the hearth. She thought of the mountains outside, their protective bulk, and the little cottage in their shelter, and she yawned.
‘I don’t want to go back tomorrow.’
He was beside her. ‘Then we will stay here, Evie. Just us two. For as long as you wish.’
Hours passed and she snoozed again and woke and nibbled at bread and cheese and drank two little cups of coffee and now she was wide awake. Jean-Luc was strumming his guitar and humming a song that she recognised as one by Simon & Garfunkel. She pushed herself out of her seat and grabbed his arm. He put the guitar down.
‘Let’s go outside, Jean-Luc.’
He asked no questions, but reached for his jacket and one for her and they closed the door behind them.
It was dark outside but for the stars. The hills loomed like distant shadows and the air made them shiver. The moon was a silver coin, which slid behind a cloud and out again. He put his arm around her and they were quiet for a while. In the distance an animal called, a soft yelp to a mate or a pup. Jean-Luc put his face against her hair and his voice was low. ‘Mon amour.’
The moment was heavy with emotion and it was Evie’s instinct to lighten it. She put her finger on his lips. ‘You French men are the limit, Jean-Luc. A bit of French and a sexy voice and we women are putty in your hands.’
He did not speak for a moment, but wrapped his arms around her and brought her close to his body. She breathed the warmth, leaned her head back against his chest and felt the vibrations as he spoke.
‘Aimons donc, aimons donc! de l’heure fugitive,
Hâtons-nous, jouissons;
L’homme n’a point de port, le temps n’a point de rive;
Il coule, et nous passons!
Temps jaloux, se peut-il que ces moments d’ivresse,
Où l’amour à longs flots nous verse le bonheur,
S’envolent loin de nous de la même vitesse
Que les jours de malheur?’
She closed her eyes. ‘That was lovely, Jean-Luc. Is it a poem? Tell me what it means.’
They turned to look up at the stars. She could not see him as he moved to stand behind her, but she felt his arms tighten. ‘Alphonse de Lamartine. He lived in the 1800s. A great French poet. His words are very sad.’
‘What is he saying?’
‘That we must love while we can today, sometimes our love overflows, but we do not love for long, because time is jealous of our happiness.’
‘That is depressing,’ she said and for that moment she felt miserable. They were both quiet. Then she said, ‘Your Lamartine’s full of shite.’
She heard him chuckle. ‘Why so?’
She took a deep breath. ‘I want to tell you something.’
He was waiting.
‘I spent over half my life married to Jim and that was all right. I don’t regret it, but it was all about doing the right thing for someone else. I used to make his dinner and iron his shirts but I never did it because of love, I did it for duty or because it was the proper thing to do. I wanted a big family. I had a lot of love going spare, Jean-Luc, and Brendan was the only child I could have and I gave most of my love to him, I probably smothered him with it, hoping he would have a good life. Then, when I was on my own, I realised I didn’t even know myself, let alone have any love for myself. Now I have come to France and met you, I am where I should be. Here, with you. And I don’t care what your Albert or Alfred de Lamartine says, each moment should be happy and fun and filled with love – we shouldn’t hang around worrying about what is going to happen next.’ She heard him exhale. ‘Especially at our age.’
She knew that he was smiling. She turned and saw the curve of his lips.
‘You are right, chérie. I think you are right about everything.’
She looked over his head at the canopy of stars. ‘We are so small.’
He gazed up and she knew he shared her thoughts. His words were spoken close to her ear. ‘But love is big and powerful and perhaps it can be infinite, Evie. Perhaps it can last for ever for us?’
She nodded and he kissed her. He took her hand in his and she noticed how small it was compared to his large palm. He brought her fingers to his lips. ‘You have my heart in this little hand.’ She put her hand on his chest and he covered it with his own.
Her eyes were steady. ‘I will keep it safe.’
He pulled her close and she leaned against him. The moon dipped behind the shreds of a cloud. In the distance, an owl hooted and another replied.
She awoke and the room was yellow with sunlight. She had slept in one of his enormous T-shirts and as she sat up she smiled to see ‘Red Hot Chilli Peppers’ emblazoned across her chest. She blinked her eyes and saw him, his hair damp from the shower, his back to her as he looked through the window. He did not know she was awake and now she filled the moment looking at him, his wide shoulders and a back still muscled from work. Her eyes took in buttocks, long legs, buttocks again and she slithered out of the bed and tiptoed behind him, the T-shirt baggy below her thighs. She enclosed him in her arms, resting her head between his shoulder blades. Evie heard him make a long, deep sound, a rumble of contentment, and she hugged him closer, breathing his warm skin.