‘Oh, bloody hell. What’s my reaction?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Immediately it’s about Christa. But then . . .’ A smile grew across my face. ‘Then, after that, it’s all fantastic. If Christa hasn’t been secretly hating me all these years, then . . . My God.’
After half an hour’s discussion, I remembered what Greg had said earlier.
‘You said you had to tell me before you left. You’re not leaving, are you?’
‘Mmm. That was kind of my way of telling you – by presenting you with a killer fact straight afterwards so you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Don’t go! You’ve only just got here.’
‘I’ve been here two and a half months. And the thing is, I love it here, but I can’t stay for ever. You’re not even staying for ever. I’ve got a few plans, and I need to go back to London and find some godawful job in a restaurant so I can smile unctuously at rude rich people and save up all the tips they give me. So I can go away again. A friend of mine’s planning a trip to Cuba and I’m just dying to go along.’
I looked at him closely. ‘This friend wouldn’t be called Rosie, would she?’
Greg laughed bitterly, and shook his head slowly. ‘No, Emma. This friend would be called Danny. Rosie can’t go hotfooting it off to Cuba. She’s got two films to edit, for one thing.’
‘So wait for her.’
‘How can I wait for her if she doesn’t want me to?’
I looked at him. He wouldn’t catch my eye. He was looking, instead, out of the window, at the waves that were crashing onto the sand, sending white water high into the air.
‘But surely she wants you to?’ I asked gently.
He shook his head. ‘She says nice things. She says them all the time. But she’s got complicated stuff going on with an ex, and I don’t want to be in the middle of it. And she doesn’t want me to be, either. I need to leave her alone for a bit to get her head together. Then she might or might not want to give it a proper go with me. And I might or might not want to take her back. So, I guess this is what you’ve all been waiting for. A love affair crashes to earth.’
‘Jesus, Greg. How can she have a complicated thing with an ex when she’s been out here for so long? She’s been making these films for ever and she’s never had a bloke with her, except for you. And you and her are so great together.’
‘I know. I think it’s over with the ex, really, but she still, you know . . .’ he made quote marks in the air with his fingers, ‘“loves him”. Which is kind of crushing for me because I thought this thing with her could go somewhere. I mean I’ve never had a relationship that I thought was so good. I was really, seriously keen to make a go of it with Rosie.’
I shook my head and mimed for the bill. Then I looked at Greg ‘Sounds like she’s got cold feet to me. But I do see that you can’t hang around waiting. When are you off?’
‘Rosie’s doing another few weeks here, isn’t she? I think I’ll go sooner. You know, be the one doing the leaving.’
‘You can see her in London. Will you be living at Christa and Geoff’s?’
‘Christa and Dad’s, you mean.’
‘Yes.’ I tried out the concept again. ‘Christa and Dad’s.’ I laughed at the thought. ‘I suppose we’d better ring him, hadn’t we?’
We sat in the car and called Holloway on my mobile. Christa answered.
‘Hello, Christa,’ I said. I was bubbling with excitement. I had desperately wanted Geoff to answer the phone. I didn’t even know whether Christa knew that Greg was going to tell me. I jigged my foot up and down on the accelerator as I waited for her to say something.
‘Oh, Emma,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
I looked at Greg and shook my head. She didn’t know.
‘Fine, Christa,’ I said. ‘More than fine, actually. We’re at the beach, me and Greg.’
‘Where’s Alice?’
‘At home with Charlotte. She’s fine.’
‘OK. Good.’
She paused politely, waiting for me to say why I had called. Outside, the waves were splashing, too big to surf. I raised my eyebrows at Greg. He nodded frantically, motioning for me to tell her.
‘Greg’s just told me something,’ I said, hoping that she would guess.
‘Oh, that he’s leaving? Will you be all right?’
‘Yes, but I didn’t mean that. He’s told me that Geoff’s my father.’ I said the last three words quickly, knowing that I had to get them out before I thought better of it.
‘Oh,’ said Christa. ‘Oh, I see.’ She said nothing for several seconds. I held my breath, waiting for her reaction. Geoff’s my father. I said it again and again in my head. I have a dad. Geoff’s my father. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘You were always going to find out. We should have told you sooner. Geoff’s been champing at the bit to be your daddy. I had a feeling that Greg might tell you.’ I heard her shouting, away from the receiver, for Geoff. ‘Sorry, Emma. I suppose it was my fault. I felt that some things were better kept secret.’
‘No, Christa. I’m sorry. All I care about is whether or not you hate me. You don’t, do you?’
My aunt actually laughed. ‘You ridiculous girl. No, I don’t hate you. The only person truly at fault was Geoff. He knew that Sarah was ill. I forgave them both a long time ago. Here he is.’
I gave Greg a thumbs up. Then Geoff came to the phone.
‘Emma,’ he said. His voice was hopeful. ‘Emma, is this all right?’
I laughed loudly. ‘Of course it is, you great idiot.’
Coco met me in Villeneuve one day, when the children were at school. She insisted. According to Coco, according to Bella, according to both Rosie and Fiona, I was going to feel better if I looked better. I was willing to try anything, and besides, I was sick of always being the scruffy one. I had more energy, all of a sudden, and I wanted to try out being different. I wasn’t a sad and lonely orphan any more. I was a sad and lonely woman with a father, a half-brother and two half-sisters, doubling up as cousins. That had to be an improvement.
It was a cold day. The trees were bare and the puddles were thick with ice. I parked in the centre of town, opposite the imposing DVD and stationery shop that bore the curious name of Madison Nuggets. It always made me think of a computer-generated password. Perhaps, I thought, the shop was trying to convey a sense of Americana: Madison Avenue crossed with Chicken McNuggets. I put a few euros in the parking ticket machine and locked my car. If that was the case, it was not really succeeding, but I liked the eccentricity of Madison Nuggets. I smelt the smell of France in the air. Even though I had been here for nearly a year, it still seemed exotic. I never worked out what it was that made France smell different from England.
There were a few people around. A woman walked past with a wicker basket full of paper bags of vegetables. She was wrapped up in so many layers that she was spherical, yet she was still shivering. A man hobbled painfully by, helped by a walking stick. I dropped the car keys into my handbag, and strode ahead to meet Coco. I was glad to have a focus.
I knew that Rosie would be meeting us at the café, because she was getting increasingly excited about the idea of my makeover.
‘This will be perfect,’ she had said, when I mentioned it to her. ‘It’s exactly what you need. And what I need. You go for it.’
I looked at her. ‘It’s easy for you to say.’ Rosie was, as ever, dressed in expensive black, with dark glasses balanced on top of her head despite the season. She had become slightly withdrawn since Greg had left, but her chicness hadn’t faltered. She could be bothered. I couldn’t. That particular divide had never looked so great. The women who could be bothered were frighteningly keen to bring me over to their side.
I didn’t care enough. I owned nail files but rarely troubled to find one when I could bite instead. I got my hair cut about a month after I decided it needed it, and that was just to keep it out of my eyes. Sometimes I did it myself, with the kitchen scissors. I wore T-shirts and shorts in the summer and jumpers and jeans in winter. I was still in Matt’s jumpers. I had muddled along without bothering anybody for years. Now, suddenly, everyone was telling me to stop being a woman and become a lady.
I knew I was going to be scrutinised by skinny women today, so I had done my best to dress up. I was wearing my Levi’s, which fell around my hips, and a brown jumper which was slightly more flattering than Matt’s green one. I had put on a little lipgloss and a lick of mascara. This, I knew, clumped my eyelashes together and made me look like a nine-year-old girl messing around with her mother’s makeup for the first time. Every time I blinked I could feel my top lashes sticking to the bottom ones.
Coco was already there. She was sitting inside the café, and when she saw me come in, she beamed.
‘Hello, you,’ she said, jumping up and kissing me on each cheek. Perfume wafted towards me. I had no idea what perfume it was, but it smelt expensive.
‘Hello,’ I returned nervously, and ordered a large white coffee. I took the opportunity of analysing her clothes. She was wearing jeans, too, but hers were tight-fitting and showed off her tiny body. She wore a white long-sleeved T-shirt and a thick cardigan, belted at the waist. Coco’s hair was loose down her back, but styled away from her face. She was wearing bright pink lipstick. I wondered if she was going to try to make me wear make-up, too. I had rarely worn more than a little mascara and some brown lipstick, and that was only for special occasions.
‘I don’t want to wear pink lipstick,’ I blurted out. Then I felt rude. ‘It looks nice on you,’ I added hastily, ‘but I would look like a child playing with Mummy’s things.’
I looked at her expectantly. She frowned for a few seconds. ‘You think I’m going to make you wear pink lipstick?’ She understood, and laughed. ‘No, Emma. You don’t have to make yourself up to look like me. I want to help you to look like yourself.’
I was not sure about this. ‘I already look like myself.’
She shrugged. ‘Then it will be easy.’
Rosie joined us five minutes later, looking businesslike in a long black coat and black high-heeled boots. ‘Cheers for this, you two,’ she said briskly. ‘I appreciate being invited along. Where are we going first?’ I knew Rosie well enough, by this point, to understand that she was being businesslike to ensure that I had no window for backing out and sending her away. I also knew that she was missing Greg and that she was trying not to talk about it.
Rosie spoke resolutely in English. She did have schoolgirl French, but she used it only when necessary, and when she did, her confidence was far greater than her capability. She saw no reason to attempt a French accent, so she would use a French word as if she were annexing it into English. Coco was baffled by her, but in an amiable way. She saw her as an extreme eccentric and often had to check with me whether Rosie was speaking in English or in French.
‘Hello?’ Rosie shouted across the café, immediately draining her espresso. A waiter looked at us from the far side of the room, eyebrows raised. He was thin and spectral. ‘Can we have the
addition s’il vous plaît
?’
‘It’s on the table!’ I told her, with urgent embarrassment.
‘Right.
D’accord!
’ she called to the young man, who was smiling with good-tempered incomprehension. ‘
Nous avons I’addition ici, après tout
. So, Coco. Where are we taking her?’
Coco understood. ‘Nouvelles Galeries,’ she said. ‘
Et puis, après ça, j’ai beaucoup d’idées. On verra.
’
‘In English?’
I translated. ‘After that she has lots of other ideas.’
‘Right. Off you go, girls. Forget about me. As ever.’
I soon forgot Rosie altogether, as I was entirely absorbed in the horror of my makeover. Nouvelles Galeries was not too bad because, as it was a department store, the assistants left us alone. Coco picked up outfits for which I would never have spared more than a glance, and made me put them on.
‘You’re a thirty-eight,’ she said, handing me a shiny green shirt and a pair of skinny black trousers.
‘Forty,’ I corrected her. ‘Maybe forty-two. You’re not seriously telling me to put these on? They won’t fit, they’re tiny, and they also happen to be horrible.’
She shook her head. ‘Just do it.’
She stood in the corner of the cubicle as I changed, and smiled at me. ‘We need to get you a lot of new lingerie, Emma,’ she observed cheerfully.
‘Stop! This is my best underwear.’ She laughed. She thought I was joking, but unfortunately I was serious. There was, I felt, nothing wrong with my black Marks and Spencer’s bra and matching knickers from a five-pack. I made sure it matched this morning, on purpose. If she thought this was bad, she should have seen the grey range.
The trousers fitted over my thighs and, to my surprise, they even fastened round my waist without any trouble. The green shirt hung down nicely from my shoulders. I had thought green was a horrible colour for me. That was why I had worn the green jumper so much. I had been making myself look terrible on purpose. All the same, I had to admit that the shirt looked reasonable.
I twisted in front of the mirror. My body was completely different from the way I had expected it to be.
‘Is this a trick mirror?’ I asked suspiciously.
She laughed. ‘No. I promise.’
‘So when did I get all . . . thin?’
‘When you were depressed and didn’t eat,’ she told me. I nodded. Everyone had told me I had lost weight, but I had never really appreciated the difference it made. I had thought I had a pot belly and a huge bottom, and all of a sudden it seemed I didn’t. The shirt looked quite nice with my new body inside it. I pulled back my shaggy hair and studied my face. I was pale and drawn, with bags under my eyes so pronounced that I looked as though I had applied grey eyeshadow upside down. The mascara had already smeared my face. But although I looked as buffeted as I felt, I noticed now that I had cheekbones, that my cheeks were hollow under them, and that the double chin that always shocked me when I saw photographs of myself had gone. I was skinny. My body was small, and my waist curved in instead of out. The shirt clung to my ribcage and made me look fragile and little.
‘OK,’ I said, trying to assimilate my new self. ‘Let’s buy these. What else?’
That was when the horror began. Coco took me from shop to shop, stood me in front of assistants and explained her mission. Rosie often put her camera down to offer advice, or to scour the rails for the perfect item. Bossy women I had never met before and never wanted to see again parked me in changing cubicles and prodded me, commented unfavourably on my underwear, and made me try on garment after garment. They stood in front of me as I tried on bras, even going so far as to lift each breast and make sure it was properly in the cup. I was mortified by the whole process, and ended up spending money I doubted I would ever have, on my credit card, just to be allowed to leave.