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Serena watches Bernie climbing the steps to cross the bridge over the tracks, her own bag on her back and the elderly lady’s carpet bag slung over her left shoulder so that she can help her up the stairs with her right hand. They’re chatting in what looks like fairly fluent French and Serena can see that Bernie is trying desperately hard not to look around, not to turn away from her new companion in order to seek out her first glimpse of Serena; Bernie’s studying the woman’s face so carefully as they reach this side of the bridge that she almost misses the first step, and there’s that laugh, a sound that Serena hasn’t heard in far too long, and she finds herself laughing through tears. Bernie is really here.
She watches still as the woman points out a battered old Saab parked in front of the station, and as Bernie nods and strolls over, ducks down to greet the old man in the driver’s seat and then lifts the boot to place the woman’s bag carefully inside. She smiles as Bernie helps the woman step down onto the road and holds the door open for her. J’espère que vous entendez de Sandrine bientôt! she hears Bernie call after the departing car, a hand raised in farewell. A small part of Serena wants to sidle up behind her, purr something about chivalry not being dead after all, but it doesn’t feel right, somehow, and Bernie has clearly already seen her, because the instant the car rounds the bend she turns and looks straight at her. There are those eyes, dark yet shining, and her smile, oh, her smile. There’s hurt and uncertainty there – Bernie’s features have never mastered hiding anything from Serena – but no one, she thinks, has ever looked so enchanted by the sight of her.
“Serena,” Bernie says, the last syllable turning in to a brief and swallowed sob even as she smiles wider still. She’s winded by this moment, this moment that she’s spent the past nine hours on trains thinking about, never quite able to settle on an image of how exactly it’ll happen, or what exactly she’ll say or do. Not quite able to picture Serena, either, she realises, taking in the tanned skin under layered white cottons. Her hair is shorter, greyer, and scruffier than Bernie’s ever seen it and she loves it; tells her as much with a blink of her eyes in response to Serena’s slightly tilted head and upwards glance. They’re each looking at the other as if looking is all they have; all this time apart has starved them of the sight of each other and now here they are, looking, watching each other looking, questions and responses in the tiniest movements and still only one word, Serena’s name, out in the air between them. Words feel too brutish for this moment, too noisy, the sound too intrusive, but eventually Serena smiles and sighs.
“We should…”
“Ah, yes,” Bernie says, picking up her bag. She follows Serena over to a two-tone Citroen 2CV and climbs in.
The scenery is beautiful, lush greens and old stone buildings and blue skies forever, but Bernie can’t help looking at Serena. Her eyes roam over the wisps of grey hair around her ears, the freckles across her cheeks from weeks spent in the sun, the leather bracelet on her wrist that Bernie’s never seen before. She wonders if everything is still the same or completely different; wonders which of those options is the better. Each time Bernie looks away, scanning the horizon or trying to make out the faded slogans on the sides of long abandoned buildings, Serena glances across; they both know they’re doing it, and Bernie starts to pay more attention to the view than she otherwise would, Serena concentrates on the road more than is necessary, each giving the other the chance to look. Serena notices that Bernie’s hair is longer – most of it is still in her ponytail, even at this hour; that Bernie has no makeup on, not even a dash of mascara; that she’s sitting with her hands on her knees, pushing imaginary creases out of her trousers with sweaty palms. She reaches over and lays her right hand over Bernie’s left, squeezes for a fraction of a second and then lets go, keeps her eyes forward as she feels Bernie turn towards her and smile.
There is so much to say, so much to tell – so much to ask, after the months and miles and mourning that have separated them, but all of that can wait for now. Now, they just want to be in the same place, tight in one another’s orbit once again. Bernie looks at Serena and enjoys tracing the lines and curves of her face in profile, the light in her eyes not a memory but here, right in front of her. She closes her eyes and drops her head back against the seat, lets the unfamiliar feeling of contentment envelope her in this noisy old car as it chugs towards a cluster of buildings that must be the town Serena has settled in. Despite the chatter of the engine, Serena realises she can hear Bernie’s soft, slow breaths next to her and feels her chest tighten as it had done so many times before when Bernie was close to her.
When the car stops, it is outside a stone-built gite being artfully colonised by wisteria, its low, wide front door plum against the edge of the road. The whole thing is a bit more picture-postcard than Bernie had imagined for Serena and she almost breathes a sigh of relief when they get inside and she sees the sparse interior. But for the well-stocked wine rack and some bread on the counter, but for the coffee cups in the sink, but for the higgledy-piggledy pile of paperbacks valiantly staying upright just beside the sofa, this place could be anyone’s – could be empty. Bernie feels guilty, feels greedy, for thinking it, but there is comfort in seeing that Serena could up and leave at a moment’s notice without leaving too much of herself here in this unknown place.
“Coffee?” Serena says, dropping her keys into a bowl on the side.
“Please.” Bernie looks around and then holds up her bag. “Where shall I…?”
Serena looks up from spooning out the coffee and nods towards the door just behind Bernie. “Through there,” she says, “second door on the right. You’re, er, you’re in with me. Is that…?”
“Course,” Bernie replies through a smile. “If it’s…”
Serena smiles in return, Bernie watching Serena’s hand going to the back of her neck to smooth her hair in that familiar way. “Course.”
It’s not that either of them isn’t in love any more, and it’s not that either of them really, truly thinks the other isn’t in love any more. Bernie can barely remember a time when Serena wasn’t the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing she thought of at night, couldn’t name a day in the months between Serena’s departure from Holby and her own when she hadn’t sat at her desk and looked across at the empty chair facing her and felt her bottom lip tremble. She has prayed to gods that neither of them believes in, asking for Serena to be spared any more pain, asking for Serena to come back to her just whole enough to carry on, just healed enough not to break under Bernie’s touch. Serena, here in this house, on that sofa, in that bed, in that car, has cried until her head aches for missing Bernie, for yearning to be held by her bloody tough, bloody brilliant partner; has hated herself for thinking that Bernie’s presence might make Elinor’s absence more bearable, for the more recent days when Bernie not being here has felt worse than missing Ellie.
So it’s not that they don’t know who they are to each other anymore. That’s not why Bernie doesn’t know quite what to say when she comes back to the kitchen. That’s not why Serena looks at her and hesitates, pushes one mug across the counter without saying anything. The problem, the real problem, the problem that neither of them can do anything about, is that words aren’t enough. There isn’t a language that could do any of this justice. They’ve used words of course, words that were good enough in the past, good enough for and with other people, but how do words capture all of this, all of this that they’ve gone through with and without each other? There are wrong words and not-quite-what-I-meant words and words that can be misinterpreted, and neither of them wants to deal in those before they have to. So they smile at each other and read each other’s eyes, fingertips millimetres apart beside this steaming mug of coffee, and it’s all there, everything, everything that words can’t be trusted to convey, and in the silence they’re pulled towards each other until Bernie can feel Serena’s arms around her waist and Serena can feel Bernie’s arms around her shoulders and there isn’t room for a gnat between them.
Once they touch they can’t bear to be apart. Their coffees go cold as they stand wrapped in one another, Serena nuzzled in to Bernie’s neck and Bernie’s breath warm in her ear; after reheating them they take their mugs to the back of the house, where two bistro chairs wait in the gravel, and sit hand in hand to watch the sun drop towards the horizon. When Serena makes dinner Bernie leans against the counter and hands over utensils, fishes out bowls for the pasta, chops some salad, anything to stay here, to be near. It’s dark when she delves into her bag and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, a guilty glance at Serena and a smile when she moves to the back door ahead of her, holding out a hand for a cigarette, leaning forward to let Bernie light it. They stand there, silhouettes against a purple sky, burning red orbs lighting up with each drag, shoulders bumping in the doorway. “Missed you, Campbell,” Bernie whispers, blowing smoke up into the air above their heads. Serena treads on her cigarette butt and slides her hand into Bernie’s.
A lifetime ago they had got used to sharing Serena’s ensuite, had established a routine before bed; tonight, Bernie sits on the edge of Serena’s bed and waits to hear the latch on the bathroom door down the hall, soon hops and skips back with bare feet on cold stone to join Serena under the covers. The moon is almost full and the light skims across the room, cuts everything into black and white halves; Bernie has unpacked her bag into a large dresser against the back wall atop which sits a porcelain hare, its body in darkness beneath bright shining ears. They agree without any discussion who’s sleeping on which side and Serena curls in to Bernie, lifting her knees so that her shins run down Bernie’s thighs. Bernie pulls the covers around them and nestles her head into soft pillows that smell of Serena.
*
They wake up together the next morning, though Serena has curled over to her side of the bed and Bernie is sprawled on her stomach, each nudged out of sleep by some kind of farm vehicle lumbering past the windows at the front, close enough to shake everything that isn’t nailed down. Bernie turns her head and smiles at Serena, raises her eyebrows. “Every morning,” Serena whispers, not even trying to sound apologetic. She had thrown a pillow at the shutters the first time she’d been woken by it, convinced it was just another part of the universe’s plan to ruin everything. But it has forced her to get up and make the most of days that might otherwise have slipped through her fingers, and she thinks that’s probably a good thing.
She leaves Bernie to shower (“I think I stink,” Bernie had mumbled in to her armpit not long after they’d woken up) and wanders down to the bakery. “L’habituel?” Roland asks as she walks in, scooping up a crisp, golden pain au chocolat and turning to survey the loaves behind him.
“Et un croissant aux amandes, s’il te plaît,” Serena adds, smiling coyly as Roland looks up in surprise. “Et peut-être un grand pain, aujourd’hui.”
“Ah oui? Tu as un visiteur?” He watches Serena's smile grow wider. “Quelqu-un de spécial, non?”
“La plus spéciale,” Serena tells him. Roland is probably 20 years older than her, and has the leathery brown skin to prove it, but he has a twinkle in his eye that has made their exchanges an essential part of Serena’s days since she arrived. He isn’t oblivious to the fact she had turned up alone all of a sudden and never gone away, but he has always spoken to her as if he’s they’ve been neighbours for 40 years and that’s all he needs to know. She likes Roland. He drops the two croissants into a paper bag, and adds a handful of chouquettes for good measure. With the other hand, he passes over a large sourdough.
“À demain?” he asks.
“À demain,” Serena echoes from the doorway.
After breakfast the words come. After breakfast they walk down into the heart of the valley and the words come. After breakfast they walk hand in hand across green hills under colourless skies that gradually turn a rich blue and the words come, great streams of them tumbling out. Their equilibrium restored by being together again (‘you’re really here,’ Serena wants to say every time she looks at Bernie; ‘you made room for me,’ Bernie thinks every time she looks at Serena), they figure it out with words (still imperfect) and looks (better) and touches (best). Bernie is sorry about things she couldn’t have changed and Serena rages at things she couldn’t have foreseen; together they regret the time apart and smile about the few months that lay before them.
Serena points out landmarks in every direction as they walk, some the kinds of things you’d find on a tourist map, others little things she’s found and likes to go back to, to help her feel at home. Bernie has holidayed in Bordeaux and flown over the north of France en route to Kabul but hasn’t seen this part of the country before, and she delights in being led by Serena. At the water’s edge she toes off her shoes and plants her feet in the shallows, a puppyish grin on her face as she tilts towards the sun. “This is beautiful,” she says, “just what the doctor ordered.” Serena thumps her on the arm for the pun but doesn’t disagree, just arranges herself on a rock and lets her toes cut through the surface of the water.
“You should see it in the evening,” she says. “Once the stars are up.”
“OK.”
Serena focuses her attention back on to Bernie, sitting up a bit. “OK what?”
“OK, show me in the evening,” Bernie says, her voice soft and light, a voice that is only for Serena. “Once the stars are up.”
*
It’s the sort of thing that Bernie would usually organise in secret, squirrelling cushions and blankets and candles down through the vines, leaving a trail of clues for Serena to follow, but making their way back to the bottom of the hill on her second night in France, she’s glad they’re together. She hadn’t forgotten what it was like just to do things with, just to live alongside, Serena, but she’s glad to be reminded nonetheless.
A little way from the river, in between two rows of vines, Serena stops. “Here, I think.” She throws the rug out in front of her and they both watch it waft to the ground.
“Not too close to the water,” Bernie says slowly, squeezing Serena’s shoulder and chuckling as she puts the hamper in the middle of the rug and starts to sit down. “How many times did you get bitten?”
“Have you seen the size of the buggers around here?” Serena pulls a cushion under her right arm and leans into it, glaring at Bernie. “Bloody massive.”
Bernie smiles and sits two wine glasses in front of her as she works the cork out of the wine they’d started last night. Serena pulls out some bread and cheese, some grapes and dried fruits. She panics for a moment that this is all the most terrible cliché, the pair of them picnicking beneath the stars eating French cheese on French bread and drinking French wine, but then she looks over at Bernie, chomping on a grape and staring up at the stars with such childlike delight that she stops worrying.
Once they’ve eaten they pack everything away and top up their glasses, move the pillows to the centre of the rug and lie side by side to watch the sky together. Serena can hear the valley going about its business but to Bernie it is almost silent, so far from her life of sirens and slammed doors and Radio Two. We could be the only people on the planet, she thinks, and hugs Serena close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head; Serena wriggles closer and squeezes Bernie in return, traces her forefinger down Bernie’s sleeve. This is as close as they have been for months, for longer than Serena has been away, and when Serena lifts her head they share a long look, a look filled with questions but no answers. Bernie’s eyes drop to Serena’s lips and back again – can I? May I? – and Serena holds her gaze – do you want to? Are you sure? – before they meet in the middle and each of them whimpers at the fresh memory of the other’s lips. Soon their mouths will be hot and hungry. Soon their mouths will be hot and hungry and rove over one another’s bodies. Soon they will rediscover one another’s bodies and the language they share only with each other, and there will be sound in the valley.