I'd be very grateful for any feedback on this short story. Thank you!
The day that Yann finally calls me, there are no polite platitudes. All he says is, 'I have the papers, Annie, perhaps we could talk.'
'Yes,' I reply, my heart sinking, 'I think we should.'
He suggests a country pub a short drive from York, arranges a time and hangs up. It's the most civilised conversation we've had in ages.
I shove the cat out of the way and collapse into a chair. I see a black and white drawing on the wall opposite, a piece Yann sketched of me shortly after we met. I'm lying naked in a pile of crumpled sheets, my hair splayed out behind me, my face freighted with emotion. Staggering how a few lines in the right places can express so much feeling. Yann's a genius, but it still blows me away. Maybe such a creation is a consequence of love, or was it just lust back then?
'The traffic is shocking,' he moans, when we meet that afternoon outside York train Station, 'Dunno what's going on.'
It is a somnolent summer's day, the kind rarely seen in England now, and it's making me nostalgic somehow, for my childhood of the 70s, when life felt free and summers were always hot.
'It could be that fair. The one everyone's been on about.'
'Hmm,' says Yann, glancing at his watch. 'I guess it must be somewhere on the way.'
He drums his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel while I bite my lip and gaze out of the window, wondering where our 'appointment' figures on his to do list. The roof is down and Ella Fitzgerald is blaring out. The traffic is barely moving now, and chirpy teenagers dressed up as clowns thrust gaudy flyers through our windows.
'Yann, this fair looks fabulous, let's go!'
'Sorry, Annie. I've a ton of stuff to do later.'
'One last day. Please.'
In the past I'm sure he would have said no, but now, perhaps recognising the need for an amicable ending, he relents, albeit reluctantly.
'Okay, perhaps a relaxed setting like that would be better.'
I'm not really sure why the fair appeals so much, maybe it's a desperate wish to cling onto the remnants of my marriage or else a desire to return to the past when such fairs were commonplace. Whatever it is, we leave the city and follow the stream of cars down the winding country lanes until finally we reach the entrance to the fair, where we are directed into a parking space at the end of an enormous field.
'I'm afraid we don't take credit cards, sir,' says the slim, russet haired girl on the gate.
'No cash.' he says, shrugging his shoulders. 'Sorry.'
I fish around in my bag for a ten pound note and once inside, we grab some hot dogs and plonk ourselves down amidst a bevy of giggling children to watch Punch and Judy. Judy whacks Punch over the head with a rolling pin and everybody laughs, everyone that is except Yann, who lies back on the grass and kicks off his flip flops. He has on old, baggy jeans with frayed hems and a faded, half unbuttoned purple shirt. I know he has never given much thought to what he wears but I still find him so damn attractive, even after all this time.
'Could do with a beer,' he says, closing his eyes and resting his head in his hands.
There is a tent nearby with people clambering over each other to get served, so I wander across and buy two drinks; lager for Yann and cider for me. I only drink cider on holiday, and today feels like a holiday, of sorts. I do a quick recce of the place. There's a coconut shy, tombola and swing boats; all those things I used to love, and behind the main field, there's another one, where various shows and performances are taking place. The haunting melody of the merry-go-round draws my attention and I watch for a while. It seems to represent the cyclical nature of my life, which is now for the most part routine. A boy, aged about 6 has his arms wrapped lovingly around the rippled, golden pole of a multi-coloured horse; a garish mishmash of turquoise, orange and mustard yellow. Whenever his horse completes a full circle, the little boy lifts one hand and waves.
'Mum,' he yells.
His mum waves back every time, never seeming to grow tired of it.
The lad reminds me of my Rob, the Rob of years back, of course. Why did he have to grow up?
When I get back, Yann has removed some papers from an official looking envelope and is busy leafing through them.
'They just need your signature,' he says in a perfunctory voice, 'here at the bottom.'
I take the papers and hand him the paper cup, filled to the brim with beer.
'Sure, but can't it wait, just a little while longer?'
'I guess so,' he says laconically.
Tentatively, I sit down beside him and sip my drink, allowing its profound sweetness to be in some way absorbed by my consciousness. The warmth of the day, combined with the alcohol muffles my senses and I start to feel relaxed.
'What's next?'
Yann pulls the programme from the back pocket of his jeans and squints his eyes - his sight has deteriorated over the years.
'Wing walking,' he says, in a dismissive tone.
'What's that?'
'Oh, some insane thing, where a nutter walks on the wing of a plane,' he says dismissively. 'I saw it on telly once.'
'Can we watch?' I say, not knowing why I want to.
'Sure,' he says, puffing on a cigarette. 'Then let's get out of here.'
So we meander down to the crowd of people congregating at the end of the field, and wait. We don't speak much. Yann seems distant and distracted, eager I suppose to get things sorted and move on with his life.
After several minutes, the show begins, and even from where we are standing, I can see that the stuntman is tall, with perfect posture that serves only to accentuate his height. He is smiling, a calm, confident smile of determination, which belies the fear I'm sure he must be feeling. He's fit too, with ripped, sinewy muscles and toned limbs. It's hard to gauge his age, but I can tell he's young, no older than 30, that perfect age where death seems distant and life so full of promise. I glance over at Yann. The thick, dark curls I'd always loved are now flecked with white, while laughter lines are etched into a deeply tanned face, which over the years has somehow lost its capricious youthfulness. His eyes display a look of disinterested despondency, as though life has let him down in some way. How and when did that happen?
The man is in the air now, his head appearing like a jack in the box through the door of the plane. He waves and grins at the crowd, before slowly and with absolute precision, raising himself up to stand on one wing. We're all in raptures; shouting and cheering, but although it's a perfect summer's day, the wind's picking up; the man, however, seems unconcerned.
'Stupid fool,' Yann mumbles, shading his eyes from the sun.
As we stand there transfixed, a helicopter flies overhead. It's hovering just low enough for the man to reach out and catch its legs. As he stretches his arms upwards, I reach for my i-phone to take a photo, but when I look back, the man is falling.
Even after we've heard the thud followed by the screams, do we still stand there watching, what is by then an empty cerulean sky through which a solitary bird is gliding. We don't speak either, apart from one word, 'fuck,' which Yann mutters almost imperceptibly under his breath, then he grabs my hand and clutches it tightly, digging his clipped nails into my palm. I feel their sharpness but don't pull away. Everything is eerily quiet now, apart from the merry-go-round, its poignant melody making a mockery of what we've just seen.
Still holding my hand, Yann turns now to face me and I look into his eyes; blue, with a sliver of gold, just like mine.
'I'm sorry, Annie,' he says, his voice quavering. 'For everything.'
The words linger in the air like the heady scent of jasmine, as suddenly, all around us life begins again; a crazy cacophony of screams, tears and horrendous pandemonium.
'I think we should go, love,' he says, and puts an arm around my shoulders and walks me slowly back to the car.
