Paradise Found

“Alistair and I met over six months ago. We lost touch and found each other again on the island,” I add, not sure if Bernard knows that Alistair frequents The Paradise Club or not.

“He’s spoken of you before,” Bernard states honestly.

Oh, well, that surprises me.

“It was a misunderstanding between us, and that’s why we lost touch,” I say, attempting to explain myself.

“Not my place, Miss,” he adds. But those eyes tell me he knows I broke Alistair’s heart when I left.

“It was purely by accident we ran into each other. I had no idea he was on the island.”Why do I feel the need to explain myself to this man?

Bernard nods and continues driving. I can see I need to convince him a little more that I’m not after Alistair because he’s rich. I’m sure he’s probably dealt with a heap of gold diggers during his time working for Alistair.

“I grew up here,” I say, pointing to the familiar terraces of Chelsea.

“London, Miss,” Bernard asks.

“No, Chelsea,” I answer. “My family home isn’t far from here,” I add. Hating the fact that driving through these once-familiar streets brings back so many memories.

Bernard schools his reaction before speaking again, “Would you like me to drive past your family home, Miss? I’m happy to make a detour if you wish.”

Do I?I try not to come down here in case I run into them.

“I’m not sure, Bernard. It wasn’t a good place for me,” I confess to him.

“Sometimes, seeing those memories are only bricks and mortar can be liberating. But I don’t want to push you, Miss,” he adds.

“You can call me Eloise,” I say.

Bernard gives me a nod and a smile, but I know he won’t do such a thing. He’s definitely old school.

Maybe I should drive past.Bernard’s right. In the cold light of day, what happened behind those walls can’t get me if I don’t give the memories life. If I see my family home for what it is, simply random bricks and mortar, then perhaps I can move past the old memories I have locked away in my mind, and maybe I might have room to create new ones. So, I give Bernard the address, and he changes direction and heads toward my family home. I can feel my heart beating wildly in my chest, my stomach is churning in knots, and I don’t know if I’m going to be sick or run for the hills.

Bernard pulls up out the front of the red and white brick terrace home. The front garden has changed, and the trees in the front courtyard have grown so much bigger than I remember. The black front door with the gold street number on its front still catches the eye. The private garden across from my home, where only residents can walk amongst its gorgeous floral displays, is still there. The light in the front room, which overlooks the street, is switched on, and I just know my father is sitting at his desk going through paperwork.

“Are you okay, Eloise?” Bernard asks, using my first name.

I must look bad if he’s broken with protocol. That’s when I realize the tears are streaming down my face.

“We can go now,” I tell him.

He gives me a nod and pulls back out into traffic as my family home disappears behind me.

A little while later, Bernard arrives at Alistair’s home. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting. I thought he might have bought a modern apartment on the Chelsea embankment overlooking the Thames. Instead, he’s pulled up out the front of a historic mews house. This gorgeous little cottage is in the middle of the city.

I remember walking past these cottages growing up and falling in love with the image of them, with their quaint little cobblestone laneways and picture-perfect window boxes with colorful flowers growing in them. I always imagined that the people who lived in these homes had perfect lives.

“Not what you were expecting, Miss?” Bernard asks as he studies my reaction in the review mirror.

“Actually, no. But it is perfect. Somehow it feels more Alistair than some slick modern apartment would,” I tell him.

Bernard gives me a bright smile through the rearview mirror. “I’ll go grab your bags.” And with that, he jumps out of the car, opens the side door for me, then continues to the back, where he opens the trunk and grabs my bags. I step out onto the sidewalk and suck in that London air. It feels like home.

“Thank you,” I say as I wait for him to open the front door. He gives me a smile before pushing the door open and carrying my bags through into the hallway.

The house is gorgeous. It’s masculine yet homey. Creamy white walls with toffee-colored furniture. Gorgeous polished wooden floors with Persian rugs scattered around. The kitchen is small but appears state of the art. There’s a glass staircase that takes you to the next floor, where beautiful exposed whitewashed walls follow you up to the next level.

“On this level are his office and spare bedrooms. Mr. King’s room is on the top floor. I will take your bags to his room,” Bernard explains.