The Women Who Ran Away - Sheila O'Flanagan Page 0,23

dropped her speed a little so that she stayed at a comfortable distance from the Range Rover in front. She was happy to drive at a steady 100 kph, even though the limit was 130 and there was a constant stream of other cars overtaking her on the left. She wasn’t in a hurry. She didn’t want to arrive at her hotel too early. She wouldn’t be able to check in before two, so she might as well take her time and savour the beauty of Brittany’s rolling hills and green meadows, which reminded her so much of Cork and Ireland.

Ken had always liked Brittany. He’d liked the coastal scenery with its deep inlets forming natural harbours that made sailing and related activities so popular. He liked the Breton culture and art, and invariably brought copies of Jules Verne to read when they were on holiday there because the famous writer had been born in the region.

‘Quite the genius, Verne,’ he used to say when they’d reached whatever campsite they were staying in and had got themselves settled. ‘Sadly, none of those sci-fi writers of the past realised that technology would become miniaturised. Their robots were enormous metal devices with wires and valves rather than microchips. But what imagination all the same!’

Ken had started writing his own novel on one of their holidays. He told her it was a reflection on family life, which worried her slightly, but she became less concerned the more time he spent on it, because she doubted it would ever get finished, let alone published. She asked to read it a number of times, but he always shook his head, telling her that the only people qualified to pass judgement on his work were professionals. She bit back the comment that the most important people who’d pass judgement would be his readers. In the end, she simply left him to it, not interrupting him when he retreated into his study to write or when he brought foolscap notebooks on subsequent holidays and covered them in his scrawling script.

It took him five years to complete. And it was another five years before it was published.

‘Excellent reviews,’ he told her after the first month, although sales were low and, from her perspective, when she’d finally been allowed to read the novel, the female characters highly improbable.

Nevertheless, he’d achieved a lifetime dream, and it allowed him to update his online biography to say ‘critically acclaimed author’. Whenever Grace spoke about him, she called him a critically acclaimed author too. Their marriage might not have been perfect, but she had always supported him. And it had endured.

That wasn’t something many people could say these days.

Sometimes enduring was just as important as loving.

Maybe more.

Chapter 9

Loire-Atlantique, France: 48.1173°N 1.6778°W

After almost two hours of driving, and with the signposts showing that she wasn’t far from Rennes, Deira pulled into a big service station off the N12. The almost sleepless night and early-morning start had caught up with her, and as well as wanting to drop the roof of the convertible, she needed a bathroom break. She could do with another coffee too, she thought, even though she’d finished the pot on the ship earlier.

She filled the petrol tank before going to the café. Many of the customers were other passengers who’d made the crossing; she recognised the family who’d been beside her on the car deck, as well as an older couple dressed in identical yellow cagoules. And there were plenty of Irish accents ordering coffee and pastries. After using the bathroom, Deira got a tray and selected an individual tarte tatin before asking for a large Americano. She took her purchases to the counter that ran along the wall of the café, where she sat on a high stool.

The coffee was strong and the pastry delicate. Deira felt herself relax again as she began to tune in and out of the conversations around her.

‘We’re nearly there,’ a father was assuring his young son, who’d been demanding to know how much further they had to go. ‘You’re really going to love it.’

‘I’m sick of the car,’ said the boy. ‘We’ve been in it forever.’

‘We’ll soon be at the campsite,’ his mother promised.

‘I hate this holiday.’

‘You’ll have a great time,’ his dad assured him. ‘Do you want to get something from the machine?’

‘OK.’ The boy’s expression brightened.

‘I’m sorry.’ The father turned to his wife. ‘You can ban all sweets once we get there. But in the meantime, it’s the only way of keeping