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Strategic Book Group
Copyright © 2010
All rights reserved – Nannette Holliday
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical facts, towns and countries, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Strategic Book Group
P.O. Box 333
Durham CT 06422
www.StrategicBookClub.com
ISBN: 978-1-61204-325-8
Printed in the United States of America
Cover artwork of original painting “La colline du soleil”—“Sun Hill”
by Richard Moisan
Permission and Copyright © 2007
Book Design: Stacie Tingen
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blog: http://booksbynannetteholliday.blogspot.com/
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To love, life, and the experiences they bring—along with those who cross our path—making us the people we are.
To all who have made this book possible—merci beaucoup—je t'aime.
N
1. French love
2. One sunny Friday, three years earlier…
3. Impressions
4. A new year
5. Telling the truth
6. Let the loving begin
7. The big day
8. Saint Raphael routine
9. Meeting friends
10. The bombshell
11. The next step
12. Working in southwest France
13. Back on the Côte d’Azur
14. Journey through the Var
15. Pyrénées awakening
16. Decision time
17. Toulouse teaching
18. Finding a home
19. Christmas in Paris
20. New Year in London
21. Australian summer
22. Shattered dreams
23. What now?
24. Coming to Canada
25. Fate
“People travel to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the seas, at the long course of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and yet they pass by themselves without wondering.”
St. Augustine, 354 430
Biting her bottom lip, she walked down the aisle—still stunned at what she was doing—uprooting her entire life for a man! Yes, this captivating French artist she'd met while holidaying in Cannes, on the French Riviera a few years previously.
She wasn't dreaming. It was real. No friends, no family support, just him—a new life with him—and the magical Côte d’Azur would be their home. Isn't this what every girl dreams of?
* * *
Together they had chosen the apartment and many of the furnishings, albeit over the internet. He had included her in all the decision-making, from furniture placement right down to the tiniest little thing, such as the tablecloth—for heaven's sake!
Truthfully, these minute details had actually driven her mad. For starters she really didn't care for a tablecloth to cover the table all day—only for dinner parties—but it was a sacrifice she was prepared to make for obvious ‘cultural differences’.
She was still working full-time and there was a great deal of turmoil at work. Also at home she was sorting and packing up her things in advance of renting her own apartment. Not to mention the endless streams of paperwork, verifications and translations necessary to obtain her French residency visa, enabling them to legally live together. While he also had to send many papers and declarations, he was retired and could organize his days much easier than her. His days were totally his.
He'd said he wanted their place to be complete when she arrived. Yes, she could see he was a perfectionist, but figured it had more to do with the fact that he had nothing else to occupy his time. Their future life together was now his full-time consideration. She smiled, and answered his emails as quickly as possible, ensuring he did not stress.
Actually she was grateful for these distractions. Work had been particularly stressful. The department was undergoing a complete reorganization. His saucy emails not only brightened her life, it enabled her to spread some fairytale happiness to others—those remaining at work facing an uncertain future. Not once had she really considered her own future—figuring it would naturally fall into place after taking her many months of overdue leave. She would either stay in France with him, or come back to work—as simple as that. However, deep in her soul, staying was the only plan.
On her departure, friends threw a farewell party. She'd previously been asked if lunch at the Yacht Club would be all right? Did she have time on the last Sunday before leaving? Yes, everything would be organized by then. It sounded wonderful—a simple light lunch with views out over the lake and a handful of friends. Then those who couldn't join them for lunch would be there later for the Sunday jazz and dancing at the club.
Well, it was no simple lunch, but an extravaganza in the private dining room. Her dear friend and fellow jazz enthusiast, Christina, had miraculously organized it. How she'd managed to fit the planning and execution of every minute detail into her already busy life still amazed her.
The room was decorated with red, white and blue balloons and streamers. French and Australian flags adorned the tables, along with photos of him and their new hometown that had been obtained from him—so sneaky of Christina! The scene was magical.
She hadn't been told of the exact details. Every time they spoke she would ask her how many were coming—about a dozen. Who?
“Oh I don't have the list in front of me right now.”
So she would let it slide. They were both very busy at work, and she knew whatever Christina did, it would be fun. It was one less item for her to do list, which suited her fine.
She was flabbergasted when over fifty friends came to the lunch. Did she really have fifty friends? Wow!
Unbeknown to her, Christina had even pre-arranged a recorded message from him. With his charming French voice oozing his profound love and affection for her and all in attendance, tears filled her eyes and a warmth enveloped her heart. She was glad in a way that only a handful in the room understood any French. Next minute the English version was played for all. Thinking aloud she said: He doesn't speak English—and certainly not that much!
Oh, but he did today:
“I am happy to be able to speak with my Australian princess and all her friends gathered there to say goodbye. Firstly I apologize for taking her away from you, but I can no longer stand this separation.
We have waited a long time, we have written, we have telephoned, we have been faithful to one another and we have said many things. And now in a few days we will rediscover each other. With a common project, a big project: to live the remainder of our life together.
I now await her, with all my love. I am waiting to take her in my arms—to our apartment on the Côte d’Azur.
Yes, I have an appointment with a woman. She comes a long way, from the other side of the world. She will leave the cold and bitter winter to discover the heat and the sun at the edge of the sea… And do you know for what? For me! For I am very in love. This is a pretty woman. She always has a smile. A very pretty face. A body that gives me ideas… And she is very kind. I fell in love with her as early as the first day I saw her. If you knew how much she pleases me!
My love for her is so strong that I am sure that we will succeed as a wonderful couple. Yes. I am very in love. Very, very in love.
What's more, I am in love as if I was again at high school. She makes me feel young! I love her, and she me, and I know that love will blossom and grow. We will do like a garden: to water it every day to ensure that there will always be flowers. And then the years will pass and we will be happy together. Yes, before getting old, we will have many pleasant years!
I do nothing but think of her. My little Australian pleases me a lot. Every day, I discover her actions and thoughts that give me much pleasure. As for her body, I liked it the first second I saw her. She is not big, as I like. Her face is very pleasant. She smiles often. I like her laugh, her humor. Her small eyes crackle as bubbles of champagne. Yes she pleases me much. I love her so! We prepare our new life together. We look to the future with optimism. I am sure that we will always walk together! We will pray for that—to protect our love.
While we will keep in contact by email and telephones… one day I look forward to meeting you all—in Australia or here at our home where you will always be welcome.
Yes my dear, you feel it, I am very, very in love! I know that I am not mistaken in choosing you. You are the woman who I have always dreamed of. I cover you in kisses. Yes, I love you, I love you, I love you, my darling! Please come soon. I now await you with great impatience.”
She was as red at her jacket. Now everyone knew how he really felt—not just a handful of her nearest and dearest who she'd occasionally shared snippets of emails.
The day was as enchanting as her new life. CDs of him singing were played. He even called on Christina's mobile—in the middle of the night his time. This was like a fairytale. How many males ever do this for the woman they love? Certainly, no Australian man had ever done anything like this before—for her.
Any doubts she may have once had, were not even on the horizon now. Yes, he—this amazing Frenchman—had captivated her heart, and now those of her friends. Each one commenting afterwards that they now understood why she could do what she was doing.
It was sad for her to be moving away from all her friends, who were also her family. It was no small step—it was gigantic—to the other side of the world. If there were any tears, they were only of happiness… and she was so delighted for the many wonderful people who were now sharing her life and dreams. They were simply astonishing and so supportive. She counted herself extremely lucky indeed.
* * *
Tripping, her meanderings were abruptly halted. A man next to the aisle grabbed her arm, stopping her fall. Oh how foolish, everyone would now be looking at her. Quickly, regaining her composure, she bent her head, thanking him.
My God—what was she doing? Reality setting in—her heart racing at a hundred miles an hour. Yes, this was for real. This was not a dream, nor some children's fairytale story. This was her life. Taking a deep breath, she steadied herself and focused ahead—on him and their future.
They say a setting can mean everything or nothing, depending on what happens and where you are at the time.
Well this certainly was the perfect setting. The romantic French Riviera—where the azure skies are as majestic as the sparkling diamondencrusted sea. The sand is a pure creamy white. The striped and colourful umbrellas are perfectly aligned, defining each beach restaurant along the water's edge, and the sun seems to shine more than ninety-five percent of the year.
For the many people strolling the streets and Croisette day and night, Cannes is an idyllic town. Not simply for the hype of the various Film Festivals, or the personalities that these events bring. In fact, it is much more beautiful when the rich and famous are not around. Although everyone strolling the streets, or seated in one of the many restaurants, bars or cafés, are forever hopeful of seeing, or meeting any of these people. Not her though. She really didn't care two hoots—although, if she ever happened to cross paths with George Clooney, or Richard Gere, she would die on the spot. She'd always said they could park their shoes under her bed anytime they liked.
However, today her mission was to obtain a lunch table for six at Café Roma, that her long time school girlfriend and now film director, Goldie, had shown her the previous evening. As it's not possible to make a reservation during festival time, the only way to ensure a table was to arrive a few minutes before the midday lunch break. This was her task.
Scanning the appointed restaurant, there were plenty of tables currently available. Waiters were busy ensuring everything was in place ready for the onslaught of midday customers. It was only eleven fifteen. She was too early, so needed to kill time—but didn't want to have to run back. She needed to look cool, calm and collected when arriving to ask for a table—not like a flustered tourist or star-watcher.
Backtracking a little, she passed the Majestic Hotel, then strolled across the road and through the arcade of magnificent shops within the Hotel Gray D’Albion—just over a block away. Glancing casually at jewellery she couldn't afford, furnishings that were way too lavish and overstated for her taste and style, and fashions she was sure only the mega stars, or millionaires could afford. One simple top carried a price tag equivalent to her entire annual earnings.
Walking out of the arcade and into the surrounding garden that hid the outside shops from the street, she spied a handbag shop with some very different, yet beautiful designs. Best of all, some of those displayed were actually within her budget. Not now, she'd come back after lunch and investigate further. Following the garden around the corner, she was blown away with a mass of colour exploding from every angle. She stopped to admire the scene exuding from this small art gallery tucked away in the corner. It was simply breathtaking. How could anyone paint like this? Not only was each canvas oozing with colour and excitement, she could feel the passion evident in every brushstroke. This artist obviously loved life, and these surroundings.
Stepping into the open one-room gallery, she made her way slowly past each canvas, examining the artist's every brushstroke in the mountains, poppy covered fields, ancient towns and seascapes. She hadn't noticed a salesman behind the counter who was watching her every move—turning only when she heard him get up. He was at least six feet tall, slender and extremely handsome, not young, but very distinguished and poised, with only highlights of dark grey at his temples. When he spoke she almost melted on the spot. The French words gently flowed from his perfectly formed lips.
Gosh what had he said? She wasn't concentrating on his words at all. While she could read French, she had to quickly explain she was Australian and her French vocabulary was minimal—just the basics. Only then did she also notice that all the paintings were on sale—a half price closing down sale. Even better she thought. She was a sucker for colourful, impressionistic artworks and had almost made a habit of purchasing a painting from each of her various travel destinations lately—only, of course, if any were available.
She asked him about the artist. It was he. Oh my, how wonderful. She complemented him on his work and style, remarking how joyful it made her feel. He smiled appreciatively, his face alight with the pleasure of her comments. Hmmm, what a beautiful smile… what an amazing man. Was her awe and affection for him showing? She couldn't read his thoughts and hoped he couldn't read hers either!
Suddenly, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing and looked at her watch. Oh no! It was time to get back to the restaurant. She quickly explained that she had to be at lunch, but would return later that afternoon. Turning to leave, he lightly touched her bare shoulders—sending a jolt, similar to a little electric shock, through her. She caught the look in his eyes and returned it with a smile of assurance. Yes, she would definitely return after lunch—both he and his paintings were on her most desirable list. Taking a deep breath, she tried to appear calm as she walked back into the street and toward the restaurant—forcing herself not to look back. Her heart was thumping. What was it? Yes, she loved the paintings—but it was him. He hadn't spoken much, but the look in his eyes said it all—and the touch. Was she imagining things now?
Arriving at the restaurant, there was a small line beginning to form. She hoped she could still get a good table, as there didn't appear to be many left. When it was her turn the waiter took her upstairs. While the table was in a very pleasant position—beside a window overlooking the square and a bar in the far corner, which also meant they wouldn't be neglected by the waiters—she couldn't be seen, nor could she see her friends arrive. Panicking, she tried to explain to the waiter in her broken French that she was expecting five other guests and could he show them upstairs please? Mentally she scolded herself—it was all her fault, losing track of time. The only real thing she was responsible for today, she had stuffed up!
After a few more anxious minutes, she left some personal items on the table to ensure it would not be given away and started to walk down the stairs to see if she could find her friends in the line out front. Just then a waiter was showing Goldie and the party up the circular staircase. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief—thank goodness!
She was introduced to the party of film and creative directors from various parts of the world and they quickly ordered wine and food. Their time was precious and this lunch was also part of Goldie's business. She didn't say much, but listened intently. This was a world she knew very little about. As they were all talking business her mind drifted back to the artist and his brilliant paintings. She would really like Goldie to come back for a quick look if she had the time.
The two hours went quickly. Soon they were saying farewells and expressing hopes to catch up again soon over the next few days. Quickly, she told Goldie about the amazing paintings she had stumbled across earlier. Fortunately, she did have another half hour before her next appointment, so they both headed straight for the gallery.
The artist stood up quickly on seeing both women walk towards the large open doorway. He welcomed them. On touching her hand ever so gently, again it sent a slight electric tingle through her, startling her. She introduced her girlfriend. He took her hand and gently kissed it too. She wondered if Goldie had experienced the same little jolt? She must remember to ask her later.
He proceeded to line up more paintings, the same size she had chosen earlier—a more practical size to take home on the flight, rather than shipping a larger one. Although she would have much preferred one of the bigger paintings, she had to be practical. Between Goldie and the artist, they helped her chose one—a bright, bold, colourful countryside with Provençal homes on the hilltop, and the brilliant azure sky blending into the coastal sea. Goldie bolted: she had business to attend to and they would catch up later at six that evening for drinks at the Grand Hotel.
The artist turned to her—was she happy with this one? Oh yes, very happy. She was almost too afraid to ask, but she had to—could the frame be changed please, for one with a yellow border edge, rather than the current blue one? No problem—it would be his pleasure. She watched his creative hands make easy work of what she thought would have been impossible, or at least extremely time-consuming.
Now how did she want it wrapped? She had wanted to be able to check it in as luggage for her flight home. This meant it needed to be bubblewrapped and covered in heavy cardboard to fully protect it.
Taking her hand, they walked towards the back of the gallery. Trembling nervously inside, she just hoped he couldn't feel it. She wasn't exactly sure what he had said, or what he was about to do, but she let him take her around the corner to a small storeroom. He seemed pleased at showing her the room, but she was still unsure of what she was supposed to be looking at. Then she noticed there were many flattened cardboard boxes against the wall. Leading her towards them, they chose a suitably sized one and took it back out to the gallery.
Coyly, she asked if he could please sign the back of the painting, before enclosing it in the bubble-wrap? Delighted—she swore he almost ran to the counter to grab a large black marker. That big beautiful smile was beaming across his entire face and his eyes were glistening as much as the sea outside, as he returned. He crouched down at the painting on the floor, turned it over and asked her name. He then signed the back of the painting to her, with love hearts from him. Fantastic! How fabulous to have such a wonderful work of art personally signed to her from the artist! Ecstatic—everything inside her was jumping for joy—she tried to remain calm and in control—like this sort of thing happened to her everyday. Never before!
Continuing, he protectively sealed the painting in bubble-wrap and the cardboard box. She assisted with handing him packaging tape and scissors as required. Then she took over and created a carry handle with tape and string so she could carry the piece home over her shoulder. He looked on in amazement, all the time smiling, as if bemused. Yes, it was obvious she had done this before. She smiled on completion. The packaging would work well for her to take on the plane. Extremely happy, she thanked him profusely, and stretched on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Bravo—thank you—merci!”
He took her arms and pulled her body towards his. Giving her a big cuddle, he returned her kiss with a passion she hadn't quite expected. Looking up at his face and into his questioning eyes. She felt weak. What was happening? He brought his mouth down to hers. She let him kiss her firmly, but gently, all the while squeezing her tight against his body. She returned his kiss—then another, and another. She could feel the passion building within both their bodies. She was definitely under his spell.
Quickly he pulled her deeper into the gallery, so they were shielded by the larger paintings on easels in the middle of the room. Only their legs would be visible to passers-by should they happen to look in—even then, they'd have to be looking down in order to notice their presence. His hands darted from her shoulders, grabbing her bottom. Pulling her even closer, he kissed her so passionately and feverishly it was like he had been starved of love for a very long time. She didn't mind in the least. It had also been a long time since she had felt love—although never quite like this—and she intended to enjoy every minute, letting her mind and body go with the flow. Taking a deep breath, they gazed into each other's eyes—his hands remained firmly around her tiny body. There was no escaping—but she had no desire to escape anyway. No words were exchanged. No words were necessary. Their eyes, the passion of their kisses and the loving embrace said it all. They were adults, they knew exactly what they felt and what they were doing… or did they?
He moved his hands more purposefully over her body, covered only by her tight white jeans and a little black cotton strappy summer top. Her mind was saying she should stop him, but her body relinquished itself under his every stroke. They kissed long and hard. She felt as if they were totally one. His touch and kisses were overwhelming—and she loved it. There was no denying her response from either body or mind. However, this was not her normal behaviour. She was usually quite cautious and reserved. Not today though! She was happy to let her body and mind be carried along for the ride. This Frenchman, this brilliant and extremely talented artist, had captivated her hook, line and sinker. So this is what being with a Frenchman feels like?
For almost fifteen minutes they caressed and kissed, before he tried to lead her to the back of the gallery again. While she was melting under his spell, she felt safer staying in the gallery, she certainly didn't trust herself alone with him, she knew his guiles would prove irresistible. Gosh, she wasn't putting up much of a battle now—and he obviously sensed that too. Standing firm, they remained where they were, enjoying each other's pleasures—the spell only being broken by the sound of people walking through the gallery doorway. Quickly reverting to salesman mode, he greeted the customers with his generous smile. She remained behind the large paintings trying to regain her composure, pretending to be deliberating over other paintings on the wall. Did her nervousness show? She certainly hoped not.
The customers soon departed without looking much further into the gallery—perhaps they knew they were intruding. Quickly he returned to her side. His hands finding her bottom pulled her closer and he began where they had left off. It was that simple! She was astounded!
Looking deeply into her eyes he must have sensed the questions on her mind. Then she remembered the wedding ring on his left hand. No, she must stop now. This is not her habitual behaviour. He paused, taking a long look at her face. She gazed into his grey-green eyes and lied that she really must go—an appointment. She hoped she was convincing, because she wasn't much good at lying either! His smile faded.
Holding her tight against his body he gave her one last, but very passionate and longing kiss. He then led her to the counter where she paid for the painting and they exchanged email addresses. He explained that he was married with grown children. Was she married? No, she was divorced, for six years now and there was no special man in her life. He was eager to keep in contact, and she agreed she would.
He helped her put the package on her shoulder and her handbag on the other one. Walking out the door, she turned several times to receive and return his blown kisses. She had to be strong now—not look back—this was far too difficult! One last smile and blown kiss. She turned the corner, heading along the Croisette to her apartment.
Her head was spinning. She felt as though she was floating on air, her feet hardly touching the ground—my God what had just happened back there? Her heart was still pounding like a trip hammer! Is this what everyone raves about with a French lover? But it was only a kiss!
She could hardly wipe the smile from her face as she relived the events of the afternoon. Then she remembered, once again—he was married. She scolded herself. She didn't have relationships with married men. So the moment was just that—a moment in time to be savored and remembered—it would never happen again.
She didn't confide in Goldie either—even though she was still floating on cloud nine. It was her secret. It was her special, private memory and she would take to her grave.
Four days later she was on her way to Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, flying back to Australia via Zurich and Bangkok. The painting—his painting—was packaged superbly and travelled impeccably. Only Australian Quarantine Inspection Service at Sydney International Airport asked for it to be opened.
While she was true to herself and didn't venture anywhere near his gallery during those last few days—her mind kept wandering back to thoughts of him and that afternoon. Each time, her heart skipped a beat. He certainly had left quite an impression. This amazing artist had planted a huge imprint on one little Australian woman's mind—and soul.
She'd always loved impressionist paintings—Monet, Renoir, even Van Gogh. Though maybe not quite as famous, she now had a modern day semi-impressionistic original of her own—but he was certainly a renowned artist in his country and region today. No matter how much she tried not to think of him, she had to admit, she'd succumbed—his wayward charms wooing her!
Back home in her little inner city apartment she couldn't wait to unwrap his painting.
As she did, raw emotions flooded her mind, swallowing her in their warmth. Smiling satisfactorily, she studied his signature and words of love to her on the back of the canvas. Pure ecstasy filled her body—and he wasn't even here. Crazy! How was it possible?
She kept unpacking. There was a poster print he'd also given her, along with the latest magazine of acclaimed French artists for that year. Pausing at the bookmarked pages, she read his biography and reviewed his works. Noticing his signature and sweet words to her flourished across a photo—For My Dear Little Australian—slumping on the couch she held the pages close to her heart. Gazing out the big picture windows, she reflected on him in his gallery… hmmm.
Recovering, she fished for the CD of love songs in French. It had been playing in the gallery while they were wrapping the painting. When she asked who was singing, it was he. Retrieving it, he also signed it on the shiny blank surface—to her with love hearts. Quickly popping it into the player and she turned up the volume. His melodic voice and romantic words engulfed the room, soothing her weary travellers’ body. Being western French he hardly had an accent and was extremely easy to understand. Lying on the couch, eyes closed, allowing the music to wash over her, she imagined the words sliding from his sensual mouth. Remembering his embrace… hmmm… she went into meltdown mode again. No one had ever had this kind of influence on her!
* * *
She had only been back at work a few days when she received an email from him. Quickly clicking open, her heart and mind began racing again. Oh no—it's all in French and a page at that! Her French was never that good! She tried to translate it from what she knew, but she didn't want to second guess. She wanted to know exactly what he had said. This would have to be done at home—quickly printing a copy.
Thwarted, she had a few minutes spare before her next meeting, so Googled for translation services. Hey presto! There were several free sites. She clicked on one and copied the words across, hitting translate. Darn, it wouldn't come up—there were too many words! Now it would have to wait till later.
Of course, the meeting dragged on. Her mind wasn't on work anyway. Finally, back in her office, she was able to break his email into sections. Translated, she saved it into a Word document and began to read.
Oh my! His words were as caressing as his kisses. They weren't erotic words of love, but they displayed affection and his warm feelings for her. He had chosen them well. Overcome with emotion, she decided not to respond immediately. Exactly what could, or should she say anyway?
Taking the printed translation home, she read and reread it several times during the evening. Then while sipping her wine and playing his CD, penned a few lines. She wanted to be equally as careful with her reply. She wished to convey her appreciation of their meeting, that the painting had travelled well in its perfect packaging and that it now took pride of place on her lounge room wall—and how her life was back to normal at work with endless, meaningless meetings occupying her days, making her miss the beautiful days in Cannes even more.
Naturally there was no hint of her feelings, or thoughts of him. He was married. She was not interested in pursuing a relationship of any kind with a married man. Not even via email to the other side of the world. For her even that would be too close, especially while he was with his wife. That was a definite no, no!
Replying to his email a few days later—happy with its content—pleasant enough, but clearly a friends—good friends reply.
A couple of days later came his reply. Very similar to the first, but included several photographs. They were coastal sea views, taken from a high-rise apartment balcony—apparently his holiday place at Juan les Pins. Cleary someone had been cut from the edge of one photo. She couldn't help wondering if it was his wife?
On average he sent an email a week—each time creating butterflies in her stomach, and sending her heart racing. She had to admit it, she looked forward to his sweet words—they certainly improved the boredom of her working week. Was she really that unhappy before going on holiday? Or was it something he, or the French Riviera, had unleashed in her?
Recently she'd been approached by her former department—would she be interested in relieving for four months, while the person took extended long service leave? It would begin the following month. Yes please! She needed a change—a job with more activity, challenge and involvement. It would be a slight drop in pay, but she didn't care. She couldn't believe how bored she'd become. Her current work life revolved around one pointless meeting after another, never solving anything concrete. Thankfully her boss granted the transfer request almost immediately.
As her current department would also be moving buildings during her absence, she gradually packed her personal belongs and took them home. Copying her contacts and other necessary files, she then deleted any personal information. If she had her way she would never return to this department.
Posting the usual out of office information for personal and business contacts two weeks later, she departed. It was the last she would see of that department. A new year, a new job, a new life—there was something more around the corner for her. She just knew it too. She could feel it in her bones.
The New Year began, along with her new job. Loving every day—the work was all consuming. It was fast paced, active—always something happening. Just the way she liked it. She was enjoying life again.
In between times she would catch up with friends, have a drink, listen to live music, have others over for small dinner parties, or gatherings to watch the fireworks over the lake from her balcony. Both her business and personal life was content and happy. There was no special man, but that didn't matter—she had a group of wonderful friends. Having no immediate family, they were her family—and extra special to her. They also made her feel special. What more could she really want? Apart from winning lotto, she was blessed with a good life.
During her job transfer, she'd somehow misplaced the artist's email address. Surrounded by contentment and a full work and home life, she hadn't actually missed receiving his emails either. However, any new visitors to her home always commented on how vivacious his painting was. Yes indeed—and her mind would wander… knowing exactly how wonderful he was!
Just as her current contract was about to end, she managed to secure another secondment to another department—this time for a year. While sorting through personal papers, she came across one of his old emails. Placing it in her contacts folder on the desk, she wondered how he was getting along. Had he sold his gallery? Had he since retired?
This time she added his email to her notification list. As soon as she moved she let everyone know where she was and her new details. She hardly ever emailed from home, it attracted more spam than real messages. Plus by the end of the day, she was sick of computers. It was more pleasant relaxing with a wine, listening to music, or reading. Her home computer was old anyway. She only used it for preparing work papers that required time and concentration.
A few days after settling in to the new job, she sent a notification email to those on her list. Within a day there was an email from him. Oh my, her heart was thumping again at the sight of his name.
Ever so caring, it displayed his gentleness, but more questions than information. He had missed her. What had she been doing? She also asked the many questions that had been on her mind.
Yes, he'd sold the gallery, but there was some hold up with settlement. He'd also sold their Gulf holiday apartment and was now retired. He no longer painted—it didn't make him happy. However, he'd taken up writing romance novels, which he posted on his website—sending a link to what he considered was one of his best. While there had been improvements in online free translation—at fifty pages it would take too long to translate in sections. It would have to wait until another time. Unfortunately, she was far too busy these days.
Their emails now were like cherished friends, tinged with gentle caring. Keeping herself in check, hers remained light and carefree. However, she did include him on her selected ‘dearest friends’ email list.
He never asked her any intimate questions, or if she had a man in her life—which she didn't anyway.
Loving photography, especially of the various seasons, or festivals that abound in her town, she included him in these emails to friends living out-of-town. Always adding a line in French just for him—then ignoring any return comments from others, wanting to know what she was on about.
* * *
Time was flying. Only five months till her current work contract would finish. While she knew that the person she'd replaced was not returning, the department were not advertising the position now either. A restructure was underway. Everyone on transfers would eventually return to their original departments on completion of their current contract. However, ongoing employees had to reapply for a position—and if successful there was no guarantee they would continue in their current job, or section—these would be assigned after final interviews. She wasn't a glass half empty type, but there didn't seem much hope, or joy, for those who had to stay.
Her Goddaughter's parents, Aiden and Cathy, had recently taken a job in West Africa. Based out of London, Aiden did the fly-in, fly-out bit. Cathy—now a domestic scientist, according to her CV—was enjoying the London lifestyle, along with their two young children, Ricardo and Anastasia.
Deciding a holiday was in order after this contract finished, she booked an airfare to London—particularly as they were currently at bargain basement prices. Grabbing one for $1,550.00 AUD return, she would depart four days after her contract finished. Ideal—a European summer. Nine weeks based in London with Cathy, and some quality time with her Goddaughter, Anastasia. They'd also do a few short trips while Aiden was away working—perhaps Ireland, Scotland, Spain, or maybe back to the French Riviera. They'd finalize it over there—continental airfares were ridiculously cheap. Overall, it would be a good break.
She had a couple of other short trips planned between now and then too. A week in Vanuatu, and then four days driving the Great Ocean Road in Victoria. Definitely something bright, and rewarding to look forward to, in amongst the doom and gloom that was being spread within the office.
Considering they may travel around his area, she emailed the French artist, mentioning her intended trip. What was he doing these days? Perhaps he'd like to catch up sometime during her visit?
The response was immediate. He would love to meet again. Perhaps they could have a few days together?
Surprised, she reread his reply several times—a few days? How could they possibly see each other for a few days? He was married. Over and over, she checked it. No, it hadn't been mistranslated—she hadn't got it wrong; it clearly said—a few days.
Eventually she replied with a simple line: “What about your wife?”
A few hours later, the reply—just as simple: “We are divorcing.”
Nearly falling off her chair, she simply couldn't believe her eyes! Heavens above! Oh my God—thank you!
It was difficult to contain her excitement. Divorce wasn't good; she knew first-hand—but his divorcing meant that he would be free. They could spend a few days together if they so desired.
Her heart was pounding so hard in her chest she thought it would break a rib! What was it with this man? No one else managed to get her pulse racing and adrenalin flowing like he did—and this was just a little email!
What would they really be like together? The prospect both thrilled, and petrified her. She wondered if he felt the same way about her too? Perhaps he already had another girlfriend, and that was why he was divorcing his wife. This usually was the case with men. There weren't many men she knew that liked living on their own.
Well, there was only one way to find out. Definitely arrange a rendezvous during her upcoming holiday.