She managed to have lunch with Bert before she got busy helping Brigid with the wedding. And she dressed her friend on the big day. Brigid had found a beautiful vintage gown in a secondhand shop and it fit her perfectly. She looked at Alex with such peace and joy, she was glowing, and she was exquisite as Alex helped her put her veil on, and all the nuns and Alex cried as they watched her walk down the aisle in the small church. It had been a long, arduous journey for her, and Alex was happy she’d come to be there with her. Brigid had no family of her own, except the nuns and Patrick’s big boisterous family. And Alex suspected they would be having babies soon. At thirty-six and thirty-eight, they didn’t have time to waste.
The reception was noisy and fun. One of Patrick’s brothers played in a band and they came. Everyone danced, the food was plentiful and good, the nuns were thrilled for her, and Patrick and Brigid looked like the two happiest people on earth, and Alex was ecstatic for them. She went back to the convent with the nuns after the bridal couple left for a two-day honeymoon at an inn on Long Island owned by someone they knew.
Alex stayed for three days after the wedding and then, sad to leave the nuns again, she flew back to London. She was thinking of returning to Boston for good in time for Christmas, but Mother MaryMeg told her not to come home sooner than she wanted to. She was young and free and this time would never come again. As the plane touched down at Heathrow, she was glad she had gone to Brigid’s wedding. It gave one hope to see two people so much in love.
The weather was terrible in London when Alex went back. It was gray, rainy, and gloomy, and Alex decided to go to Italy for a week, to Portofino, Sorrento, and all the way south to Capri. She had the money and the time. She asked Fiona to join her, but she couldn’t get the time off work, so Alex went alone. She was away for ten days, and had a good time. It felt odd to be in romantic places on her own, and lonely at times. But she visited all the touristic places, had brought a stack of books to read, and swam and slept a lot. And then she went back to London, to start working on an outline for a new book.
She spent the fall holed up in her apartment working on it, and had dinner with Fiona from time to time, but otherwise she saw no one and never went out. Fiona told her Ivan was dating two girls at work, and lying to both of them, and there would be a major explosion soon, since one of them had a fiery temper and was a bitch, according to Fiona.
“Am I glad I got out of that,” Alex said with a grin.
“No regrets? He was hot. He still is.”
“None,” Alex answered without hesitating for an instant.
“Anyone else?”
“I haven’t been out of the house, except to see you,” Alex said honestly.
“That’s not healthy,” Fiona scolded her. “What do you do here all the time?”
“I read…write letters…” She didn’t know how to explain why she stayed home for weeks on end, and couldn’t tell Fiona her secret either.
“You’re too young to be a recluse.” She wasn’t. She was a writer, which was different. But no one knew. She had a whole hidden life, which filled her nights and days, to the exclusion of all else. “You’ll never meet a man if you stay home all the time,” Fiona said. But she had a suggestion. She and half a dozen other women she knew were going on a ski trip to France over Christmas. It was organized by a social club for singles that they belonged to, the fees were low, and outsiders were welcome. “Do you want to come?”
“I’m not much of a skier.” She had gone twice in college, but hadn’t had spare time then either, to pursue sports, hobbies, or men. She was always writing. She had given up a lot, to write five books, three of them bestsellers, by the age of twenty-three. But the trip sounded like fun to her, and she liked Fiona. She had broken up with another boyfriend recently, and was looking to meet someone new. Men never lasted long with her, but the supply appeared to be plentiful, she always managed to come up with new dates.
“None of us are good skiers either,” Fiona reassured her. “The trip is about more than snow and slopes. There are hot guys in that club and they bring friends. Maybe you’ll meet someone. And not a loser like Ivan.” His reputation at work had gotten worse with his recent escapades. He hadn’t seemed as bad a year before, and had had a certain mystique. Now he was just an obvious cheater. “He’s a sleaze,” Fiona dismissed him with a sour expression, and Alex didn’t disagree. She felt stupid for having dated him, and even more so for having lost her virginity to him. Their relationship had been all about sex and not love, despite her illusions at the time about what it might turn into. It never did. He didn’t have it in him.
“So will you come?” Fiona pressed her about the ski trip. “They fill up pretty fast.” It was ten days in the French Alps, over Christmas and New Year, at bargain rates. It was hard to beat, except that she had said she might be back in Boston by Christmas and didn’t want to disappoint the nuns.
“Okay,” Alex said with a grin, and a pang of guilt.
“Thank God. If you don’t get out soon, your only date will be Father Christmas when he comes down your chimney, and he’s too old for you.” Alex laughed at her, and was excited about the trip.
She hated to tell the nuns that she wasn’t going home for the holidays again, but she called and explained why, and they were sad but said they understood. The ski trip sounded great to them too.
She renewed her apartment lease for another six months when it was offered to her, and extended her visa. She was hoping to stay in London until June. By then it would be two years since she left Boston. The time just seemed to slip by, and she had peace and quiet to write here.
She shipped all her presents to the nuns in early December, and rented ski equipment for her trip.
The new book she had started was going well, but she had promised herself she would put it aside and leave it for ten days when she went skiing. She had a hard time doing that. Sometimes she even got up in the middle of the night to go back to work. There was no one to object and tell her not to, which was the best part of being single and not dating. She could do whatever she wanted. She couldn’t imagine how she would give that up one day, if she met a man she cared about. Her freedom was so important to her now, to pursue her writing however and whenever she wanted to. She had total control over her own time, and she loved it. And writing was still the love of her life, more than any man.
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