‘They make us happy so we thought they’d make you happy too,’ added James, unable to look me in the eye.
I felt nothing but shame. I closed the card and noticed Simon wasn’t in their drawing. They’d understood it was just the four of us now, and the only person who hadn’t was me.
It was like someone had let the air out of me. My body deflated and my mouth fell open as for the very first time, I began to cry in front of them. My tears were so heavy they pushed my head forwards, then bent me over double. The kids responded by gathering around me with the force of a rugby scrum.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy,’ said Robbie. ‘We’re sorry we made you sad.’
‘You haven’t,’ I sobbed. ‘They’re happy tears.’ And some of them were. Not all of them, mind you, but some of them. In an instant, I recognised everything that had been wrong with me since Simon disappeared.
I’d known deep down I’d been relying on alcohol to keep me sane. James had been right: I was drunk and I couldn’t remember a day since Simon went when I hadn’t knocked back at least a couple of glasses.
I’d used wine to replace him. And gradually it had become my crutch and the only glimmer of light in my dark corner of the world. It was the only thing that sandpapered the rough edges away and made everything bearable again. It prevented a night of tossing and turning by easing me to sleep. It comforted me when I imagined all the bad things that might’ve happened to him. It was my reward for getting through another day after my miscarriage without falling apart.
But when too much of it flowed through me, it made me bitter. I hated myself for it, but I blamed Simon for throwing me into a life I’d never asked for. And worse than that, he made me take out my frustrations on my babies. Of course, it wasn’t his fault – it was mine.
All four of us decided against the party at the village hall, and packed the fancy-dress costumes into a bag and stuffed it into the cupboard under the stairs. Then we stayed up until midnight to see the new year in together, watching it on the TV. And the three pairs of arms that had held me up for so long without me noticing gave me more strength and support than a bottle of wine ever could – or would – again.
SIMON
Saint-Jean-de-Luz, twenty-four years earlier
New Year’s Day
Champagne corks flew through the air as a chorus of a thousand voices cheered across the town square. Church bells in Saint-Jean-de-Luz chimed to announce the arrival of the new year, while the townsfolk celebrated with backslapping and cheek-pecking.
My first réveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre had begun earlier that evening with a feast cooked, blanched and seared by the willing kitchen staff of local restaurants, cafés and bars. Crockery stacked with mouth-watering foods was piled upon every inch of available surface space at my restored H?tel Près de la C?te for its grand reopening. Wooden tables were pushed together, draped in ivory lace and linen and decorated with plastic holly branches and white pillar candles. Flames flickered across the room and enshrouded each person in a tangerine blush, as if we were banqueting in the belly of a bonfire.
I was one of more than three hundred friends, neighbours and tradesmen sitting side by side on wooden stools, indulging in the festivities. Then, with the food still fresh in our stomachs, it was time for a traditional walk through the balmy air to the church for midnight Mass. Even though I’d misplaced my religion a lifetime ago, it was a place, somewhat hypocritically, that I needed to visit to offer gratitude for my second chance. And to prepare for a third.
As the church bells rang, I joined the extended congregation to walk en masse with blazing torches towards the square, the final destination for our celebrations. There, a uniformed brass band played traditional French folk songs as balloons floated through the breezeless air and party poppers decorated the sky.
‘Happy New Year, buddy!’ shouted Bradley as our glasses collided.
‘And you.’
‘Any resolutions?’
‘Just the one,’ I replied vaguely.
‘And?’
‘And what?’
‘And what is it?’
‘I can’t tell you that, it’s unlucky.’
‘Unlucky? You Brits are weird.’ He shook his head, bemused, and wandered off in the direction of a slender waitress who’d been catching his eye all day.
I remained in my place under a leafless cherry tree, taking mental pictures as the throng sang, drank and danced. I placed my half-full glass on the base of a statue, stubbed my cigarette out on the cobbles and walked slowly towards the H?tel Près de la C?te. I stood on the opposite side of the road and dissected how my months of intense restoration had radically changed its appearance. I was thrilled with my achievement.
Unlocking the front door, I was greeted by the warm sound of silence. I headed down the corridor to my room and pulled my recently purchased green canvas rucksack from the cupboard. It held my sparse collection of worldly possessions – clothes, a couple of books, maps and money I’d kept hidden in rolled-up socks – all of which I’d packed earlier. And, of course, Darren’s passport. The hotel wouldn’t be the only thing to see in the new year with a fresh identity.
I closed the bedroom door and walked back towards reception, only stopping briefly to examine a photograph Bradley had pinned to a cork noticeboard. It was of a dozen of us, including Darren, sitting in the courtyard raising beer bottles towards the lens. I returned their smiles.
I’d spent the last six months of my life with people who had no idea who I really was. Nobody had judged me, challenged me or bruised me, and that suited me perfectly. I’d been safe, and I could have spent another year, two years . . . maybe five years in this town. But I knew eventually it would fail me. Everything that makes you happy eventually disappoints.
And it was pointless creating a new life for myself if I wasn’t going to live it. It would all be for nothing. It was in my best interest to escape on my own terms, while I had nothing but fond memories. So, with a heavy heart, yet motivated by the thrill of expectation, I prepared to take flight.
I lit a candle for each of the three children I’d left behind and one more for myself, and placed them in the dining room, the reception area, my bedroom and by the rear door. It only took a minute before their inch-high flames licked the curtain hems, then climbed towards the sky, destroying everything in their paths.