Wish You Were Here (16 page)

Oh, please.

Thérèse and Michel served us as usual, providing fresh plates for the rabbit dish after we'd eaten the fish, but I did wonder why they didn't join us. I knew James had asked them. And surely Camille would want to spend time with her own family?

‘Apparently, they find it too stressful, cooking and eating. And, actually, I can understand that,' Lizzie, beside me, told me. ‘When you've slaved over the bloody thing, the last thing you want to do is flaming well eat it.'

‘That's true,' I said, remembering my own dinner parties. ‘It's just … Camille and Thérèse are sisters. It seems a bit master–servant.'

‘That's clearly the way it is,' she murmured. ‘They work for her, come what may. Interesting dynamic, isn't it?'

‘Very.'

‘And where's her man? It can't be that heavy I saw lurking earlier?'

‘No, he's in the kitchen having supper. She's divorced.'

‘Yes, I know, and, apparently her ex is gorgeous. Thérèse told me. Rich as Croesus, too, comes from some huge landowning family in Grasse. No, I just thought someone like her would inevitably have a guy in tow. The gossip
columns link her with Paul Merendes.' A famous film director. ‘She certainly seems to have the hots for James.'

Camille appeared to be reading my husband's palm now.

‘James saved her daughter's life, Lizzie. She's obviously grateful.'

Lizzie gave me a look. ‘I think we all know he stabbed her with an EpiPen, Flora. Even I could have done that.'

In bed that night I snuggled under James's arm, an unusual move for me, since James took any form of bodily contact, even a pat on the hand, as the green light for sex. He gave me a cuddle but didn't seem that interested in pursuing matters.

‘Camille's very entertaining, isn't she?' I remarked softly.

‘Great fun. And so kind and inclusive, don't you think? She could easily have eaten on her own tonight. I mean, who wants to get involved in someone's else's family? But she seemed to genuinely enjoy us.'

‘Well, she enjoys you, darling,' I said lightly into his armpit.

He laughed. ‘Oh, hardly.'

I prodded his chest playfully. ‘Laughs at all your jokes, hangs on your every word. Picks your medical brains, too.'

‘That's because her voice is so important. She wanted to know the internal workings of the larynx and the effect of vibration on the thorax.'

‘I'll give you vibration on the thorax,' I murmured suggestively, nudging him.

‘It's all to do with the cumulative effect of the muscles, of course. Which I explained.'

‘Well,
of course. You're the man to do that.' Piqued, I rolled away. ‘What with your particular area of expertise being at the opposite end of the human body.' There was a silence.

‘As you well know, I trained in every single area of physiology before I specialized. The larynx is something I was particularly drawn to.'

‘Depending on who it belongs to.'

He paused. ‘Are you peeved, Flora?'

‘What, that Camille de Bouvoir finds you fascinating? Not in the least.'

‘Only there's an edge to your voice. You're the one usually telling me to stop telling everyone I specialize in athlete's foot and big up my medical credentials. And now that I am, you're squashing me.'

‘I am not squashing you, I'm teasing you. Do calm down, James, you're reacting like a schoolboy.'

‘I'm reacting because it occurs to me that you don't like not being the centre of attention.'

‘Centre of att—?' I sat up. Snapped on the light. ‘Centre of attention – me? When? When am I ever the centre of attention? When am I ever anything other than the girls' mother, your wife, Susie's daughter –'

‘Oh, you're being ridiculous. And full of rather unattractive self-pity, too. I was right. Jealous.'

‘
Jealous?
' I shrieked. ‘What, because some heavy-breasted opera singer turns her headlights on you, and reads your palm and –'

‘Mum.' The door flew open. Tara appeared, looking horrified. ‘Can I just say, these walls are, like, paper thin. We can hear every word.'

‘We?'
I roared. ‘Who's we, Tara?'

She coloured dramatically. Was about to stutter something, but not before I'd flung back the covers, reared out of bed and swept past her. I threw open her door. Inside, Amelia, Rory and Toby, all fully clothed, were huddled on her bed, watching a film on her laptop. I blanched. Pulled down the old Primark number which, as we have already established, was very short.

‘Mum, you seriously need to have a word with yourself,' Amelia told me, her eyes cold. ‘You're out of control at the moment. And you need to
stop
bullying Dad.'

Speechless, I slammed the door shut, which meant Tara had to open it again to get back in. She shot me a filthy look. At that moment, the door behind me opened and Sally appeared in a pretty pink camisole and boxer shorts. She smiled nervously, clearly wondering what all the rumpus was about, then retreated back inside to report.

I flung myself back into bed, snapping off the light, feeling murderous. I turned away from James, who already had his back to me.

‘Caught them all at it?' he asked. ‘Got it on video?'

I ignored him, my heart pounding. Then I clamped my eyes and my teeth shut and counted to a hundred. I tried to sleep, but my heart was racing. Also, what had started as light mutterings and muffled laughter next door had fallen mysteriously silent. I tried not to listen and wished I had my earplugs, which had fallen under the bed. After a bit, I heard more muffled laughter, then someone pulled the lavatory chain. A few moments later, the chain went again. I put my pillow over my head and tried to go to sleep.

When I awoke the next morning, James's side of the
bed was empty. A beam of bright light was streaming through a gap in the curtains. It was like being woken by the Gestapo. Indeed, it was so bright it must be quite late, I realized, turning to peer at the clock. Twenty past ten. Why hadn't James woken me? Oh. Yes. There'd been a bit of a row. Deflated, I gazed out of the open window. The sky was clear and blue and the scent of all things warm and Mediterranean wafted through. Voices, too, from the terrace below. Laughter. I was missing out, something I've never been good at. I dragged myself out of bed, reckoning I was averaging about six hours sleep a night, which wasn't ideal on what was supposed to be a holiday, and lumbered off to the shower.

By the time I got downstairs, nearly everyone had gone. As I emerged through the French windows on to the terrace, Drummond and Rachel were just getting up and leaving the table. The Brig greeted me delightedly, with a wave of his stick.

‘Flora! How lovely that you slept in. We saved you some brekka.'

‘Thanks, Drummond. Did you sleep well?'

‘Like a log, my dear. Best sleep I've had for months. Must be the air. James and the others have gone to Seillans, asked me to tell you. Two cars – the whole shooting match went in the end. So kind of Camille. Even the
Kinder
got up early!'

‘Oh. Right. Of course. I'd forgotten.'

‘They didn't want to wake you. James said you'd had a bad night.'

‘Yes. I see.'

‘Plenty
of time,' Rachel said kindly. ‘We're here for ages. I'll come with you tomorrow, if you like? Daddy will be fine without me, won't you?'

‘Right as rain! You girls go tomorrow. I'm happy as a sand boy under the trees with the
Telegraph
. Rory gets it for me on his laptop, you know – how about that?'

‘Yes. It's … amazing.'

‘Do you want to go today?' asked Rachel, ever sensitive.

‘No, no. I think I'll – just go for a wander, actually. Round here. Around the vineyards, you know. Maybe go to that chapel we passed.'

‘Well, don't leave it too late, the sun's getting up,' called Drummond as they carried on their way through the house and on upstairs to attend to their ablutions. I sat down at the breakfast table alone in the sun. It was a still life of broken bread, jam pots and hastily discarded coffee, all abandoned as people pressed on with their day. In my present mood, I realized, the tableau could easily lead to introspection, which was the last thing I wanted. I rose quickly and went to the kitchen to make myself a coffee, drinking it standing up, burning the roof of my mouth, but keen to get on.

Michel appeared from behind a door. ‘Good morning.' I'd swear he winked as he said it.

Rude not to wink back, but I resisted and smiled brightly. ‘Morning, Michel! A beautiful one.'

‘Would you like me to warm a croissant for you?' he murmured, moving closer.

‘Er – no, I think I'll skip breakfast. Do me good.' I patted my well-upholstered tummy out of nerves, and his eyes
travelled over my body. Instinctively, I sucked everything in. Slowly, his gaze came up. He looked me in the eye.

‘As you wish.' He shot me a look from under dark brows, and my eyelashes fairly sizzled with the heat. It occurred to me that if I'd said, ‘But if you wouldn't mind popping upstairs …' it would be considered perfectly acceptable; all in a day's work for a Frenchman.

Instead, I hastily put my cup in the dishwasher, aware of his eyes still trailing over me, amused, no doubt at this pale Englishwoman's discomfort. I grabbed my phone from the island then escaped upstairs to find my purse, a sunhat and a couple of aspirins for the headache that was already threatening.

A few minutes later I was padding down another set of stairs at the far end of the corridor, stairs which I now realized led up to Camille's tower. I emerged through a side door into a vegetable garden I hadn't even known existed. Neat rows of beans and courgettes stretched out before me, and a gravel path ran through the middle. Presumably, it ran parallel with the drive. I took it and, after a moment, the front gate was in my sights. Who knows where I'll wander, I thought, with a vague sense of mounting excitement. It would be an adventure. A lovely morning alone in a vast, dreamy, Provençal landscape, the sights and smells of which would be enough to suffocate any niggling feelings of jealousy. Oh yes, James had been right, as he so often was. But jealous of whom – Camille? Not for one moment. My daughters, perhaps, with their newly burgeoning love lives? Happily, no, although some friends of mine ticked that box. My mother, then, with yet another beau falling at her feet, yet another exciting start? No.
Who, then? Sally? Was it she who was making my heart beat so fast, my head ache so ominously? I hastened on to the gate.

When I'd made it to the lane, on an impulse I turned left. I walked fast, swinging my arms briskly. Glorious vineyards lined my route, some with single rose bushes at the end denoting, what – the vintage? I didn't know. James would, I thought with a smile. I'd ask him. As I pressed on, the vines gave way to huge swathes of lavender, ready to be harvested, swaying gently in the breeze and humming with bees. The smell was unbelievable. I breathed deeply, taking it right down into my lungs. A tiny part of me was aware that I should take heed of where I was going, remember which turns down these country lanes I was taking, and on no account should I get lost. But I was walking quite fast, for the ridiculous reason that I was a tiny bit apprehensive. As I'd emerged from the vegetable garden I'd seen Michel, behind his green-bean canes. He'd watched me go. For some reason, I wanted to get a move on. Put some distance between us.

As I progressed down the lane, a silly thought occurred, which was that every so often, as I rounded a sharp bend, out of the corner of my eye I'd catch sight of the bright-blue cotton shirt Michel was wearing. I came to a junction and realized with relief that one lane was signposted to the village. It surely wasn't far. From there, I could get a taxi back, if I was exhausted. I took the turn gratefully. Now and again, almost testing myself, I'd turn my head quickly. No. It had been my imagination. I ploughed on down the hill. This had been a wonderful idea, I decided, still swinging my arms. Getting away from
everyone. Away from the irritants of family life, giving myself time to regroup and come back loving them. I was so glad I hadn't gone to Seillans.

Down into the valley I plunged, the chapel just visible on the horizon, a silhouette in the distance. Too far to walk: the village on the main road was a much better idea. And I'd have a coffee in the shade. I passed a spectacular field of sunflowers, their huge yellow heads bobbing as if in greeting, and then the vines again, mile upon mile of them, as far as the eye could see.

Eventually, I came to another junction, happily still signposted to the main road, but this time, hot and exhausted, I sat for a moment on the small, parched triangle of grass at its base. I leaned my head back on the post. As I did, I turned. There, in the distance, an unmistakable flash of blue caught my eye, before it quickly disappeared behind a tree.

I
got to my feet abruptly. I wasn't seeing things. That had been a blue shirt topped by a tanned face, and it had darted out of sight. I must have walked well over a mile by now, and I was in the middle of vast open countryside, vineyards stretching unceasingly, acres and acres of them, and Michel was following me amongst them. I'd press on. The sign said ‘D234', the village couldn't be far, and maybe he was just walking there, too? Maybe that was what he did on a Monday. But something about his eyes in the kitchen and the way he'd looked at me when I'd patted my tummy – did that mean something in French? Take me? Give me a baby? – bothered me.

I hastened on, dry-mouthed, relieved I'd brought a hat. The sun was beating down. Every so often, I glanced around and, for a while, I wouldn't be able to see him. I told myself he'd gone another way. Then – oh God, there he was again, gaining on me: not running, but making up ground steadily, with a long stride. I hurried along the hot tarmac. The countryside was completely deserted, not even the rumble of a 2CV in the distance, not even a Jean-Pierre wobbling on a bicycle, although I had passed a man on one earlier. Suddenly, I remembered I'd walked blatantly through the middle of Michel's vegetable garden. Perhaps he thought
I'd
come looking for
him
? I went hot. Stumbled on.

Actually,
it was fine, I decided: because just around the next bend, this road would yield houses, the beginnings of a village; the sign had suggested as much. I was on the right track. It wouldn't be far, and I was being stupid. Patting my tummy meant I was fat in any language, and I'd wager people took that short cut through his garden all the time. It was an obvious route from that side door. And he was undoubtedly going to the village himself, perhaps on an errand for Thérèse. He probably had a shopping basket. I turned. He didn't. His hands were empty. And he was gaining on me. Still not running, but walking very fast, determinedly. I'd never seen Michel move anything but stealthily and quietly; he crept up on one like a cat. Only last night I'd found him behind me in the dark corridor upstairs when I'd slipped up for my lipstick, not bothering to turn on the light. Camille had appeared from her room at the far end, and he'd disappeared, but the more I knew Michel, the more I realized his opening gambit that first day – ‘The nights are lonely' – had not been a linguistic solecism. He knew the English for ‘evening' and ‘night'. I gulped.

Well, if he was going to the village, he certainly wouldn't follow me down this track, would he? My eyes darted left across the vineyard. On an impulse, I plunged through a gap between the vines, still heading in the right direction, but as if taking a short cut. I couldn't see if he'd followed – I was running now, under the relentless rays – because dripping grapes and dense foliage obscured my vision, but the fifth or sixth time I turned around, stumbling over ruts in the sun-baked clay, he was coming through the vines, too, jogging menacingly down the track behind me.

I
was incredibly scared. I was running quite fast, and dripping wet. My hat flew off and I didn't stop – neither did he, I noticed, as I glanced over my shoulder, to see that he was gaining on me, his eyes intent and glittering with purpose. I wanted to shout, scream –
Help!
– but no one would hear me and I'd secluded myself totally with this screen of vines. I put my head down and sprinted, hearing him now – oh dear God – behind me. Abruptly, the tunnel of green yielded light, and I was on to a road, which would be empty of traffic, I knew, but was something other than this terrifying tunnel. I could almost hear his breath in my ear, and I raced as I've never done before. As I made it to the road, Michel almost upon me, almost able to grab me by the collar, a car, by the gift of God, rounded the corner towards us. I spread myself like a starfish in the middle of the road, found what little breath I had left and screamed, ‘
HELP
!
'

It all but careered into me. It stopped, just short – only just – and I collapsed on to the bonnet, sobbing, clinging to the silver paintwork. In an instant the driver's door flew open.

‘What the –?' Max got out. Max, in khaki chinos, a white linen shirt and sunglasses, which he whipped from his face. He looked horrified, pale under his tan. ‘Flora! Dear God.'

He hurried around and I threw myself at him: clung to his chest, sopping wet, sobbing with fear and relief, unable to say anything except ‘Michel' in a strangled gasp.

And Michel was indeed amongst us; bent double, clutching his knees, panting. Sally, too, as she emerged from the passenger seat of the car, elegant in a pale-blue dress. Her hand went to her mouth.

‘Flora –
what's happened?'

‘Michel,' I managed. ‘Followed me, from the house. Chased me. Through fields. Oh, thank God you've come.' I was still clamped like a limpet to Max. I had no idea I could feel so frightened.

‘She took the wrong phone,' panted Michel, holding his side, his face wracked with exhaustion. ‘Took Thérèse's, by mistake, from the island in the kitchen. I came after her. Thérèse worried she get lost; the Brigadier, he say she gone to the chapel. So far. Madness. Then she begun to run. I was worried, thought she'd gone mad. The sun maybe. Crazy lady ran through middle of vineyard' – he turned to point back to where we'd come from – ‘she never find a way out. Like a labyrinth! I run after her, but she fled. I so worried, think she ill.'

He did indeed look incredibly concerned. All three of them did: Sally, in her pretty blue dress, sunglasses off now, peering; Max, whose chest I managed to prise myself from, gazing down at me with anxious, lovely eyes; Michel, still heaving, holding out my phone, bewildered.

I stared at it, trembling, stupefied. Put my hand into my skirt pocket. Brought out an identical iPhone, but not mine. Thérèse's. We swapped silently.

‘You scared me,' I whispered.

Michel looked more than concerned now. He looked taken aback.

‘I so sorry. You think … ?'

It took another moment for the penny to drop. I watched it clatter down. Watched him comprehend completely and look aghast. I felt so ashamed. Mortified.

‘Camille, she will –' he stuttered.

‘This
doesn't have to get to Camille,' Max said firmly. ‘Nothing's happened here. Flora had a fright, that's all.' He had an arm around my shoulders in a comforting, brotherly way. I could feel my trembling desist. ‘But no harm has been done. She simply got the wrong end of the stick, as so often happens.'

Did it? Max and Sally shepherded me gently into the back of the car, as if I were a day-release patient. Then Michel got in. He'd resisted initially, saying he'd rather walk, but they weren't having it. He practically sat on the door, so anxious was he not to be near me. Do these things often happen, I wondered? Or was I losing my mind? Kind, thoughtful gardener, brother-in-law of generous hostess, hurries to give guest correct phone lest she finds herself hopelessly lost in unfamiliar landscape, whereupon she breaks into a gallop and fears she's going to be attacked. How common was that?

We drove back in silence. I felt numb, if I'm honest. So relieved it was all over, but knowing, somehow, it wasn't. That it was only the beginning.

On the gravel sweep in front of the house, the car stopped. Sally, annoyingly, nipped round and helped me out of the back. I tried to shake her off, but she insisted, and I'd swear she put her hand over my head, like they do in police dramas. Fear and shame were rapidly turning to a feeling that I'd been extremely foolish. And Sally was evidently enjoying herself. A shaken Michel got out, too, and Max had some quiet man talk to him, about how he wasn't to worry – no doubt, hysterical females featured; no doubt, he was apologizing on my behalf – I couldn't really hear. I was too busy trying to get rid of Sally, who was escorting
me through the hall and up the main staircase, one arm round my shoulders, the other hand holding my elbow.

‘I'm fine, Sally, thank you.'

‘Have a shower and a lie down.'

‘I will.'

‘And drink a lot. You'll have lost fluid with all that sweating.'

‘I know.'

‘And a couple of aspirins.'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll get them for you.'

‘I have some.'

‘Mine are very strong. You'll need them.'

‘I have strong ones.'

‘Mine are prescription.'

‘I'm married to a doctor. I've got fucking knock-out drops.'

‘There's no need to swear. I know you're distressed, but you must stay calm. Try.'

Eventually, at my bedroom door, I shook her off. I showered long and hard, warm then cool. Then I wrapped myself in a huge towel and lay on the bed, staring up at the ceiling.

At length, James and the others returned. I heard the cars beneath my window and the doors slamming. Voices were high and exuberant, but then I heard Max's voice, quite low, and their voices lowered, too, to hushed tones. After a bit, there were footsteps on the stairs, and James came into the room, white-faced.

‘Good God, darling, are you all right?'

I silently thanked him for that.

‘Yes.
I am now. Just got a fright.'

I propped myself up a bit as he sat on the bed beside me. ‘Poor, poor you.' He took my hand. ‘But why did you think … ?'

‘I don't know. I just panicked, I suppose. He sort of … twinkled at me, in the kitchen. And before.'

‘Twinkled?' He looked horrified.

‘Oh, no, not that. With his eyes.'

‘Oh.' His face cleared with relief. Then he frowned. ‘And you thought …'

‘Well, I didn't know what to think, James. This man, racing after me through the countryside.'

‘But why were you rushing off alone anyway?'

‘I wasn't rushing, I went for a walk. You'd all gone, and I didn't want a solitary morning by the pool.'

‘Dad and Rachel were here.'

‘Yes, under a tree, reading. Which didn't really appeal.'

‘So you thought you'd stomp off in a show of defiance?'

‘No! Not at all. I just fancied a walk.'

‘It's three miles to the village from here, Flora. In the midday sun –'

‘I had a hat, and sunscreen, and money and a phone. Or so I thought.'

He got up off the bed and crossed to the window. Gazed out. After a moment, he came back, lips pursed. He looked down at me. ‘It's incredibly serious for a man to be accused of sexual harassment … you know that, don't you?'

‘I didn't accuse him!'

‘I know, but –'

‘Whose side are you on?'

‘I'm just saying that Michel is very distressed.'

‘
I'm
distressed!'

The
door flew open. Amelia came in. Nodded above the bed. ‘Window's open, Mum. Calm down. We're all on the terrace.' She leaned across and shut it. Sat down on the bed beside me. ‘Are you OK?'

‘No, I am not. Your father thinks I've deliberately tried to incriminate an innocent man.'

‘Oh, don't be ridiculous,' retorted James.

‘Max said you were very scared,' said Amelia.

‘I was. But I thought it was going to be kept quiet. Camille …'

‘Michel broke down, upset. Camille heard. Max had to explain. And Sally helped, obviously.'

‘Obviously.'

James turned to Amelia. ‘Apparently, he twinkled at your mother.'

Amelia frowned. ‘Twinkled?'

‘Gave me the eye,' I muttered, feeling incredibly foolish.

‘Oh God, he flirts with all of us. Frenchmen do that. Did he say anything?'

I cast my mind back to the conversation in the kitchen. ‘Well, he – he asked me if I'd like a croissant warmed.'

James got off the bed. I saw him exchange a look with his daughter. ‘I think we'll just draw a line under this, don't you? Forget about it. Come on, darling, come down. We're all going to have a late lunch. But I think you should apologize to Michel.'

‘God, yes,' spluttered Amelia, in a voice that suggested her father had been far too restrained. ‘This is beyond embarrassing, Mum. You need to get out more.' James
shot her a warning look as, with a flounce, she left the room. He hesitated, then followed her.

The door, as he closed it, blew the window above my head open again; it had been shut, but not clasped. From the terrace, hushed voices drifted up: Amelia had clearly rejoined the young and was recounting the drama from my viewpoint. There was a pause when she'd finished.

‘She's at that difficult age, of course.' My daughter Tara – the good one – observed.

‘Does that send women bonkers?' Rory asked.

‘Can do,' Toby replied soberly. ‘My mum went totally mental.'

‘Maybe she's fantasizing?' Tara said. I imagined a huge and general sucking in of cigarettes as they all gave this some thought. ‘How did she look?'