Page 40 of The Girlfriend

D ANIEL REACHED FOR THE EDGE OF THE POOL AND MISSED.

HIS FACE went underwater for a second before he lunged again, this time making contact.

Ignoring the pain, he turned to do another lap.

His clothes still didn’t fit him properly and there was no way he was going to buy a whole load of new ones; for one thing, the idea of having to shop for them drained him of energy, and energy was one thing he was short on right now.

No, he had to put on bulk and muscle and then he could stop hitching his jeans up over his backside—and that was with the belt on.

By the time he completed his target, he was so tired he just rested his head on his arms at the side of the pool.

As ever, when he wasn’t distracting himself with exercise, his mind was full.

He was still coming to terms with how much his life had changed.

He’d woken from the coma not recognizing his surroundings, or indeed his physical self.

His last memory had been the moment before the accident, of being in the raft and hurtling downstream.

His job and his girlfriend, both of which he loved, had vanished.

Day-to-day life had slowed to a pensioner’s pace, but even if he wanted to pick it up, he physically wasn’t able to handle it.

It frustrated him that he was trapped inside his own body.

He sighed and climbed out of the pool, throwing a towel over his shoulders.

The sun was shining and June in the C?te d’Azur was glorious; he soon chucked it off again to bask in the warmth.

He sat for a moment at the teak table and looked down at Saint-Tropez in the distance, its russet roofs aglow in the sunshine.

The whole village seemed to face the sea, something that he found both charming and reassuring.

He hadn’t yet gone down there, though, and they’d already been in Gassin a week.

He wasn’t particularly sentimental, but he was finding this trip hard.

There were reminders of last summer—and Cherry.

He was in the same room where they’d slept together.

There would be even more reminders in Saint-Tropez.

Part of the problem, he knew, was that he was having trouble accepting he’d been dumped when he didn’t know how it happened.

And hadn’t even been mentally present. His last memories of Cherry were exceedingly happy ones, and it was as if a great chunk of his life was missing—which it was.

He was torn with wanting to ring her, acting like it was all a big mistake, but then he’d remind himself that she’d given up on him.

And he hadn’t thought she was like that.

Their relationship, however short, had felt solid.

It had felt like it had longevity, that they had a future.

He often wondered what he would have done if it had been the other way around, if Cherry had had the accident, and he liked to think he would have stayed with her a lot longer.

So, what had made her leave? Yes, he was in a coma, but his mum had said she’d disappeared before Christmas, early November, in fact, so he’d only been “under” for a couple of months.

He wondered how she’d come to the decision—was it easy?

Did she want to be let off the hook? And then there was the thing she didn’t know.

That he’d come out of it. But he couldn’t call her to tell her that—if she came back, he’d never know if it was because she really wanted to or was doing it out of some sort of duty.

He couldn’t call her period as his phone had gone missing somewhere in transit from the locker at the rafting center to the various hospitals and he didn’t know her number.

His stomach rumbled and he stood and went in search of some lunch.

It fascinated him how much he ate, must be nature’s way of replenishing the wasted body.

He could wolf down whole baguettes, loaded with butter and cheese.

As he headed into the kitchen, he saw his mother at the table, reading something on her laptop.

She looked worried, her brow creased. When she saw him, she plastered on a smile and pulled the screen down.

“Mum, do you need to go back to work?”

She hesitated, so when she spoke, Daniel knew she was lying. “Don’t be silly. I can work here.”

He sat down opposite her. “You’ve taken off too much time to look after me.

” She started to protest, but he laid a hand on her arm.

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it. I wouldn’t have gotten here if it hadn’t been for you, but .

. . all those months in the hospital, coming out here .

. . it’s time you put yourself first for a bit. ”

Relief swamped her and she was unable to hide it.

To her delight, her crime drama had been green-lit and they were due to start filming at the end of the year.

That meant it was suddenly all systems go: Further episodes needed reading and editing; casting needed to be done; directors interviewed; key crew hired; locations scouted for.

Not to mention, she was supposed to be chasing down the builders who were supposed to be repairing the garden window, and she just couldn’t do all this from the South of France.

It wasn’t only work that was a distraction.

The ever-present shadow of Cherry, working just down the road from their house, kept her awake and she knew she was running out of time.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Never been surer.”

She put her hands on either side of his head and kissed it. “I’ll come back for weekends.”

“You don’t need—”

“Shush. That’s the deal.”

She flew home that night. It was an emotional farewell and both blinked back the tears. “Thanks for everything,” said Daniel as they hugged tightly. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I’ll call you,” she said. “Every day, just to make sure you’re doing your exercises.”

Once he was alone, Daniel missed her more than he thought he would.

He lay in bed and, as usual, his mind turned to Cherry.

He just wanted to know why she’d decided to break it off.

And then an idea formed. He would call her office, speak to her there.

And if it was hard, too public, then he could get her mobile number again, call her when she finished work.

He felt a certain fatalistic peace once he’d decided what to do, although he wasn’t looking forward to the conversation. He was certain he would be rejected a second time—and twice from the same girl was hard for any man to stomach.

* * *

The following morning broke warm and cloudless.

He got up early and walked to the boulangerie to get a fresh baguette, then ate breakfast outside.

He’d slept okay; but now that he was up and the moment to call Cherry was creeping nearer, he felt nervous.

He turned on his phone and Googled the real estate agency, Highsmith and Brown.

Seeing the photo of the shop exterior on the website made him more nervous still.

He couldn’t call yet; it was only seven in the morning in London and she wouldn’t be at work.

To pass the time and stop himself from overly rehearsing what to say, he decided to take the put-off trip into Saint-Tropez.

It was easy enough to drive, as it was too early in the morning for the tourist crowd and the traffic was refreshingly manageable.

It was market day and he found himself wandering around the busy stalls in Place des Lices, full of early-summer vegetables, bundles of broad beans, towers of artichokes, and sweet-smelling peas in their pods.

He bought a few and some early nectarines and then, still finding physical exertion draining, sat down on a bench, a couple of streets from the market.

He rested in the sunshine, then checked his watch.

It was a quarter to ten. In fifteen minutes, Cherry would be at her office.

His heart tightened and he looked around to take his mind off the impending call.

It was then that he realized where he was.

Across the street was the designer clothes shop that Cherry had said she didn’t need to go into on their shopping expedition.

He was sitting on the very bench where he’d left her when he’d gone running off to get lunch and her gold bangle.

He sat up abruptly, the warm wood suddenly uncomfortable.

Unsure of what to do for a moment, he gazed around distractedly and then his eyes fell on the gallery.

He saw a painting in the window that was unmistakably by his favorite artist and realized that this was where she must have bought his gift.

It struck him suddenly that it was odd that the gallery was right opposite the bench, as if the painting were an impulse buy, but then, he reasoned, so what if it was?

He had an urge to move, to get away from the bench, and decided to go inside the gallery.

The bell rang behind him and he made his way over to the artist’s collection.

He stared at the paintings: the beach, the square, pine trees in the landscape.

He hadn’t seen his own painting for months and assumed it was still hanging in his now-vacant flat, its tear repaired, but still visible.

When she’d given it to him, he’d felt a rush of love for her.

It had been such an incredibly thoughtful, generous thing to do.

So, why had she changed? Because she most certainly had.

She’d left him only ten weeks after he’d fallen into a coma.

Ten weeks. But then, they’d been dating barely more than that before the accident.

The paintings glowed around him, their vibrant colors and Mediterranean light prodding away at some forgotten joy that he’d felt when he first saw them.

It gave him an unexpected strength and he thought about the call he was about to make.

He wondered how surprised she’d be, whether she had prepared herself for such an eventuality.

She probably had. There was some stock answer as to why she’d decided to leave him, how hard a decision it had been, but she’d felt like she had no choice.

He shook his head at his own stupidity. What else had he expected her to say?

That she had no interest in dating a coma victim?

Maybe she’d met someone else. Whatever had happened, she’d been gone more than seven months.

Seven months. She’d probably forgotten all about him.

He laughed, a dry realization becoming clear.

For her, the breakup was a long time ago, time enough to heal and move on.

As it would be for him. He suddenly knew he didn’t need an explanation.

No good would come out of this call, and he flinched at the idea of her hesitatingly, reluctantly, suggesting that they meet, or—he suddenly had an awful thought—she should come out to France to see him, talk things over.

He’d had enough of feeling weak, of having people feel sorry for him.

The paintings seemed to be spurring him on, their colors seeping into his veins.

They gave him far more joy than pain, and it was then he knew he’d started to let go of Cherry.

It was an uplifting moment. He left the shop with a new lightness.