Page 38 of Love In Provence
‘You didn’t. I was awake. I just saw the lights.’
‘Sorry, sorry …’
‘Jen, stop saying sorry. It’s fine,’ I pull back from her. ‘But what are you cooking? That’s not popcorn. I mean, why are you cooking? You don’t cook!’
For a moment she doesn’t say anything. Then she takes a deep breath and looks up from the floor to me. ‘I didn’t,’ she says flatly. ‘After Trefor …’
‘Died.’ I finish the sentence for her. ‘I’m sure Rhi knows exactly how you’re feeling. She’s in the same boat. I’m glad you have each other right now.’
She takes another deep breath, part sigh, part fortifying herself. ‘He left me.’
‘Oh, Jen, he didn’t mean to go. It’s not his fault. No one can help dying.’
She sniffs again. ‘He left me, for somebody else.’
‘Before he died?’
She shakes her head. ‘He’s not dead. It’s just been easier to say that somehow. And now, what with your friend Henri dying, who I never even met but feel sad for, it feels like an awful thing to lie about. I feel so guilty. And your poor friend Rhi.’
‘He’s not dead?’ I say incredulously.
She steps away from me. ‘He left me, just before taking early retirement. For someone else. I had no idea. We were planning the next phase in our lives together. Packing up and going travelling in the camper van.’ She juts her chin towards it.
‘So …’
‘Yup, I did it anyway.’ She gives a derisory snort. ‘It just seemed easier to say he’d died and I was doing what we’d said we’d do. Instead of “He left me, and I thought I’d do it anyway.” And now I feel even worse for lying to people.’
‘Oh, Jen!’
‘I should never have left my first husband. It was a moment of madness. We were busy. We’d forgotten to make time for each other. I was flattered by the attention. I thought I was in love! I wasn’t! I loved Dan, myfirst husband. We just lost sight of that on the way. Life was so busy in Spain. So when Trefor showed me lots of interest … I was an idiot. I miss Dan. I was thinking about the popcorn. And this! This is what I used to cook all the time when we were together. It was our celebratory dish. Spanish omelette, like it should be made.’
‘I didn’t think you cooked at all.’
She looks at me. ‘I haven’t cooked at all, not for me or anyone else since Trefor left. Gave away all my cookery books, pots and pans when I downsized and moved into the van.’
I look into the pan. ‘It smells amazing.’
‘I kept the saffron, didn’t give that away.’
We breathe in its fragrance.
‘Would you like some? I’ve made a bit too much.’
I smile. ‘I would.’
She takes two plates to the table, then places another over the frying pan and flips the omelette like a pro. After browning the other side, she slides it onto the plate under the festoon lighting. The bats flit to and fro, in and out of the barn. She cuts a slice for me and then for her.
We sit, and then we taste.
‘This is amazing,’ I tell her.
‘He always said it reminded him of our honeymoon. When we first went to Spain.’
‘And what happened to your Dan, your first husband?’
She sighs. ‘He eventually remarried. Had a family. They still have the bar in Spain.’ She looks round at the camper van. ‘And here I am, trying to make a living by designing wedding invitations and social-media posts and living in a clapped-out camper van. I’d say that was just desserts!’
She makes me laugh.
