The Light On The Lake

It was meant to be the perfect relaxing break – but now she was at the chateau, Clare was just feeling terribly alone

Evocative long read

As the taxi bumped up to the front of the hotel, Clare felt her heart sink. The pictures on the website had looked incredible: the elegant grandeur of the stonework, the romantic turret with its tiny window; the enormous lake opposite glistening in the sunlight.

She’d fantasised about this place ever since she’d stumbled over it one evening in an article about France.

Set against a backdrop of vivid blue, the building had seemed the ideal place to escape from it all: from the daily stress of running her business – whose success had meant her putting in six or seven day weeks; from the constant work created by the girls – women now, she supposed – as they went about their daily lives; from the hole in her heart that Simon had left.

“Go for it, Mum. You deserve a holiday,” Alison had said when she’d shown her the website.

“Are you sure you’ll be OK?” Lizzy had remarked. Always a worrier, her youngest daughter – now in her second year at university – had placed a protective hand on Clare’s shoulder.

“Of course I will!” she’d chirped, suddenly confident and inspired. She’d been working non-stop for months, business was booming and she’d taken on a new junior. It was time for a break.

It had to be OK to stop now, surely? She couldn’t be afraid of empty days forever. Looking up at the dark building with its faltering porch light, she suddenly didn’t feel so sure.

The door opened and a rush of fresh but sharply chilled air flooded into the stale warmth of the car. She swung her reluctant legs out, feeling her travelling flats hit gravel, and achingly stood up, leaning slightly against the car to get her balance. She was so very tired – and suddenly, so very disappointed.

“Fifty euros,” the taxi driver said, his accent thick, his expression unreadable. She pushed the faded note into his hand, and grabbed the handle of her wheeled suitcase.

“Bonne soirée.” He nodded as she began to drag it, bumping, across the gravel towards the entrance.

“Bonne soirée,” she answered, wanting to add that it would be a lot more bonne if he’d helped her with her suitcase.

She felt a pang of longing for Simon, who’d always picked up bags as if they weighed nothing. Yet she mustn’t think like that. She shook her head as if to remove the thought, took a breath and walked towards the entrance.

Inside, after the sullen woman checked her in with barely a moment’s eye contact, she dragged her suitcase up the once-grand staircase and found her room – number thirty-two, its interior shabby but clean and smelling of polish. She ached to her bones with tiredness and would by that point, she thought, have been quite happy to sleep almost anywhere.

Kicking off her shoes she sipped the tea she’d made, with its taste of long-life milk, and allowed herself to sink back against a propped-up pillow.

It was eleven o’clock and she’d been travelling since lunchtime. The flight, as the website had correctly raved, had only been an hour and a half in duration, but the drive to the airport had taken more than an hour and all the palaver of checking in, killing time on countless padded chairs, drinking unwanted coffee and tea, had been both mindnumbingly dull and terribly draining.

It was the cold that woke her, the chill of the early morning air slipping between the tiny gap at the top of her window and causing her joints to stiffen. She moved her head, disorientated, the pillow under it slightly damp.

She was still wearing her travelling clothes – loose trousers, grey t-shirt and a light cardigan. Her tea, half drunk, sat on the bedside cabinet, a thin skin forming on its surface.

She moved, feeling her body protest, and considered getting under the covers. But the sheets were stiff and cold, and her mind was already racing with thoughts. Outside, through the net curtains, the sun had begun to rise, covering the thin veil of cloud with a pink and golden blush.

She hadn’t NOTICED the VIEW. She saw it NOW, the lake GLITTERING

She hadn’t noticed the view. She saw it now – the lake, across the tiny road – glittering in the early light; flowers and lush green grass; stone buildings scattered in the distance. Pushing back the greyed net, she pulled the window fully open and breathed deeply.

On the other side of the lake, the lights of a small café were glowing and, halfway across, a man was rowing, the sound of water lapping against wood just audible over the bumps and clinks of the hotel coming to life.

At breakfast, her hair still slightly damp from the shower, she sipped bitter coffee and bit into the flaky crumble of a pain au chocolat, her book open on the table unread. On the table near the window there was a man in a dishevelled suit, sitting with a woman who might have been his mother. On the small table to her right, a young couple held hands. It was hard not to eavesdrop as they planned their day.

“Well, if you want to go, you’re going to do most of the rowing,” the woman said. “I’ll never be able to lift those oars.”

“No problem,” he smiled, flexing an arm. “At your service, m’lady!”

The woman caught Clare’s eye then, suddenly. Make the most o fit, Clare wanted to say, thinking of the three swift weeks that had taken Simon from her heroic knight-in-shining-armour to a pale shadow of his former self. Instead, she smiled. “Might see you out there,” she said. “The water looks lovely.”

She hadn’t meant it, of course; had never even considered trying to manage a rowing boat on her own. But looking at the lake in the early morning sunlight as she sat, coffee half-way to her lips – she suddenly thought, whynot?

If Simon’s death had taught her anything, it was that life was desperately, tragically short. You had to just get on with it.

Her phone buzzed with an email alert – someone at work was looking for a client’s phone number. She texted back, briefly, then switched it off feeling slightly anxious. Dependent on technology, Si had used to say when she’d been building her website. Worse than the girls.

Better not to think about him, though.

An hour later, she was making her way down the wide, wallpapered staircase which looked more shabbychic than simply shabby as it had done last night. Her hair was carefully dried, and she’d pushed her new sunglasses up on her head.

The warm weather had finally convinced her to pull the new dress the girls had bought her from her suitcase, and it swung around her calves playfully.

“Not bad for fifty-seven,” she’d told her reflection, winking generously before poking her tongue out at the mirror.

It didn’t really matter, anyway. Not in any real sense. She’d had a soulmate, thirty-five years of happiness as a couple – which was more than a lot of people had. Now, she wasn’t looking for love any more. And that was OK.

But as she saw her reflection in the glass entrance doors, she stumbled slightly at her solitary figure; no best friend at her side. Taking a deep breath, she pushed them open and let the sunlight flood onto her face.

The lake was just as beautiful close up: tiny shoals of fish darting this way and that; the bottom of the lake visible, revealing tiny pebbles at its shallow edges. Further across, she could see a little island, scattered with trees, and a tiny bridge over which a car purred.

The summer breeze caressed her with its warm freshness. It was somehow cleansing after all the weeks she’d spent in the city.

At the little jetty, a man – his face leather-like in the morning sun – stood

She was ANGRY with the CANCER, with SIMON, and with HERSELF

next to a small shed, a money-bag strapped to his waist.

“Dix euros,” he said to her, seeing her eye the pedalo.

“Non, monsieur,” she replied, pointing at the rowing boat. “Je préfère la…” Her French evaded her and she mimed a rowing action. He raised his eyebrows. He doesn’ t think I’ m strong enough. Perhaps he was right, but – still – she’d like to think she could make it a little way across the cool water, its surface choppy in the warming breeze.

As she climbed into the boat – avoiding the puddle of rainwater that gathered under the wooden seat – it rocked. She reached out instinctively for support, but the man was already talking to his next potential customer. Instead, she twisted her body, offsetting the dipping motion of the boat, and sat down, her heart leaping as the seat bobbed violently.

When at last both had stilled, she reached for the oars and pushed them forward, pulled them up, and watched the ends glide through the water. She moved slowly at first, but gathered speed as she found her rhythm.

Her shoulders ached and her back was almost instantly stiff, but she could feel the boat hire man’s eyes on her again and was even more determined that she would at least row for half an hour – even if it meant spending the rest of the day in bed!

It was still early, but life was beginning to flood into the little inlet near her hotel. A few cars meandered along the road, stopping to let others through on the narrow stretch in front of the hotel garden. In the distance, she could see another boat – two men, sitting with fishing lines, almost silhouetted under overhanging trees.

Just down from the jetty, the local commune had laid sand to create an artificial beach, and a couple of children kicked a ball together at the water’s edge. Their mother sat on a rock, book in hand, watching them. A dog ran along the grass leading to the road, its lead dragging in the grass.

Safely out in open water now, she allowed herself to pause, feeling her arms pulsing from the effort of dragging herself across the water.

What was she trying to prove? First with the business – often away for weekends, always chasing the next elusive contract; now here, on a break that was meant to be relaxing. Proving she could do it all; alone. But to whom?

Simon had been part of her life since sixth form at school – a friend, first. Then more. Eventually – during her university years – her lover; then fiancé – the terrible ring he’d given her replaced ten years on with a real diamond.

Like many, having children had bound them together and torn them apart in equal measure; the pressure of nights bleeding into exhausted days in which they’d snap at each other over coffee, but fall gratefully into each other’s arms at night.

They’d been working towards a different life – another chapter in their relationship. Retirement – not the sort where you disappear from life and shuffle to the bus-stop in a raincoat, but the sort you see in adverts, with couples laughing over cocktails, taking holidays, bike-riding – always smiling. Stolen. She pushed the oars into the water once more, sending up a splash with her forcefulness. She was angry with the cancer; angry with Simon for leaving

her. Angry with herself for not making the most of their final years together – always looking for something more.

Angry with herself for being afraid to grieve for the man who’d been a part of her life since her childhood.

Her angry energy had carried her further than she intended, and she found herself at length bobbing almost halfway across the lake, almost drooping with exhaustion. The sun became more forceful on her back, reminding her that she hadn’t applied sunscreen.

The man with his little shed was barely distinguishable – a blob of brown atop his blue clothes: an impressionist painting; featureless.

She felt suddenly afraid. How would she attract attention if she couldn’t get back? She was embarrassed at the thought of having to be rescued.

Angrily, she set down one of her oars, wiping her eye with the back of her hand. She thought about just letting herself float until she was spotted, lying back in the boat and letting it drift. But she wanted to get back; knew that her skin would begin to blister.

Then, a light caught her eye. Her reflection, bobbing on the water. The white of her skin, the shock of red hair against her face; the pretty dress, its colours flickering as the water moved.

And something else. Behind her, sitting in the boat, was the outline of a man, his arms reaching forward, meeting around her waist. Their eyes met and he smiled, briefly. “Simon?” She turned, feeling more excited than afraid, but the boat was empty and, when she looked back into the water, only her own shimmering silhouette rippled on its shiny surface.

She closed her eyes, tried to recreate the moment – she mustn’t question it; he’d been there; smiling, supporting her.

“Come on, Clare,” she heard herself whisper. “You can do it.” Simon’s words; her voice. A sudden energy gripped her body and she realigned the oars, striking the water and sending the boat slipping through its gloss with comparative ease. Again, and again, and again. Just as she had forced herself out of bed each morning and pasted a smile on her face until it had felt natural. Just as she had driven energy into her business. The same determination.

Twenty minutes later, she arrived, feeling a swell of heat rush through her body as she finally allowed the man to pull her boat to its mooring.

“Ça va?” he asked, noticing, no doubt, her sheen of sweat; her reddening shoulders. Are you al lright?

“Oui, merci,” she replied with a defiant smile, stepping gratefully onto the wood of the jetty.

“Bon journee,” he called after her, still tying the boat as she strode away; her legs feeling a little wobbly as they adjusted to the solid ground. “Merci, vous aussi!” she called back. Good day to you too!

Things weren’t perfect; she would always miss Simon. But she knew she could carry on; that, in some way, he would always be there.

That being just one person again wasn’t ideal, but that all she needed to do was to keep rowing until she made it back to solid ground.