Just Haven't Met You Yet(42)
Ted pauses and his face changes. The laughter lines around his eyes fade.
“My wife, Belinda, she loved traveling,” he says softly, and I’m worried I’ve unsettled the clear water of our conversation by reminding him of his wife.
“Not you?” I ask.
“I used to,” he says, eyes straight ahead. “When we met, we were fueled by wanderlust. We both worked in conservation, took jobs in far-off places and lived out of backpacks. We were boundless.” Ted sniffs. “I was the one who changed, I guess, decided that I was going to retrain as a doctor. I had to root myself in order to study, and then I found I’d outgrown the wanderlust.”
“But she hadn’t?” I ask gently.
“She said she was happy to stay still for a while, but I always sensed this restlessness in her. I think she associated standing still with having a conventional life. In the note she left, she said she didn’t want a life full of gas bills or school-gate mums, washing the car, picking up milk, trips to the hairdresser.”
“But you wanted all that?” I ask.
“Trips to the hairdresser?” Ted says with a rueful smile and pats his beard in a way that makes me smile. “Well, yes, maybe the rest of it.” He shrugs. “Though mainly I just wanted her.”
Looking at Ted, I imagine this is what heartbreak looks like, and I wonder for a moment if true love really is worth the risk. My mother said she never fell in love again after Dad died. If she’d had the choice, I wonder if she would she have swapped those four intense years with Dad for a lifetime with someone else, even if the intensity had to be diluted.
As I watch the emotion on Ted’s face, it makes me feel strangely powerless. If you believe in fate leading you to love, do you also have to believe it is fate that leads love away? Are we all just floating in the sea, completely dependent on the tide and the universe to steer us to a happy harbor, or do we have oars? Do we have a chance to steer ourselves to shore?
“Thank you, Ted, for the doughnuts, that was thoughtful of you,” I say, moving the conversation away from heartbreak and back to food.
“You’re welcome. I’ve got to give you a proper taste of the island,” and as he says it, the smile returns to his eyes.
* * *
*
When we arrive back at St. Ouen’s at around five, Sandy is folding napkins and stacking them onto paper plates on the table in Gerry’s garden. She introduces me to her husband, Ilídio, who is scraping down a greasy-looking barbecue to take down to the beach. He is short, with dark stubble, tousled black hair, and bright white teeth I assume must be veneers. I ask if I can help them get ready for the party, but they insist they have everything under control, so I take the opportunity to have a shower and wash my hair. I now have yesterday’s clothes back from the hotel, but Sandy has kindly left me an emerald-green wrap dress to borrow. It’s too big for me, but it’s clean, and if I wrap the cord around my waist twice, it just about works.
I look at my laptop and feel guilty at how little work I have achieved today. I need an angle for the mini-break piece, reasons to visit Jersey outside the summer season. Suki wants something original, and I thought being here would inspire me. Then I think of Ted’s Jersey wonders, the story of only making them when the tide is right, the community fete with all the homemade produce, all the potato fields and the cows. Food does feel like a big part of the island’s identity. Could I tell the island’s story through food—“A Taste of Jersey,” perhaps?
As an idea begins to form, my phone buzzes.
Vanya: Did you escape the sex dungeon? Been thinking about what you said, about whether you can be a feminist and a romantic. Love this quote from the singer Eartha Kitt: “I fall in love with myself, and I want someone to share it with me. I want someone to share me with me.” That’s how I feel. V
I love that Vanya has kept thinking about our conversation. How many nights have we stayed up late with a glass of wine, talking about Schitt’s Creek one minute and Dostoyevsky the next? I will never find a flatmate who can replace her.
Outside, I hear voices and poke my head through the doorway to see a group of people gathering on the beach beyond the fields. Ted is fixing balloons to a wall that follows a narrow footpath down to the sea, and I walk down to join him.
“How’s your puff?” Ted asks, handing me two uninflated balloons.
“Excellent,” I say, reaching for one.
Ted looks at me, pausing his gaze on my smile.
“You look pleased with yourself?”
“Your Jersey wonders, they gave me an idea for my article.”
“?‘Around the World in Eighty Doughnuts’?” he suggests.
“Something like that.”
“Has your suitcase man called yet?”
“Not yet, but he will,” I say, pushing my tongue into my cheek, and Ted gives me an unreadable smile.
“Ted, Laura, get on down here, will you!” Sandy’s voice travels up from the beach. “Ilídio’s going to burn the sausages to a crisp if someone doesn’t stop him.”
“We’ve been caught slacking,” Ted says, securing the balloons to the wall with a rock.
The whole village of L’étacq has turned out for Gerry’s leaving do. It’s a perfect warm evening for a beach party, and people have brought their own camping chairs to sit on around the campfire. There are about thirty of us in all, a collection of Gerry’s friends from all over the island. Half a dozen of Ilídio’s extended family are here. He tells me his parents moved over from Madeira when he was a baby. His mother fell in love with Jersey, so she persuaded all her sisters to move here too.