She shook her head, ‘But…’
‘No, wait,’ he said, his hair beginning to sag under the weight of falling droplets. ‘And I thought at first that perhaps it was no more than I deserved. But then, when I began to get better, I realised that you didn’t ever really leave me.’
There was a loud scrape as Frédérique got up and put the microphone down. Lily reached to touch his arm and they looked at each other briefly. He nodded, with a sad smile, before disappearing into the kitchen.
She wanted to make sure he was all right, but she couldn’t move. Didn’t want to move.
‘Ben…’ she said.
‘Please,’ he answered. ‘Hear me out. All those times when you spoke about moving in the past, I was scared – I’ll admit it. But good scared. Excited scared. I wasn’t sure whether I’d like it, whether it would work out.’
‘But…’
‘But I knew that it was something I’d do with you – because it was important to you. I never… in my wildest dreams I’d never imagined I’d let you walk away.’
‘Oh Ben.’ She rubbed his upper arm with her hand and their faces moved closer together. She looked into his eyes and felt suddenly more at home than she had for months. She felt the jagged edges of her jigsaw piece mould with his until finally everything made sense.
‘I was kind of stuck in a rut at work, but also worried about what might happen if I got out of the rut… I dunno. I never really realised I was so… so stuck until you walked away and I just couldn’t follow you.’
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘Really.’
‘I thought… I guess I felt like it was too late. And then you said what you said… You said to come. To be with you. And I realised that perhaps it wasn’t too late after all.’
She smiled, feeling a mixture of rain and tears on her cheeks.
‘I need to ask you to forgive me,’ Ben continued.
‘You don’t have to…’
‘Yes, I do. The things I could have said and done, the way I made you feel. That’s on me. And I need to know – can you forgive me, Lily?’ Rain was running down his face, but she was pretty sure he was crying too.
She looked into his eyes, drinking him in, barely feeling the now driving rain. ‘Ben Butterworth,’ she said. ‘You’re already forgiven.’
‘You really mean that?’
‘You know I do.’
Smiling slightly, his eyes shining, he leaned forward and kissed her mouth softly. And there wasn’t the fizz of excitement she’d felt with Frédérique, but a deep connection that rooted her to this man, this moment. Something that wasn’t instantaneous but had grown and strengthened from years and years of being together, of being in love.
In the background, she was aware that her sodden guests had begun to clap.
‘You should have said “You had me at hello!”’ Emily said, as she appeared at Lily’s side and gave her a quick squeeze. ‘Haven’t you watched any rom-coms lately?’
Lily smiled. ‘Sorry,’ she said, rain saturating her hair, running down her shoulders, turning her dress into cling film. ‘But then, we had our happy ending years ago. Then years of real life. And now, well this is something even Richard Curtis couldn’t top.’
And going up on tiptoes, she pulled Ben in for yet another kiss.
EPILOGUE
It was 4.30 p.m. and darkness had set in, providing the perfect backdrop for the Christmas lights strung back and forth above the marketplace in the shape of stars and colourful snowmen. Lily opened the car boot and lifted the last of the paper carrier bags inside, before shutting it and walking around to the driver’s side.
As she slipped in, she felt the residual warmth of the car’s heating against her back. She closed the door and rubbed her hands together quickly to restore some kind of feeling to her fingers before she gripped the wheel.
A light snow had fallen earlier, soon swept aside by tractors dispatched from local farms with snow ploughs attached; but the sky was heavy and full and although she’d always dreamed of a proper white Christmas, she hoped she’d make it home before the bulk of it fell.
She took one last look at the tiny row of shops and the road dotted with blue striped market stalls, taking in the colourful displays, the woman selling mulled wine from an enormous urn; the last-minute shoppers flitting between craft stalls, laden with beautiful gift bags and paper packages.
Since popping out an hour ago, she’d already bumped into several people she knew – all of whom wished her bonnes fêtes and half of whom had leaned in for a hug or kiss as they were doing so. She was getting used to that now – the intimacy was no longer a surprise and she had begun to quite like being greeted in this way.
She’d also seen Frédérique, who’d been in the centre together with a man dressed as Père No?l and someone else in a reindeer costume. They’d been handing out little parcels to local children, who stopped in wonder whenever they caught sight of Santa, despite the fact his costume was fairly basic and the beard made of nothing more than cotton wool.
It was all about wanting to believe, she thought. Wanting to believe the magic and ignoring any evidence to the contrary.
She’d waved and Frédérique had waved back with a smile.
This morning, she and Ben had tried and failed to make home-made mincemeat, so had forgone their usual mince pies for gingerbread, which they’d piped with white icing as best they could. It had been a chance to put their new La Cornue range cooker to the test – something they’d treated themselves with after finishing the kitchen. The renovation had been a real team effort – she’d held cupboards in place while Ben drilled; they’d chosen chalk paint colours together and laughed when she’d kicked over a tin. Somehow any disaster or hiccup they’d faced had seemed trivial, or funny with Ben by her side. She’d thought about how alone she’d felt a few months ago when she’d ripped off the paper – and half the wall – in the hallway. It had seemed like another life.
When they’d finished their inexpert gingerbread, she’d taken a plate to Hermione, the neighbour, who’d been delighted at the gesture. ‘Délicieux!’ she’d said, waving the plate. ‘Merci et bonnes fêtes.’
‘Bonnes fêtes,’ they’d replied.
Ben was sleeping better now – Lily had met a local reiki practitioner who’d agreed to work with her on a future retreat and somehow she’d managed to convince Ben to give the therapy a try ‘for research, for the guests’ as she’d put it. He wasn’t fully committed to what he always called ‘woo-woo’ cures, but even he had to admit he was sleeping better post treatment.
They’d also found someone for him to talk to – a local bilingual psychologist who he’d agreed to see twice a week. There was no magic wand; they both knew that. But Lily was beginning to see more and more of the old, happier Ben and it was wonderful.
Ty had arrived a couple of days ago and spent most of the time in his room, exhausted from his first term. Last night at the table she’d caught him glancing at Ben and her shyly, as if taking in their relationship for the first time. When she’d rung to tell him back in the summer, he’d been pleased; but this was the first time he’d seen them together.
Tomorrow, they would share a small turkey meal – although finding a turkey had been more difficult than she’d imagined – before heading off for a digestif with Chloé and her mother. If the weather allowed, they were then going to visit the lake – wrapped up warm against the icy wind that buffeted the water and left cheeks glowing with cold – for a late afternoon walk.
They’d decorated the house – choosing a real tree for the first time in years, one with roots that they could plant out later and bought new decorations from the Christmas markets and the local fairs that peppered the area in the lead-up to the festive season. Yesterday evening Sam and Gabriel had come round with the kids – who were practically bursting with pre-Christmas joy.
It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
Last night, Ben had given her an early present. ‘I just couldn’t wait,’ he’d said. She’d unwrapped it to find a snow-globe containing a small stone cottage.
‘It looks just like ours,’ she’d said. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘In Limoges – at the flea market,’ he’d told her. ‘As soon as I saw it I thought, I know who’d love that.’
‘Well, I do. Thank you,’ she’d said, leaning forward and kissing him.
‘It’s not just that,’ he’d said, taking her hand. The candle between them on the worn antique table had flickered as he’d moved. ‘It’s… I want it to mean something.’
‘It does! It’s lovely!’ she’d said.
‘No, not that,’ he’d said. ‘Although, thanks. I’m glad you like it. But what I’m trying to say, I suppose, is thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For waiting. For believing in me.’ He’d sighed and looked around the kitchen. ‘For all of this really. The dream.’