The Love of My Life by Louise Douglas

Author:Louise Douglas [Douglas, Louise]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: General, Fiction, Romance, Family & Relationships, Self-Help, Death; Grief; Bereavement
ISBN: 9780330509060
Google: T95nmTASArEC
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2009-02-20T00:00:00+00:00

twenty-seven

‘How are you getting on?’

The professor was looking, for him, almost cheerful. He was jingling his car keys and obviously had news to impart. It was a Wednesday afternoon.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘The more I learn, the more I’m enjoying this.’

‘Would you buy it, if it were a book?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And I’d give it to all my friends for Christmas.’

‘Good, good.’

‘I’m sure it would be a bestseller.’

‘All right, don’t over-egg the pudding. Where are you up to?’

‘Well, it’s not exactly in order, but I’m up to the bit where Marian Rutherford comes to England to visit her publisher.’

‘You come from Portiston, don’t you?’

I nodded.

‘So would you mind driving me there this afternoon? I need to take some pictures of the publisher’s house.’

It was a lovely day, warm and balmy, and I could think of few things more pleasant or relaxing than a drive to the coast. I knew where Andrew Bird’s house was. I could make myself useful.

The professor asked me to drive his car. I had been expecting something old and characterful. In fact, it was a red Toyota Celica.

‘Wow,’ I said.

The professor scratched behind his ear, a sure sign that he was pleased.

‘My students refer to it as my MLC turbo,’ he said.

‘Sorry, I’m not very good at cars.’

‘Mid-life crisis,’ he explained. ‘I bought it after my wife left me. I think they thought I was trying to pull,’ and he gave a long, low chuckle that was so infectious I started laughing too.

‘I haven’t driven anything like this for ages,’ I said. In fact, in the wake of Luca’s accident, driving anything apart from my beloved Clio made me feel uncomfortable.

‘You’ll be OK, she’s easy, a piece of cake,’ said the professor, folding himself somewhat awkwardly into the passenger side. ‘I need to be able to jump out as and when to take pictures.’

‘You’ll have trouble jumping out of that seat, if you don’t mind me saying,’ I pointed out. ‘You’re almost lying down.’

He smiled. ‘Well, we’re not in a rush, are we?’

We weren’t. I drove at a speed that seemed, even to me, embarrassingly slow and was very careful, braking if anybody showed any signs of imminently stepping off the pavement, or turning into our path. Yet if the professor was aware of my caution, he didn’t show it. He just put on his spectacles and examined the papers on his knee and occasionally said, ‘Hmm, yes,’ or similar. By the time we were out on the Portiston road, I was enjoying myself.

We stopped on the crest of the hill which overlooked the town. You couldn’t see much of it from this point, just the ferry terminal where Georgie and I had loved one another all those years ago, and the roofs of the houses and shops at the top end of the town, and the church spire.

‘This is the only road in and out, so Marian Rutherford must have approached this way,’ said the professor. ‘I need a photograph.’

He undertook the laborious

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