Фиона Гибсон – The Woman Who Met Her Match: The laugh out loud romantic comedy you need to read in 2018 (страница 14)

That, Antoine types, is when I found pictures of us!

I stare at my phone. Pictures of us? I don’t remember many being taken, and the only one I have from that trip is of Valérie and me, sitting rather unhappily on the edge of her bed. I am smiling tensely and Valérie is pulling off one of her socks.

Really? I type. I am amazed you have any from that long ago.

Yes, he replies instantly, it was lovely to see them. You know, I couldn’t believe you had travelled alone, all the way from Yorkshire, with that piece of paper your mother typed. You were brave. Anything could have happened to you …

Something did happen to me.

I thought you were clever, brave and beautiful …

My heart seems to slam against my ribs.

Look, here’s one of the pictures …

My breath catches as a photo appears. It’s a little fuzzy, and at first it’s hard to believe it’s really us. He’s probably photographed the old print with his phone. But I remember it being taken now, by one of Valérie’s friends on a blisteringly hot day. Antoine and I are standing on the old stone bridge in the village, squinting a little – or at least I am – at the camera. He is looking at me, and his slim brown arm is slung around my shoulders, pulling me close. I have dreadful hair – yellowy highlights clashing against my natural brunette, the style verging perilously close to mullet – but I look so happy. Both of us do. You can see it clearly, shining out of our faces, even from a thirty- year-old faded print.

Wow, I type.

It’s lovely, he replies.

Apart from my highlights!

Highlights?

Those yellow stripes in my hair …

I swallow hard, poised to walk back into the store, wanting to remind him that his letters became rather blunt (‘Valérie learns karate but broke shoulder!’) before petering out altogether. I could tell him about my prowlings in the hallway at home, waiting for the postman, or the fact that I lied to Gail Cuthbertson, the mean girl at school, when she asked if I still had ‘that French boyfriend’.

‘Yes, if it’s any of your business.’

‘Let’s see a photo of him then.’

‘Don’t have any.’

‘Yeah, ’cause you made him up!’

Of course I don’t hold grudges: not like my mother, who’s still prone to muttering about my father’s unwillingness to fix a dodgy plug – ‘It’s like he was waging a campaign to electrocute me, Lorrie. Like he wanted to shoot thousands of volts through my body!’ And they broke up thirty-six years ago.

‘Can’t you just let it go, Mum?’ I implored her the last time she dredged it up. ‘It’s a very long time ago and he’s safely on the other side of the world. No one’s going to get electrocuted now.’

‘Maybe Jill will,’ she muttered, with a trace of gleefulness.

So, no – of course I’m not bitter about a teenage romance that fizzled out.

I thought you had lovely hair, Antoine replies now.

A busker starts playing a harmonica incredibly badly as another picture appears on my phone: the two of us again, this time lying on our backs in some grassy place – the goat farm perhaps – photographed from above. I guess his friend must have taken it. Of course, it was long before the days of selfies. My T-shirt is rumpled and slipping off one shoulder, and I am smiling broadly; that pouty photo face, the one all the girls do now, hadn’t been invented then. Even if it had, I’d have been too filled with happiness to remember to pull it.

I stare at the picture, no longer registering the throngs of people all around because I’m just seeing me, a young girl madly in love for the very first time. My vision fuzzes as Antoine’s message appears:

I have to tell you, Lorrie, it was the summer I came alive.

Chapter Seven

There’s no time to reply and, anyway, I haven’t the first idea how to respond. The summer he came alive? What does that mean? I hurry back into the store and find Nuala hovering at our counter.

‘Ah, here you are, Lorrie.’ She smiles tightly.

‘Oh, sorry, were you looking for me?’

‘No, it’s okay, you’re here now. Just wondering how things are going?’

Helena, who’s helping a customer to select a blusher, throws me a quizzical look.

‘Great,’ I reply. ‘We’re all hitting targets, the day cream and serum are going especially well …’ Nuala knows all this because our sales are carefully recorded and monitored. In her late thirties, authoritative but approachable and chatty with the team, she usually just drops by to ensure everything is tidy and just so. She might share some gossip from one of the other stores, and one of us will touch up her lipstick. Today, she doesn’t seem interested in any of that.

‘Just wanted to let you know,’ she starts, pushing back her sleek black hair, ‘we’re having a bit of a company meeting on Friday and it’s really important everyone attends.’

‘Oh, okay. What’s it all about?’

‘Just a little thing for all the counter teams in the south-east. There’s a hotel booked for it. You’ll receive an email but I wanted to see you personally …’ She clears her throat and glances around anxiously. Although she’s my boss, we have known each other for long enough to have developed a sort of friendship. However, today she is emitting definite don’t-quiz-me vibes.

‘Is it a training session?’ I ask.

‘Um, no, it’s not training. Well, not exactly.’

‘Come on, Nuala. Don’t leave us all hanging like this.’

She smiles tersely and her neck flushes pink. ‘Sorry, I can’t say anything else. It’s an early start, I’m afraid – 8 a.m. – and breakfast will be served. You’ll be back here by noon.’

I glance at Helena, and then back at Nuala. ‘You mean we’ll all be there? But what about the counter?’

‘Don’t worry,’ she says briskly. ‘I’m bringing in a team to cover things here. It’s only a few hours …’

‘A team? What d’you mean?’

‘Trainees. They’ll manage,’ she adds with uncharacteristic sharpness.

‘The counter will be manned by trainees?’

‘It’ll be fine, Lorrie. Trust me, please – oh, and you should all be in uniform for the meeting, that goes without saying …’

‘Yes, of course,’ I murmur, glancing down at my black La Beauté tunic with its white logo on the breast pocket. As if we’d turn up in T-shirts and jeans.

Nuala swipes her trilling phone from her shoulder bag and purses her lips at it. ‘Sorry, got to take this.’ She steps away, hair half-covering her face, already murmuring into her phone.

I look at Andi, an eager school-leaver and our newest recruit. She pulls a ‘what the hell?’ face, but there’s no chance to speculate, not with Nuala loitering nearby. Anyway, if something’s afoot, we won’t help matters by standing about gossiping.

I approach a customer, inviting her to try our new, ultra-light foundation, and fall into easy chit-chat as normal. ‘You’ll find it’s as light as a BB cream, while smoothing out imperfections …’

‘Oh, I’d like to try that …’

‘Could you hop on the stool for me and we’ll see which colour gives the best match?’

‘Great,’ the woman says. ‘The thing is, foundation always looks orange on me …’

Antoine flickers into my mind as I dab at her face with a cosmetic sponge. Antoine, with his orange-for-a-face profile picture, who reckons he ‘came alive’ in the summer of ’86.

‘Oh, that does look good,’ she exclaims, examining her reflection. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Great, would you like me to cleanse it off for you?’

‘What, and look like my knackered old self?’ She laughs, oblivious to Nuala who’s still lurking close by, barking into her mobile now: ‘Yes, they’ll all be there. Of course I’ve said it’s compulsory …’

My customer trots away with her purchase, and I busy myself with tidying up my counter area, while trying to ignore a niggle of unease about all of us attending this meeting. The company is strict about holiday leave; many of our customers are fiercely loyal and expect to see a familiar face at the counter. In fact, I can’t remember a time when we have all been off at once.

Looking severely rattled now, Nuala finishes her call and turns to address us again. ‘I meant to say, one or two counter staff might be asked to stand up and do a little talk at this, er, thing. It’s nothing to panic about—’

‘Really? What kind of talk?’ I try to keep my voice level.

‘Oh, you know, just a quick, spontaneous thing. The essence of what La Beauté is all about …’

I study her face. Her pale blue eyes look tired, and her lipstick has worn away.

‘Any idea who’ll have to do this?’ Helena asks.

‘Honestly, I have no idea. But I think we should all be prepared, okay?’