wish I could just be me.”
Thoughtfully Suzette muted the TV sound. Had this latest accident just granted her unacknowledged wish? She looked down at her injured leg. Her knee was showing signs of a big colourful bruise while her ankle was already two or three times its normal size. Suzette sighed. She’d been here so many times in the last few years.
But with the understudy now dancing in her place she didn’t have to try and rush getting fit. This Monaco show had been her only engagement of the year until Malik’s Paris show in the autumn. Malik.
Would he still want her to dance in view of this recent catastrophe? Would he take the risk with her again? He’d already agreed with her that Swan Lake in Paris would probably be her own swansong from the world of ballet. She couldn’t bear it if he cancelled her contract saying she wasn’t fit enough to dance, thus denying her a final performance and all the accolades usually given to a retiring dancer.
Suzette straightened her shoulders. There was a whole summer before then—more than enough time to recuperate from these injuries and get completely fit again. Banish the ‘face it your dancing days are finished’ demons. One more chance to show them what she could do and then—obscurity.
Carefully she stood up and reached for the walking stick that someone in the theatre had handed her as she left. Leaning heavily on it she made her way across the room and, after picking up the phone, asked for room service.
“I will need some help tomorrow morning, please,” she said. “About ten o’clock? Thank you.”
Thoughtfully replacing the receiver, Suzette began to make plans for the following day. Malik would be busy giving Donna extra coaching and then there was the dress rehearsal in the afternoon so she doubted she’d see him before dinner tomorrow evening. A fact which suited her well in view of the decision she’d just come to.
She sat down at the small desk, found a pen and took a piece of the hotel stationery.
“Darling Malik, I felt it best if I left. Hope the show is a huge success. See you in Paris. Love Suzette.”
She’d ask reception to give it to him tomorrow evening when he returned. She knew if she stayed and told him personally he would try to persuade her otherwise. It was best if she just left Monaco without telling him.
Libby
Discovering the photos of their last holiday as she searched for something in the ‘miscellaneous drawer’ of the kitchen dresser brought the memories flooding back for Libby Duncan. For years she and Dan had holidayed in France, staying at The Auberge du Canal in Brittany. Thoughtfully she laid the photos on the table one by one. That holiday three years ago had been one of their best. Dan had been so full of plans for their future.
They’d talked so often about moving to France. Dreamed about running a B & B, a gîte, enjoying the Good Life. But somehow something had always stopped them from taking the plunge. First it was Chloe’s schooling—it was never a convenient time for her to change schools. Then it was Dan’s job. A promotion meant more money but less time. Then it was Harriet, Libby’s mum, needing help after a hip replacement.
But on that last holiday Dan had insisted they started visiting the local immobiliers, looking for their dream home. “We’ve got to do it soon, Libby, otherwise we’ll be stuck in a rut for ever.”
Their dreams had been cruelly shattered just two months later when Dan died. Dead from a heart attack at forty-six. Stress, the doctor had said.
Libby and Chloe had clung together and got through the awful time. Now here she was preparing to face ‘empty nest’ syndrome as Chloe looked forward to college.
Libby knew that, unlike some widows, she was lucky being financially secure—Dan had been well insured—but with Chloe growing up and becoming independent she was beginning to feel it was time to get her own life back on a course she was happy with. Maybe it was time to sell the house? A new start in a new place. The only problem being she didn’t have a clue as to which direction she wanted the rest of her life to go.
She picked up a photo of the auberge showing Dan sitting under the jasmine-covered loggia, raising a cool glass of rosé, a happy smile on his face. Libby could almost smell the sweet night air, hear the last of the daytime bees buzzing in the honeysuckle and see the swallows swooping around as Dan savoured the tranquility of the summer evening.
Outside the reality of January rain hammered at the windows. Snow had been forecast for the end of the week. Summer seemed a long way off. Deep in thought Libby put the photo down on the table. Maybe she’d book a holiday for later in the year. It would be something to look forward to. A week at the Auberge du Canal with Brigitte and Bruno would be a wonderful antidote to winter—and maybe get her in the right frame of mind to kick-start her life in a new direction.
She and Dan had become friendly with Brigitte and Bruno the very first time they’d stayed with them at the auberge. It was a friendship that had flourished over the generation gap from the moment they’d met, and with two or three visits a year, Brigitte and Bruno were more like elderly family relatives now. They’d even crossed the channel and stayed with Libby and Dan here in Bath.
Brigitte had written her a lovely letter when she’d heard about Dan. Telling her any time she felt the need to get away she knew she was more than welcome to stay with them. It was an offer Libby had so far failed to take up. Maybe now was the time?
There was a group photo of the four of them taken on a day out exploring the gardens of a restored chateau. Libby felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t spoken to Brigitte since Christmas. Tonight she’d put that right and ring. Wish her happy new year. It wasn’t too late to do that the second week in January. French people wished each other bonne année all through the month.
At the same time she’d ask Brigitte about going to stay with them later in the year. Book the gîte next to the auberge for a fortnight’s holiday for her and Chloe. When should they go? Oh, June. June was always a lovely month in Brittany. It would be something to finally look forward to.
Libby crossed to the phone. Why wait until this evening? Having made the decision she wanted to get it organised. She’d phone now.
The phone rang and rang. Libby pictured the noise ringing around the large old-fashioned auberge kitchen where Brigitte spent most of her day preparing delicious meals. In the off season even though there were few guests staying the locals continued to use the restaurant, especially at weekends.
Libby was about to hang up thinking Brigitte was too busy to answer when a quiet voice in her ear said. “Bonjour. Qui?”
“Brigitte. It’s Libby here. A bit late I know, but bonne année. Comment allez vous?”
A slight pause. “Ça va, merci, Libby. Bonne année a vous aussi.”
Libby, sensing something wasn’t right said, “Brigitte, what is wrong?”
“Bruno. He has broken the arm.”
“The arm? Oh you mean his arm! Oh poor Bruno. Which one? Not his right one?”
“No, the wrong one.”
Libby struggled not to laugh at Brigitte’s misunderstanding. “His
