“Look, obviously I don’t know you very well, Laura, but I remember what you said when you first got into my cab—about having unrealistic expectations.”
“I’m embarrassed I said that,” I say, studiously focusing on the handle of my mug.
“Just because a guy likes the book your dad read and buys the perfume your mum wore—it doesn’t mean he’s going to fill the hole in your life that they left.”
His words are gentle, but they feel like a punch to my fragile stomach.
“I don’t think you’re qualified to dabble in pop psychology, Ted—you’re a walking example of how not to process loss. Clearly, you haven’t been looking after yourself since your wife left. Is growing a beard some kind of penance until she comes back? Because it doesn’t sound like she is coming back.”
I regret the words as soon as they are out, scratches from a cat feeling cornered. I see hurt flash in his eyes and almost leap out of my chair to beg back my cruel words. Instead, I freeze.
Ted gives me a tight smile and stands up. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s none of my business.”
As he starts walking back toward the beach, I call after him, “Wait, Ted, the address?”
He calls back without turning around, “In the notes on your phone.”
“Any chance you could drive me?”
“Don’t push your luck, Laura. I’m not a bloody saint.”
I don’t know why I asked that. I think I just wanted him to stay a moment until I could find the words to apologize properly. My mind hums with discomfort over my behavior, and hurt by Ted’s words, but I push those feelings down. I just need to focus on meeting Jasper now, on seeing if my instincts about the case were right.
I order a cab from a different taxi firm, reapply my makeup, and then pack the contents of Jasper’s bag so they look less interfered with. I still haven’t quite worked out how I’m going to explain the mangled jumper and the missing shoe.
When the cab arrives, I stand for a moment in the driveway. Watching the party in full swing down on the beach, I feel a tug of remorse—an urge to stay, to rejoin the party, and to make peace with Ted. On the grass, where the footpath meets the sand, I see Sandy—wildly waving at me to come back—but I just wave in reply. I look down at the case in my hands—my mind running over the contents again. It has to mean something. It has to.
* * *
*
It feels strange to be sitting in the backseat of a cab again—like I’ve been demoted. It’s only a ten-minute drive before we pull up to a large granite house called Maison D’Oie, north of St. Ouen’s village. These Le Maistres certainly live in fancy houses. This place is a similar size pile to Maude’s, large enough to be the setting for some kind of murder mystery with a billiard room, a scullery, and a house party full of suspects.
As I give my reflection a final check in my compact, blending a little nude eye shadow across my lids to ease my post-sangria pallor, the driver says, “Don’t worry, you look gorgeous, love.”
I give him a tight smile.
Standing on the doorstep, I feel my heart in my throat. I’m definitely feeling more sober now, but for a moment I wish just enough of my drunker self back, to muffle the overthinking. I put the suitcase down on the doorstep, press my palms together, and hear my own heartbeat, loud and fast, in the quiet of the evening. This is it. I’m finally going to meet him; the person the universe has led me to, my destiny. I ring the doorbell.
Chapter 16
Jasper opens the door, and I feel a wave of relief when I see his warm, handsome face. He is wearing a light gray cashmere jumper and dark jeans that look similar to the ones in his case. He brushes a hand through his thick, foppish brown hair and there is a look of recognition in his eyes. Then he gives me a smile that lights him up.
“You,” he says.
“Me.”
And we just stare at each other like idiots for a minute.
“Will you come in?” he says, holding the door open wide.
Now I really hope I brushed my teeth properly. As I walk ahead of him, I discreetly breathe into my palm just to check. I doubt the heroines in Richard Curtis films ever had to worry about their breath smelling.
Jasper leads me to a spacious farmhouse kitchen, all sleek pale granite work surfaces and a few tastefully retained period features—large oak beams and stone slab flooring. This is good; if I’m noticing the stone flooring, I must be sober. Jasper pulls out a leather-topped bar stool for me.
“I owe you an apology, Laura—carelessly picking up the wrong bag, and then revealing myself to be so slovenly as to not even have unpacked or noticed for twenty-four hours.” He looks across the kitchen island at me, and his cheeks crease into dimples. Wow, he really is incredibly attractive. Though a little younger than I remember from the airport. His face has a boyish quality, but he’s probably late twenties like I am.