Page 60 of A Perfect Devon Pub
Back in the flat and feeling refreshed, Fiona curled up on the sofa, her wine books by her side. On the coffee table was the stack of mail, and conscious there may be three months of bills waiting for her, she picked it up and rifled through the pile.
She stopped, her attention drawn to an envelope on the other side of the table. It was a handwritten letter with an Australianstamp, and it was already open. She recognized the writing at once and her eyes blurred as she tore at the letter. Why had Ru opened her post? And was this Ivy’s work? Was this what she meant by not betraying a confidence? Had Ivy told her parents about her exam failure after all? Was Fiona about to read – second hand – a ‘letter of condolence’ from her parents? She felt her blood pumping as she slipped out the paper.
Her hand trembled as she unfolded the single page, crisp and thick, the two hallmarks of the quality writing paper she expected.
Her eyes skimmed the first lines, her eyes dancing over her father’s familiar handwriting. Mid-sentence, she stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Fiona’s fingers reflexively checked the envelope. It wasn’t addressed to her. This was for Ru. Unable to stop herself, she unfolded the page again, and her father’s voice emerged, measured, intellectual, yet something else was hiding beneath the academic veneer. Her eyes picked out a random sentence in the middle of the page.
We love Fiona deeply, but our expressions of that love were often scholarly ...
Her throat tightened. A lifetime of proving her worth crystallized in those words. Her parents’ love buried beneath academia.
Swallowing, she started back at the beginning.
I write in response to your recent letter requesting my daughter Fiona’s hand in marriage. First, let me commend you on the remarkable depth of understanding you have demonstrated regarding my daughter. Your astute observation that she incorrectly perceives love as something she must earn strikes me to the core. My wife and I have, Ifear, inadvertently cultivated this perspective through our own dedication to academic achievements.
Our passion for our work – while never diminishing our love for our only child – created a home where intellectual achievement was perhaps encouraged a little too forcefully. We love Fiona deeply, but our expressions of that love were often scholarly: carefully chosen books, a rigorous debate, a moment of shared intellectual discovery.
Your recognition of this convinces me you understand Fiona and her need to prove her worth – and that you accept her and love her exactly as she is. One word of caution – she is an independent spirit, and whilst I respect your desire to protect her from the perils of forging too fast in her career, my suspicion is she will not thank you for that effort.
I am delighted by your traditional approach – formally requesting parental consent. Of course it is a formality only. Any decision made by our daughter should be hers alone to make. While we would love to come to England to celebrate your wedding, my wife and I would also be honoured to welcome you both to Melbourne. Your visit here would provide us a precious opportunity to reconnect with our daughter, to demonstrate our love.
With warmest regards
Fiona reread the letter; this time, with tears splashing freely over her face. She wasn’t sure she understood exactly what her father was saying about love, but one thing she was certain of: Ru had understood her completely, he did truly love her, despite her flaws. He wasn’t going to wake up one day thinking thatshe’d held him back. He wasn’t going to trade her in for a better model as soon as he found one. He really had been trying to protect her by going behind her back to the investors. And he wasn’t bulldozing her feelings with his suggestion to take her on honeymoon to Melbourne – that had been her parents’ idea.
How could she have been so wrong? She’d had everything she could ever have wanted at her fingertips, and now it was gone for ever. Then in her mind, she heard Ru calling her ‘pure evil’. Thank goodness her eyes were shut, and she’d not seen his expression.
There was no coming back from that. She had missed her opportunity to spend the rest of her life with a man she adored – and it was all her own fault.
By ten that evening Fiona’s eyes were drooping. She took a shower, then sat on the edge of the bed, touching the cool sheet. Ru’s head had left slight imprints on the pillow on his side of the bed. She leaned over, sniffing the faintest scent of his shampoo.
Fiona slipped under the duvet and closed her eyes, trying to recapture her earlier heavy eyelids, imagining that wonderful sense of drifting asleep, but she felt his absence like a missing shadow, an emptiness so solid it felt like an accusation. She sat bolt upright, her mind toying with the words in her father’s letter, trying to understand them, but mostly replaying her last row with Ru, then the ghastly scene in the staffroom.
Fiona thumped the pillows into shape and settled down, focusing her mind on regional grape varieties.
Sleep didn’t claim her.Thoughts kept circling her mind, like needles pricking through every attempt at sleep. Each time she shifted, she could feel him there. Her fingers kept drifting to the pillow beside her, tracing its edge in the dark. Did he really think she’d stolen that wine? She couldn’t help but remember lying in this same bed the night before her last exam.
That night, her nerves had been a knot inside her chest, pulling tight no matter how many times she tried to shake it loose.But Ru had known. She remembered the weight of his hand stroking her arm as they lay tangled in the sheets. Fiona told him – stammered really – that she didn’t think she could do it. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might have even whispered some nonsense about her tastebuds being on strike, her nose betraying her and her palate not being refined enough. The memory was so vivid. She recalled laughing weakly in the darkness, hoping her voice didn’t give away how terrified she was.
And then he had kissed her. A slow, lingering kiss, one that left no doubt that he would listen to every doubt she was trying so hard to suppress and help her chase those thoughts away, no matter how long it took. They made love that night, his hands and lips quieting her racing mind. His fingers gently tracing her shoulder, down her spine – soothing every worry, until she melted. That night, she finally drifted into sleep, cradled in his warmth, the faint smell of basil lingering on his skin. Her final thought was of him.
The next morning, when she had opened her eyes, she was alone. She slipped on his discarded shirt, rolling up the sleeves to her wrists and padded to the kitchen, drawn by the smell. The oven door clicked shut, Ru straightened and, seeing her, he had leaned against the counter with his arms crossed. She still remembered the smile spread across his face, warm and welcoming, just like the smell of baking pastry filling the air.
‘What are we having?’
‘It’s a Burgundian cheese soufflé.’
She remembered its golden centre, sitting two inches proud of the short crust case. The pastry was crumbly, buttery, and the soufflé delicate, just browned at the edges and flecked with hints of Gruyère and Comté. ‘Protein,’ he said, sliding the plate beforeher, ‘to make sure you’re sharp. And that your tastebuds stay neutral.’
Fiona had laughed, tearing into the soufflé with a spoon. That morning tasted of Burgundy. Wine was the beating heart of Burgundy and gastronomy its soul. Each bite was light as a wisp of smoke, yet rich and filling. The cheese left a taste on her tongue, salty yet perfectly balanced. As she took one bite, then another, she felt the stirring of a gentle confidence in her chest. Ru had pasted it back together, like a master chef gathering sundry ingredients to craft a stunning dish.
That memory now slipped away like mist, leaving her staring at the ceiling in the dark. Her heart was still racing from a past that refused to stay buried. She turned onto her side, willing her thoughts to quiet, to obey, but her mind was too loud, looping the same fears over and over. Sleep hovered just out of reach, taunting her with what she couldn’t have.
Let tomorrow come. She’d meet it, shaking if she had to, but standing all the same.
Twenty-seven
The location for the three day exam was a private members’ club in Mayfair. At the reception desk, Fiona was met with a dignified hush, a stark contrast to the usual ringing phones and chattering families of a hotel. The silence felt intimidating and failed to calm her nerves – the next three days held the key to her future.
