Of Mochas and Macchiatos

Part 27

We supersede a six hour drive to Redfort with a much shorter, single hour flight by plane. I feel so jittery, opening and shutting the windows seventy million times until an air hostess stares at me oddly. What even is the point of this visit? I am going to break up with Rafe, probably next week. Although now that I think about it, it seems inherently wrong to break up with a boy as soon as you have your own place and don't need to crash with him anymore.

God, I keep feeling like such a bad person.

But, in actuality, I am not going to be breaking up with him because of an improvement (is it an improvement though, really? From a five star hotel back to a seemingly haunted apartment) in my living situations. We have drifted too far away. I do adore him, a lot. And I think that he still loves me, also a lot. But I do not think that we like each other anymore. I don't trust him enough to divulge the secrets of my past, which makes him distrust me and thus compels me to further distrust him. It's a vicious circle and the only way I can see to break it is to break up.

And so I think about this for the entirety of the plane ride. So lost in thought, I barely even notice when we land. I realise that we have barely even said a single word to each other for the whole journey and although this iciness is of benefit to my plans to break up, I feel slightly awkward. Surely, we can maintain any pretence of a relationship just for the next few days?

In the car that Rafe's father sends, I try to politely inquire about the man who apparently raised my boyfriend. The chauffeur slides the scene up so that we have a little privacy but I can see that Rafe is still reluctant to talk about him. I'd meant to interrogate Lara further, but her ... visions ... distracted me, scared me. Honestly, I keep questioning the reality of what happened but in my heart, I know that what I witnessed was real and that I am not crazy. Nevertheless, I do try to extract some answers from Archer. He shrugs and offhandedly tells me that his father owns a large conglomerate business. He has offices all over the world. He hates kids, loves golf. Never remarried after Camille Archer née de Mornay's death. Is a total jerk and is also a sommelier.

I still don't really have a clear image of the man I am about to meet, but I suppose that will have to do. Finally the car turns into a large estate. There are silver birches planted at even intervals along the driveway, their white bark trunks lined with deep husky grey lines, and their leaves sweeping beautifully in the light spring breeze. The lawn appears to be laser cut, each blade of grass seemingly measured and clipped perfectly. The long drive towards the manor house allows me to catch a glimpse of rolling hills, resplendent orchard and gorgeous vineyard. We transgress across the driveway, Rafe seemingly bored of his childhood home, while I stare, amazed by the beauty of the place.

Eventually we reach the house, a gorgeously rustic mansion coloured a soft sandstone.

Rafe sees my awed expression and leans over to me, whispering, "It's based on an 18th century provincial French mansion in Provence. It reminded Mother of the place she grew up, St-Rémy-de-Provence."

It's so gorgeous, just bursting with Old World charm. I gaze in wonder at the stucco exterior and terracotta tiles, stare, awed, at the quaint al fresco eating area sheltered by sweeping branches of evergreen trees. There are pale green shutters which line each of the windows of the house and a lovely stone pavement that surrounds it.

We get out of the car, my heels clattering gently against the stone floor of the patio, and I take Rafe's arm as he leads me into the house. He tells me that his father will meet us for dinner, and I relax against him slightly. We traverse up an ornate staircase, where we breeze past Rafe's father's room, to a resplendent powder room. Rafe allows me to peek at his childhood bedroom, the room he occupied before boarding school, and before moving to England to stay with Lara. The place he stayed before his mother died. It's so quaint, with periwinkle stripes that my boyfriend explains his mother resolutely painted herself, despite his father's assurances that they could -should- hire a painter. There are no silk sheets here, but a simpler looking material. I have no doubt that they are probably priceless sheets, but they look like raw cotton or linen and I feel a greater sense of homeliness.