With two well-placed whacks, the door sprang back on its hinges to reveal what not even the Dutch owner knew it contained – a six-feet-by-eight-feet, pitch-black room. When Bradley shone his torch inside, the spectators behind us gave a collective deflated sigh at the sight of crate after crate crammed with paperwork, receipts and invoices.
It wasn’t until later in the day, when I’d consigned the splintered door to the rubbish, that I caught a glimpse of a photograph poking out from one of the crates I’d dropped into the garbage earlier. I leaned over the edge and pulled it out for closer inspection.
A family, possibly the original owners, stood dressed to the nines, beaming proudly before the camera outside the pristine-looking H?tel Près de la C?te. I instantly recognised the chubby-faced man standing at their side. It was Pierre Chareau, a classic modernist and art deco designer I’d studied extensively at university. I had long admired his maverick vision. Like me, he’d trained as an architect, but he’d added extra strings to his bow by branching out into design and decoration. The pinnacle of his work was the Maison de Verre – the first house in France to be constructed of steel and glass.
I grabbed the crate and hauled it back into the hostel courtyard. I lit up the first of many cigarettes as I ploughed through hundreds of pages of designs, photographs, blueprints and illustrations. There were sheets of handwritten notes and orders – all signed by Chareau. And they weren’t all related to the hotel. There were sketches of buildings that had never been, and designs of furniture that had.
When placed in chronological order, they offered a fascinating insight into the creative mind of a genius and the projects he’d never publicly acknowledged. Forty years after his death and I was residing in what had once been just his vision. I’d been charged with returning it to the glory he’d been responsible for. But with these papers, I’d also found my holy grail, and my way out.
5 December
I’d thrown myself into the final stages of the hotel’s renovation. I’d become obsessive, working all the hours God sent, day and night, only napping for a handful of hours at a time. And it was starting to take its toll on me.
I was crouched in a bath, sealing its rim with adhesive against the tiled walls, when the quite dry, very French tub before me was all at once replaced by the bath in my old house in Northampton, complete with water inside and bubbles, and a toy boat floating from one end to the other. I blinked hard, and when I opened my eyes again, the image had vanished as quickly as it appeared. I felt chills across my body so I climbed out and started work on a staircase instead. Thank God that bit of madness was not repeated, but the memory of it left a stain that took some weeks to wash out.
As the countdown to the festive period began, it became a challenge not to think of the family I’d shared so many Christmases with. But when I thought about Catherine, I kept reminding myself I was no longer a father or a husband.
We’d both agreed we wanted to be young parents, and being a parent was the greatest gift she ever gave me. Nothing she nor I subsequently did to each other ever took away the feeling of utter elation in holding those tiny, hope-filled hands for the first time in the house they’d been born into. Over the years, as each midwife passed each baby to me, I’d gently slip my finger between their tightly balled fists, plant a kiss on the centre of their foreheads and whisper ‘I will never let you down’ into their ears. It saddened me to think the first words they’d ever heard were lies.
‘Si, you need some sleep, man,’ yelled Bradley, bringing me back to the present. ‘Look.’
He pointed to the banister I’d just sanded down to the grain – I’d only painted and varnished it a night earlier.
I yawned and closed the lid on Catherine once again, and moved on to the wooden arc of the entrance hall. It felt smooth to the touch, but it could be better. I couldn’t bring myself to stop sanding it until it was beyond compare.
Christmas Eve
I’d never spent the holidays in the company of strangers before, which was probably why I’d been reluctant to embrace the forthcoming festivities. But my apathy evaporated when I turned the corner into Christmas Eve.
Diminishing numbers wasn’t going to prevent us from indulging in good food and all-round merriment. But it took queuing with crowds of locals outside the boulangeries and patisseries to collect orders for fine meats and cheeses to spark the kindling inside me. I fed off their gaiety until I found myself grinning without reason.
In keeping with French tradition, the seven of us left at the Routard International enjoyed an appetising midnight meal together before we welcomed Christmas Day. We covered the dining room table in a clean white bedsheet, treated our palates with the rich textures of foie gras on sliced brioche and smoked salmon on blinis.
My bloated stomach was already close to bursting point when the chef, who the Routard’s owner had hired as a reward for my renovation work, brought out a platter of cooked meats. I was completely spoiled.
‘How did you used to spend Christmas?’ asked Bradley as we smoked two plump cigars on the mild seafront.
I recalled a time two years earlier, sitting in the corner of our living room watching all six of them caught up in the moment. My relationship with Catherine was completely distorted by then, and I didn’t belong there. He had made sure of that. I was like a coiled spring that longed to unravel but didn’t know how or when to.
‘Not much,’ I replied ambiguously.
‘Thought you’d say that,’ said Bradley before we puffed away and watched a trail of shooting stars blast their way across the sky.
Christmas Day
With only a handful of guests remaining under my retiled roof, the hostel had been as restful as I’d known it.
‘Do you wanna call anyone?’ asked Bradley when he finished with the phone, handing me the receiver. I paused. ‘Do you want to call any of your family back in England or something? You know it’s Christmas Day, right?’
For the first time since I’d left Catherine, something unexpected in me was curious to hear her voice. I took the receiver and, without giving myself time to debate it, held it to my ear. I dialled the country code, then the area code, and finally all but the last digit of our phone number.
My finger hovered over the last number, unable to press it. Because even hearing her just say the word ‘hello’ as she picked up the phone, or the voices of the children as they played with toys in the background, would do me no good. The time of year for family and togetherness was weakening my resolve, but I had to come to my senses or undo all my good work.
‘No, it’s okay,’ I told Bradley, passing the phone back to him. I had to remain in the present, not the past.
Northampton, today
11.10 a.m.
He’d spent years holding himself back from allowing her sympathy. But even he couldn’t ignore how traumatic it must have been to miscarry and face it alone.