every album cover, all square in shape, smooth and cool to the touch. Deciding what she wanted to keep depended on how much she wanted the music to remain in her life and also how much the artwork impressed her. Anything that caused her emotional pain was sold on Ebay. Vinyl was in, it hadn’t been completely replaced by the disc world, and there were collectors willing to pay big money for some items, as much as fifty euro a piece. She may as well pocket the proceeds.
In Colette’s little bathroom, hanging on two antique brass hooks on the back of the door, were two matching navy blue bathrobes with thick fleur-de-lis emblems embroidered on the pockets. She and Paul had nicked them from a fancy hotel they’d stayed in one weekend in Marseille. She kept her own and tossed his in the big rubbish skip at the back of the supermarket. Doing this made her feel considerably better. There were a few items of his clothing in the drawers and the wardrobe and she stuffed these into plastic bags and left them out for the weekly rubbish collection.
Reclining in the living room one evening, she sipped red wine from a silver goblet, heavily engraved with a floral art nouveau pattern. The goblet felt cold in her hand and over the rim she eyed off two cushions at the far end of the lounge chair. The covers had been hand-picked by Paul at a charming seaside market one lost weekend. They were black and white. The background was black with an overlaying print of elaborate Celtic gothic crosses in brilliant white. She ran her hands over the cloth, a thick cotton blend, not rough, surprisingly smooth. She remembered how he had laughed when he found them, insisting that he wanted to buy them for her and that he wanted her to keep them always. No, they had to go.
For this task, Colette fetched the large dressmaking scissors that had once belonged to her great-aunt, carefully removing the covers from the cushions and cutting them up into small squares. She enjoyed the soft squeak of the blades as they passed over each other with every cut. She arranged the small squares of material on a flat woven bread basket Paul had bought for her on one of his trips away. She opened the door of the wood burner, stoked the fire well and made sure it was burning brightly, then ceremoniously placed the offering on the logs inside. Through the thick glass door she watched the flames flicker and jump about. It felt very satisfactory. She picked up her goblet of wine and moved outside to the balcony. She stood at the railing, looking over the twinkling lights of the town. She lit a cigarette and inhaled slowly, savouring the moment. This was something Paul had tried to get her to give up, and she had cut down, but to be honest, she still enjoyed the experience and spent the next five minutes relishing her cigarette and sipping her wine.
Back inside again, two lamps gave a soft glow to Colette’s living room and the fire radiated warmth throughout the room with a thick bed of embers glowing deep-orange flecked with black. The phone rang and she answered in a mellow voice. It was Gerard. He said he would call. She was pleased. She had asked him not to phone her for one week and he had kept his word. She told him she had some important business to attend to, which was true, and as she watched the embers dying down she felt a huge sense of release. Gerard had kept her number, scrawled on the back of a business card from Cafe Fleur, on his mantelpiece for exactly one week before making the call. The cafe belonged to his sister and he worked there four days a week. That’s where he had met Colette. Every night since she had given him her number, he had picked up the card and caressed it with his long, thin fingers, which itched to call her on his phone. But he had resisted, because she had insisted.
It had taken Gerard three weeks of persistence before Colette would agree to give him her number.
‘Please, please!’ he insisted. ‘I will die for sure if you do not give it to me! You must. Have mercy on me, mon cheri!’
He had the kindest, pale brown eyes she had ever seen, an infectious laugh and a mop of dark brown hair that fell forward across his forehead. He had a habit if slowly swiping it back off his face as he leaned across the counter to talk to her. He made her laugh. It was the third week when she realised what an impact he had made on her. She suddenly wanted to reach across the counter, run her fingers through his hair, take his lovely face in her hands and kiss him. The impulse, although unacted upon, had left her shaken and a little giddy. Hope loomed brightly before her and she found herself desiring him, like a long-forbidden chocolate waiting to be removed from its shiny foil wrapper.
Apart from the records still listed for sale on Ebay, Colette had rid herself of the last traces of her previous lover. Nine months had passed since he had left. Nine months. Long enough to gestate and give birth to a child. Thank god she had not fallen pregnant to him. She could have been left to raise a child on her own, a single parent. Yes, she was thankful that had not happened.
But there were things she was grateful for. She was far more knowledgeable about the music industry and its history. She did feel healthier for the reduction in smoking. She now enjoyed marinated artichokes. She could cook a two-egg omelette to perfection. And as Colette smoothed down her smoky-grey sweater over her hips, she was smugly aware of how much slimmer they were now. The dark cherry red belt fitted snugly around her waist, taken in by three whole notches. Her feet were warm in her dark sea-green suede ankle boots. Her hair glowed, a rich, deep burgundy.
Unconsciously now, she played with her amethyst pendant suspended from her neck by a thick silver chain. And she knew her eyes were sparkling as she chatted to Gerard, high-lighted with a touch of eye-liner and some mascara, charcoal grey this time, not black. As she spoke she moved to the corner of the room and picked up her silver goblet from a small side table. The table was overlaid with a black velvet cloth and over the top of this was a large antique cream lace doily. Colour had returned to her life, the contents of the cardboard box unpacked and reinstated to their rightful place.
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