Wish You Were Here (14 page)

‘Yes,' I said slowly. ‘That could be it.' I remembered his amused eyes on me in my minuscule nightie last night, taking in my streaky fake-tanned legs. I had thicker ankles since childbirth, too. ‘In which case, it'll take a matter of moments.'

‘I honestly don't think he's here with the cold, clear aim of breaking up your marriage.'

‘No. But … maybe to make trouble?'

‘It's only trouble if you feel it to be. It's you I'm worried about, Flora, if I'm honest. He's awfully attractive.'

‘Oh, you don't need to worry about me.' I hastily grabbed the coffee she'd made me. A bit spilled on my hand and burned me. ‘I got over Max years ago.'

I sailed back out to the garden, sucking my sore hand.

It
occurred to me as I went up later to change that I'd put mascara on for breakfast. And lippy. Something I'd never usually do on holiday. In the privacy of my bathroom, I wiped it off defiantly. Then I put on the shiniest, whitest, total sunblock – I burn very easily – which gave my skin a fishy look. Even the swimming costume I chose was an elderly Boden affair, slightly saggy at the waist and legs. It was very much third reserve for when I ran out of good ones. I added a dreary cheesecloth poncho, chose a trashy novel rather than anything cerebral, and, popping it into my beach bag along with a hat and more sun cream, sallied forth defiantly.

At the top of the stairs I glanced down and saw Sally and Max crossing the flagstone hall below, one step ahead of me, in their swimwear. Sally was in a gorgeous black bikini with a pink sarong tied low around her hips. She was already beautifully brown. Max's hand was resting on the base of her bronzed spine as they crossed the hall. I almost fell over the balcony. Was that
Sally
?

I dashed back to my room. Changed into my expensive new one-piece made from reinforced steel which pulled in all the bits that mattered, including the droopy tummy and the side boobs, as the Australian lady who'd sold it to me had promised. Then I wiped off the thick grease, found a slinky turquoise sarong, applied a touch of lippy and went down.

The pool was a short distance away from the house. To reach it, one had to cross the manicured front lawn, which was constantly watered by spiralling hoses, via a cinder path, duck under a spreading cedar tree, skirt a small lake with a single rowing boat on it, and enter through a
charming green wooden gate in a tall, crumbling wall. Inside, there was a beautiful enclosed haven, which had once been an enormous walled kitchen garden. It still boasted large regular flowerbeds to one side, now full of bright dahlias and gladioli, the cutting garden for house flowers, rose-clad walls and a small orchard. Aside from the pool, the rest was laid to lawn, but such was the garden's size, there was even an area with a badminton net. At the far end, an ancient stone barn with a gaping façade had been converted into a pool house, complete with table tennis, drinks fridge and comfortable rattan armchairs with vast, squashy cushions. Behind the barn and over the post and rail fence, a pair of elegant chestnut horses nodded at the flies around them, already hot and bothered, ready to head for the cool of the trees. In the distance, beyond the parched pasture, was the neighbouring vineyard, then the hills of Fayence rose up gloriously in the shimmering heat.

The teenagers were already present and horizontal, having clearly grabbed a croissant and orange juice en route, judging by the glasses and jam-smeared plates dotted about. I'd have to make sure they found their way back inside and put a stop to that tomorrow. Why couldn't they pause for breakfast at the table? They were dozing around the end of the pool nearest the barn, which faced the sun, having bagged the best beds. The boys wore garish long trunks, the girls tiny bikinis, and all were plugged into their iPods, sunglasses on, a paperback apiece. I regarded my girls with pride. Amelia, who'd still like to be thinner, was much more slender than a year or so ago, and Tara had a great figure. Lizzie, in an orange bikini, was face up
amongst them, and Max and Sally had not yet appeared. Perhaps they'd got lost.

I found a sunbed in a distant corner, abandoned by the children for being half in the shade, but that suited me. Arranging myself upon it carefully, top half in the shade, legs in the sun, I meticulously removed my sarong, but not until I was sitting down, and even then I let it drape a bit over my thighs, which, despite the fake tan, looked pasty and heavy. I bent my knees to make my legs look thinner and wondered if I could hold this position all morning. I did it for ten minutes and became increasingly uncomfortable and cross.

I hadn't envisaged anything other than total relaxation on this holiday, and having an ex-boyfriend wondering how my figure had changed in the twenty years since I'd last seen him was not in the script. Defiantly, I let my legs flop down on to the sunbed, just as Sally and Max appeared through the garden gate. I snapped them back up again, sharpish. They didn't seem to notice me, though, and took beds, as I knew they would, in full sun, at the more popular, fun end of the pool.

I watched from behind my book, dark glasses and the brim of my hat as they began to shed layers. Sally's legs were long and slim; the only hint of the colossal amount of weight she'd lost was in the slightly mottled texture of her tummy and thighs, but you'd have to be very picky to find fault. I saw Amelia pretending to read but looking with interest, too. Max, in long trunks, was lean and toned, with only a hint of a paunch where, once, he'd had a very flat stomach. He was in pretty good shape, and had a natural tan, which suggested this wasn't his first holiday this
year. I realized he looked expensive. His trunks were a good, dusky green. His deck shoes were not tatty and Cornish like James's but sleek and Italian-looking, as were his shorts and shirt, which he folded in a pile beside him, together with a Rolex watch. It occurred to me he'd probably made a lot of money. I knew he was still organizing concerts and events, because Sally had mentioned it last night, but I had no idea how his career had panned out, because, I realized with satisfaction, I hadn't been interested enough to find out. Doubtless, I could have done, we still had one or two mutual friends – Lucy would have known, Parrot, too – but I'd never bothered to ask; had never googled his name, never investigated. You see? I was safe as houses. If he still had problems as far as I was concerned, which – I watched as Sally lay down beside him and they briefly held hands – I was beginning to doubt, that was his lookout. Having seen Sally in her bikini, I was now finding it farcical to imagine Max was here on my account. I smiled. Took my sunglasses off and shut my eyes. How ridiculous of you, Flora. So egocentric. Ridiculously vain. Thank God I could relax.

I have no idea why I fell asleep so easily and so early on in the day, although I suppose I'd had a pretty unsettled night, but I was woken by Tara, her face above mine, concerned.

‘You're a bit red, Mum. And also' – she leaned forward confidentially – ‘you might want to tuck yourself in a bit.' She glanced down at my bikini line: half my bush was flourishing the wrong side of my swimsuit; my legs were akimbo.

I sat up with a horrified jerk. Rearranged my splayed
limbs – one foot seemed to be on the
floor
, as if I'd been writhing in my sleep – and quickly wiped the dribble from the side of my mouth. I realized the sun had moved. I was now in its full glare, chest and face on fire. Damn. Why had I wiped that sun cream off? And how long had I been like that? I glanced across the pool. No sign of anyone. All beds had been abandoned. Plates, books, glasses and sun cream were littered about.

‘What's the time?' I gasped, mouth totally devoid of saliva.

‘I dunno, but it must be nearly lunchtime. You were snoring fit to bust, Mum.'

‘
Was
I?' I was aghast.

‘Come on, they'll be wanting to serve up. Dad doesn't want us to be late. You know what he's like about keeping staff hanging around.'

Tara sloped off, and I quickly found my hat. I wrapped my sarong around my waist and, feeling sticky and drenched in sweat, prepared to follow her. My sarong stuck to my legs. It was no good. I'd have to go in the pool. I was horribly hot.

Thankful no one was around to witness it, I stripped off the sarong and plunged into the pool, obviously not putting my hair under, just wiping my face with my hand. I swum a length of breaststroke in the cool blue water. Bliss. When I reached the other end I saw that, far from being alone, as I'd imagined, one couple was still here. Max and Sally had moved their beds around to the side of the barn, and Sally was naked. She was on her tummy, and around a discreet corner to be sure, but still starkers. I boggled. Max
had his back to me and was sitting on his bed beside her, suntan lotion in hand. I watched, mesmerized, as he took a handful and began to cream her back. As he massaged it down her spine, lower, lower, gently into her bare bottom, he turned his head, looked me straight in the eye and smiled.

‘But
don't you think that's peculiar? That he should be smiling at me while massaging his girlfriend's bottom?'

I was trotting to catch up with Lizzie, who'd spotted a stall she wanted to revisit at the far end of the market.

‘Not if he only that moment realized you were there. What did you want him to do, scowl? Look horrified that you were spying? Snatch his hand away? I think, under the circumstances, a smile was quite resourceful of him.'

‘It wasn't that sort of smile, Lizzie. Not a friendly one. It was more … implicit.'

‘Implicit of what? “This is what you're missing”?'

‘Yes!'

‘Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'm surprised at you, Flora, letting it spoil your holiday like this. You're in a complete tizz about nothing. Rise above. Also, if you could drag your eyes away from your own life for a minute, Jackson emailed me this morning. He can't come, after all. He's too busy rehearsing, which probably means I've been too needy recently and he's relishing some time alone without me.'

‘Oh, Lizzie, I'm sorry. I'm sure it's not that, by the way. Jackson's nuts about you.' I bit my thumbnail as she rummaged amongst the shoes on the stall. ‘Sorry. I am a bit self-obsessed, aren't I?'

‘If truth be told, we all are. Now, what about these? Too bright?'

She
was holding up a pair of shocking-pink espadrilles with ribbons. When Madame's eyes were averted, she slipped them on her feet.

‘No. I mean, yes. When you get them home, probably.'

Lizzie hadn't known us in the old days, of course. Me and Max. Hadn't known how close we were. She was the wrong person. Lucy would have been better. But, on the other hand, Lizzie was the right person, because Rise Above was just what I should do, and what I'd decided to do only this morning.

I narrowed my eyes and looked into the distance. The market was crowded and packed with stalls under brightly striped awnings which stretched right to the end of the long, gravel square, where, on quieter days, old men played boules and chewed the fat in the sun. Ahead of us, Mum and Jean-Claude were sampling olives from an array of vast wooden barrels on a trestle table. They'd got here much earlier and rung us to say we might like it, this rare afternoon market, very much for the tourists, but quite fun. Lizzie, James and I had driven across to the exquisite hilltop town, perched like a bird of prey hovering over a valley, and made our way in the heat up the little cobbled streets to the top. I'd been pleased to get away, to have a change of scene; James and I were not good at lying by the pool these days, preferring to poke around monasteries and art galleries, as befitted our age, and this was a beautiful place to come. A magnificent church dominated one end of the square, a phalanx of ancient steps running up to its open door, and to either side an avenue of trees with mottled grey trunks provided some welcome shade under a canopy of thick green leaves. Just beyond the
right-hand row of trees a low stone wall ran the length of the square – and pretty much the town – in a typically casual French attempt to prevent one toppling down the dizzyingly steep hillside below. No barriers and hideous signs here. The stands were predominantly full of clothes and trinkets, the real commerce having been done yesterday morning, when steely-eyed madames had prodded glistening hams, plump artichokes and florid tomatoes with all the thoroughness of gem merchants. This was a far more flippant affair, and it occurred to me the girls would have liked it, but they'd been intent on their tans when I'd asked, forensically examining first-day white marks and studying factor numbers as if they were revising for exams, determined to go home bronzed.

The world jostled by in strappy tops, shorts and flip-flops under a blazing sun, but my tummy was tight. Up ahead I saw James, who wasn't a great shopper at the best of times, high on the church steps, probably contemplating taking a peek inside. It occurred to me that a moment's quiet reflection within a great dark chasm of peace was just what I needed right now. It might still my soul, bring a sense of proportion to my thoughts, which I knew was sadly lacking. Yes, a wander past the tombs of brave soldiers and Resistance fighters who'd had much tougher lives than me, the opportunity to light a candle for my family, with my husband by my side, could be just the ticket. I left Lizzie to her shoes and made my way through the crowd towards him. As I approached, I realized he was on his mobile. He was laughing and tossing back his head, running a hand through his fine fair hair. His face was alight, eyes bright.
I watched as he laughed out loud, then said, ‘
Au revoir
.' Au revoir? He pocketed his phone.

‘Who was that?'

‘What?' He turned. Looked startled. ‘Oh, hello, darling. It was Camille.'

‘Camille?'

‘Yes. Just wanted to know how it was going.'

‘Right. She rang yesterday, didn't she?'

‘Yes, well, it's the first time she's let the house out. She's obviously keen to know it's all going smoothly.'

‘She hasn't let it out, she's lent it to us. Surely Thérèse reports back?'

‘I've no idea. Anyway, she'll be here this evening.'

‘Here? With us?'

‘Yes, she's coming for dinner.'

‘But – but, James, I thought she was touring!'

‘She is, but her rehearsals are in Cannes. After all, that's where the first concert is. Didn't I say? She said she'd be with us about drinks time.'

‘But – do we want her?' I blurted. ‘How long is she staying?'

‘Well, obviously, the night, and then I've no idea.' He looked affronted. ‘It's her house, Flora, be reasonable.'

‘Yes, it is, but it's hardly our holiday at all, is it? Everyone assumes they've got carte blanche to invite whoever they please. It's a flipping free for all!'

I made to storm off, but he caught my arm. ‘Flora, you're behaving like a spoilt child. Just because Sally has found some happiness and the girls have brought their boyfriends –'

‘Oh,
I don't mind about that –'

‘And your mother has found a friend –'

‘Who you objected to, originally!'

‘Yes, but I had a good chat with him this morning, he's a nice chap. And now Camille is dropping by – what could be nicer? It's a huge house, and the more the merrier, surely? She's such a lovely, generous, warm-hearted person. I'm surprised at you.'

‘Are you? Well, that's because you didn't realize you were married to such an unlovely, ungenerous, cold-hearted person, isn't it?' I stormed off, shaking my arm free.

I shoved through the crowds, boiling with heat and rage, knowing I was behaving very badly. Knowing if this was Amelia – oh, I knew full well where her temperament came from – I'd be livid. Stall after stall of pretty bedlinen, summer dresses, scarves, baskets, Provençal tablecloths in beautiful, colourful prints which, ordinarily, would afford me huge pleasure, passed me by. On I marched. I badly wanted to be alone, but there were so many people and it was so hot, it was impossible. In the tatty jewellery section of the market, where smiling, over-bronzed Mediterraneans sold tin under the guise of silver, Jean-Claude was fingering a faded pink cameo brooch. I made to duck past without him seeing me, but he turned, caught my eyes with a disarming smile.

‘You think she like this?'

I stopped. Gazed. It was about the only pretty thing on the stand, and certainly the only thing with any age. I swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes, I think she would, Jean-Claude. If you mean my mother.'

‘I do. I wanted to thank her. It is so very kind of her to have me. And you, too, of course.'

‘Oh,
don't thank me, I'm just the tour guide,' I warbled. ‘Anyway, I thought you were bound for the market at Aix, not this one? Some urgent mission?'

‘I was, but no longer. I got here early when this market opened and all I need is here. Would you like to see? It's being kept for me.'

Oh, why not, I thought, not even bothering to show surprise about Aix: I'd known all along he was staying. He led me across to where another suntanned smiler had a clothing stall, brightly coloured slinky dresses dripping from a railed enclosure. The proprietor greeted Jean-Claude like a brother, her face creasing into a toothless grin, and Jean-Claude, having kissed her three times on both cheeks and indulged in some rapid formalities, moved across to whip away a blanket covering a huge mound in the corner. Beneath it were a cluster of applewood chairs, a pretty wrought-iron bedstead, a fruitwood table, an Aubusson rug, some tapestry cushions, a long length of faded velvet brocade curtain and a box of glasses.

‘Oh!' Despite my demeanour, I found myself drawn to the fabric. I crouched down and ran it between my fingers, feeling its luxurious weight. Then I picked up a thick wine goblet, turning it in my hand. ‘What lovely things. I haven't seen anything like this. Where did you find them?'

‘It was all over very quickly, in the first half-hour. The antiques dealers, they have gone now.'

I picked up an ancient pestle and mortar, enormous and heavy. Gorgeous.

He smiled. Crouched beside me. ‘You like your mother. You like these things.'

‘It's a family weakness.'

I
thought of my Clapham house, stuffed to the gunnels with just this sort of shabby-chic clutter, so that James complained that everything broke within seconds and the girls said they longed for the minimalist cool of their friends' houses, with clean lines and neutral colours and just the occasional flash of orange or lime green. But there was no soul in clean lines. No history. And I didn't like orange or lime green. I liked chipped ivory. Soft rose.

I straightened up. ‘Mum had a boyfriend once, in Paris. Philippe. We used to spend whole mornings buying mirrors and pictures in the
puce
at Saint-Ouen. Then we'd have lunch in Montmartre. Philippe wasn't really interested, but he loved Mum. So much.' I remembered him watching with pleasure as she browsed the stands, long blonde hair framing her remarkably beautiful face, always smiling, always happy, other men turning to stare. Women, too. ‘We'd spend hours trailing around with her. She'd buy whatever she wanted, and it was never expensive. An old book, a piece of lace. A china doll for me. It gets under your skin after a while.'

‘Those sound like happy times.' He was watching me keenly.

I remembered being wrapped in an old fur coat of Mum's, a steaming
chocolat chaud
in front of me, at an outdoor table at Chez Pommette, a mottled mirror propped beside us, the three of us laughing as we played spotting the dog most like its owner, Philippe declaring the winner a poodle and his camp master who minced past as if the most horrendous smell were under their noses. Then we'd go back to our apartment up the steep hill, to our creeper-clad building, where Philippe would cook
bouillabaisse, letting me help, showing me how to debeard mussels, clean clams. Make an aioli. I was reasonably convinced that my love of good food and cooking stemmed from these times.

‘Yes. They were.' I remembered always feeling safe and secure. Always with Mum, never parked with a nanny, which was surely all one could ask of childhood?

‘But yet you still wish it could have been otherwise?'

‘How did you know?'

He shrugged. ‘Just a hunch. A thatched cottage in the countryside, rows of running beans, the vicar coming to tea.'

I smiled. ‘Runner beans. And yes, I probably read too much. And yes, you're right, Jean-Claude, she did her best and I was ungrateful. Have always been ungrateful.'

‘That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying it's not good to be always looking over your shoulder with regret, thinking what might have been. Or what might be, one day. It is better to enjoy the moment.'

I never do that,' I said quickly. ‘Look back, I mean.' Was this really what I wanted? An in-depth chat with Mum's latest squeeze on the nature of my shortcomings? But his eyes were kind. I found myself liking this man and marvelling, as always, that, despite the turnover, Mum unerringly went for decent men. She was never one to play a victim to some bastard.

‘Let's get a coffee,' he said, sensing a shift in my mood. ‘And a cognac, maybe.'

I allowed myself to be led out of the teeming melee to an equally crowded café on the fringes of the market, under the plane trees, beside the old stone wall which
dropped away dramatically to the valley below. There was absolutely no chance of a table, except that, in the blink of an eye, and after some quick-fire conversation, Jean-Claude had procured one, out of the blazing sun, under an umbrella, right at the front so we could watch the world go by. He pulled up a third chair for my mother, who'd gone to look at some buttons, he told me.

‘I never knew this market yielded such treasures. It's years since I've been to Fayence. And Aix is so overdone, of course.'