A Girl with Moonlight In Her Eyes

When Simone and I were before the Registrar our joy spilled out in happy tears, both when we exchanged rings and when we were pronounced married. As we kissed, I thought that going to my knee that day and offering Simone the white rose had to be the best thing I had ever done.

We held our reception at The Malmsey Arms and were greeted by Daniel, no longer a receptionist but assistant manager. "Please accept the champagne as our wedding gift to you," he smiled, "I have been waiting all these years for this, ever since you dined together when Ma'amselle had hurt her leg. I guessed then that you would eventually be together."

"You've got a good memory," I told him, "And you must be psychic. We'd only met a day or two before."

He tapped the side of his nose. "Hotelier's instinct," he replied, "It pays us to be ahead of the game."

Simone had asked me where I would like to honeymoon. "How about the gite?" I suggested, "We've not been there for a long time."

"Well, it's not the same at this time of the year," she said, "That part of the coast can be quite bleak and rough in winter. Are you sure you wouldn't like to go somewhere warmer?"

"The gite is where we first declared our love," I said, "so it's very special. As for the cold weather, there's that great log fire which will be very cosy in the evenings---with the lights turned low it'll be doubly romantic. And I'm sure we can find some way to keep each other warm"

Simone nodded. "Bon. The gite it is then."

So we honeymooned in France in a small lodge on a promontory overlooking the crashing waves of a wild and fearsome Atlantic, with ferocious winter winds sweeping in from the sea to howl about us and harsh incessant cries of seabirds as they rode the gales in their constant search for food. And I was right---the crackling of burning logs together with the dimmed lighting fed romance and we found lots of wonderful ways to keep one another warm.

Père Gérard was probably near eighty now but he still looked solid and tough, as if he had been carved from a piece of hardwood. Each time we visited St Grace we made a habit of calling in to see the priest. I loved his tiny Norman church with its mediaeval frescoes which were a source of great pride in the village. When this time we told him that we'd come for his blessing at last he laughed with simple joy. Over a glass each of Calvados, which he had practically forced on us, a fine winter warmer in itself, we arranged for the service to take place in the church. Our great surprise came as he escorted us from the church after the simple ceremony. A crowd of locals had gathered outside to cheer and clap as we emerged from the heavy old wooden doorway.

"You see, mes filles," the elderly priest told us, "not all of my flock are bigoted and vicious-tongued old women..." He laughed. "Oh yes, I heard all about that little episode. My sermon that week was on the subject of bigotry and intolerance and caused a few embarrassed faces."

I took the old man's hands in mine and said in my best possible French, "Merci, Père Gérard, aujourd'hui a été parfait..."

2017 -- London: Sofia and Simone

...Sofia reached out and put a soft hand on my forearm. "Tell me, Eleanor, have you forgiven me?"

I laughed and after a moment she did too. "Of course I've forgiven you," I told her, "twenty-five years would be a hell of a long time to carry a grudge. Oh, I know some people would but I'm not among them. I have to admit that I was hurt for a while but when I looked at things from your viewpoint I started to understand the choices you had to make. I hope it worked out okay for you."

"It worked out very well," Sofia replied, "Augustín's a good man and we adore each other. He's turned a bit pompous and stuffy as he's got older---I guess mixing with too many politicians in his career proved contagious. I can live with that. And we have three lovely daughters who are the pride of our lives." She lowered her voice slightly as she laid a hand on my arm again. "We've called one of them Elenor for you---the Spanish spelling is slightly different but that's all. I told Augustín it was for an old and dear school friend which isn't all that far from the truth."

"Thank you," I said, "I'm flattered."

Sofia waved my thanks aside and touched my wedding ring. "You're married too?"

I glanced around for Simone but couldn't see her in the crowd. "Yes, several years now. My wife's here somewhere talking to a potential client."

"You're happy?"

"Very much so," I agreed.

"I'm pleased for you," she said.

A deep voice boomed out across the lounge-bar. "Sofia, ven a conocer al Señor Abbot, por favor."

"Oh Dios," groaned Sofia softly, " I'm sorry, Eleanor, you'll have to excuse me. I have to go and meet another of Augustín's boring business acquaintances. A burden of being a high official's wife. It was good to see you, Eleanor. It's unlikely we'll meet again so I'll say goodbye." She held out a hand--- very formal---and I took it. There was the lightest of squeezes, which I could almost have imagined, and she was gone, making her way back to Señor Self-satisfied.

Strange, I felt the tiniest---the very tiniest---twinge of nostalgia, probably because Sofia had been my first love and I suppose one's first love is a special something you can never quite throw away, even after love itself has died. I had felt a kind of love for Berry too, although---our love-making apart---it was more like that of a big sister towards her, she was so young and sweet. All that said, it was Simone that I adored above any others. They had been ships in the night, Simone was firmly moored. Simone was my rock. Simone was forever.

As I was musing, a light hand touched my elbow. It was Simone. "We've got that contract," she said, "He was so pleased when he learned I'm French and he's prepared to spend silly money for his little girl." Then she asked: "Who was that? The woman you shook hands with."

"Oh, she's called Sofia De León. She was teaching at the City University when I was a student. She's the wife of some Spanish government official, trade envoy or something like that. She recognised me and came to say hello. I don't think I'd have known her, she's changed so much."

"Long time ago, then?" said Simone. I reached for my wife's hand and pulled her closer to wrap an arm around her waist. We may have been in our mid-forties with the years speeding by but she would always be my beautiful girl with moonlight in her eyes.

"Yes," I replied, "once upon a time..."

Then I thought of a line I recalled from a poem or a song: "...somehow once upon a time never comes again..."

The End