Page 50 of The Night Before Christmas
Aw, love them so much. How’s Sophie getting on?
She’s no Felicity. A bit chaotic. But she’s getting on okay. How are you doing?
Just taking some time away, be back soon xx
Two kisses this time. Not that cool then.
Andrea said you were. I think that’s great. You so deserve it. Where are you staying? xx
Felicity (after a pause to consider):
It’s a secret! By which I mean, I’m having an adventure! I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back xx
How mysterious. Okay, I’m counting on it. I need to explain a few things. Sleep tight x
She smiled at the sign-off, but still couldn’t help worrying that something had changed between them. Having started the conversation, she somehow wished she hadn’t as now she just wanted to see his kind face and be in the room with him and tell him what this ‘adventure’ of hers was really all about. No amount of messaging could really cover it. If her tear-swollen eyes didn’t look like two tiny pinholes poked in a marshmallow, she’d be resorting to FaceTime right about now.
Her phone buzzed again.
Adam: Hey. I went to your work, but they said you’d gone away. Hope all okay. Please call me when you can, A xx
Ugh, thought Felicity.Bloody cheating bastard.
And then she felt guilty. Again. Before he was a bloody cheating bastard, Adam had been the person who got her through some of her darkest days.
She pulled the plug on the bath without using it and climbed straight into bed, her mind awash with so many conflicting emotions. Despite the exhaustion she could feel in her bones, despite the sea air and the long walks, despite the squishy, squashy pillows, and the cosy downy duvet, sleep was a long time coming that night.
Saturday arrived before she was quite ready.
Still, she told herself over the enormous indulgent breakfast, she had come all this way. Might as well see this thing through.
Le Manoir was, as the name suggests, an imposing Georgian manor at the end of a long, curving driveway. It was situated in the St Peter’s (proper Guernsey name, Saint Pierre du Bois) parish on the west coast of the island, just a few hundred metres back from the coast road.
Even from her viewpoint through the property’s high iron gates, Felicity could see it had fallen into disrepair. The striking white walls were no longer pristine. There were broken panes of glass in the lower windows and crumbling plaster just below the roof, which was missing some tiles. In the expansive garden there were huge ancient trees that looked to be surviving, except for one solitary oak just to the right of the building that had clearly been hit by lightning and was cracked and shattered right through its middle.
‘Hello, my dear,’ said a friendly voice with a French lilt.
Felicity started and turned to find an elderly lady in a roll-neck jumper and walking boots standing beside her.
‘Good morning,’ she said, trying to look as if she hadn’t just been contemplating the crime of trespass.
‘Such a shame, no?’ said the stranger, nodding her head towards the house. ‘It so desperately needs someone to love it.’ (She pronounced it ‘eeet’, of course, very elegantly.)
Felicity nodded, her heart thumping.
‘Do you know who owns it?’ she said, cautiously.
The lady made a Gallic gesture of dismissal.
‘It is still owned by the bank, I think,’ she said, with a dramatic shrug of the shoulders. ‘The family left, oh, perhaps twenty years ago. Maybe more.’
Felicity flushed. ‘Do you know why?’ she said, feeling her voice catch in her throat. She held her breath.
‘Non, I am sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I only came to the island a few years ago. But my husband might, he was born here. Would you like me to ask him?’
‘Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you, but thank you,’ replied Felicity.
The woman regarded her for a moment.
