Wish You Were Here (17 page)

‘Awful. Crazy. And naked, but for a towel.'

I leaped up on the bed. Flung wide the window. ‘
I have had a shower!
'

Unfortunately, my towel dropped as I held the window. I snatched it up. Slammed the window shut and fastened the clasp. Silence from below.

I fumbled around the room, finding some clean clothes, my hands fluttery and trembly. As soon as I was dressed, I went downstairs and out on to the terrace. Everyone avoided my eye, even Tara, who could always be relied upon. The Brig and Rachel approached from the trees where they'd been doing the
Telegraph
crossword, and a general look flew around that they didn't need to know, and shouldn't be told. Camille and Lizzie were absent. At length, they emerged from the house together; they'd
clearly been talking. Camille, with perfect manners, sat next to me and patted my hand.

‘Poor you. What a fright.'

I glanced at her gratefully, but her eyes told me she didn't mean it. She was livid.

‘I'm so sorry,' I stuttered. ‘Feel such a fool.'

This helped a bit. But not much. She nodded. Didn't speak.

‘I'll go and apologize.'

She held my wrist in a vice-like grip under the table. ‘Not yet. He is very upset.'

Lizzie slid in on the other side of me. ‘It's fine,' she muttered, flicking her napkin out on her lap. ‘They're making a meal of it.'

I thanked her with my eyes. Mum and Jean-Claude drifted back late from Seillans, and as they sat down, chatting away about what a lovely time they'd had, we all tucked into huge platters of charcuterie and melon and tomato salad as if nothing had happened. Thérèse, though, when she came to remove the plates and replace them with fresh ones for a plum tart, banged mine down so hard it nearly broke. Everyone round the table jumped. Her eyes, when I glanced up at them, were glittering with fury, as I'm sure mine would be if someone had accused James of something similar.

Years ago, James had asked a nurse, in the operating theatre – in a pass-the-scalpel moment – if she'd had a good weekend. She'd replied that she'd had a lovely time punting with her boyfriend, and James had jokingly said he didn't need the details. She'd reported him to the disciplinary committee for inappropriate behaviour. James had
come home ashen-faced. He'd gone straight to the sideboard and had a large whisky, which he never did. He'd actually had to restrain me from driving to the hospital and beating the door down. The disciplinary committee! My kind, gentle James! I knew how Thérèse felt and shrivelled under her angry gaze. I didn't touch my tart either, in case she'd spat in it.

After lunch I had a long discussion with Lizzie, not in my room, where the world clearly overheard, but at the bottom of the garden in the olive grove, where only a donkey grazed. In the shade of an ancient, crooked tree, perched on a heap of stones, amidst prickly dry grass and chattering cicadas, I cried, and she hugged me. I explained, and she got it, but no one else would. We were the only two middle-aged women here. Sally and Rachel didn't count somehow. But Lizzie understood.

‘But you'll have to apologize, I'm afraid. Just so it doesn't look like you still believe it.'

‘I don't.' I wiped my eyes.

‘I know, which is why you have to.'

‘I know.' I clutched my tissue. ‘Will Thérèse be there, d'you think?'

‘I don't know. But I'll come with you. Come on. Let's get it over with.'

We got up and went around the side of the chateau to the front drive. As we walked up to the lodge house, my heart pounded.

Thérèse came out. Perhaps she'd been waiting for us, watching from the window. Either way, she stood on the front step, tiny, inscrutable and, on closer inspection, quite lined, unlike her tanned, smooth-skinned husband.
She was wearing a printed dress with an apron tied firmly over the top, which I'd never seen her wear before. It seemed symbolic somehow: as if it were to remind me that they were subservient and defenceless. It occurred to me this could have been turned into a joke: ‘You thought what? Oh, Flora, you are
priceless
! Listen, everyone, Flora thought he was chasing her for her body!' Why hadn't it been? It also occurred to me that at no point had Michel shouted, ‘
Votre portable!
' Waved it in the air. I spoke French. I'd have understood.

Thérèse listened as, falteringly, I explained, then she went to get Michel. I clearly wasn't to be allowed in. He came out and stood, head bowed, in servile attitude, as I apologized profusely, Lizzie beside me.

When I'd finished, he nodded, looked a bit sad, but said he accepted my apology and was sorry for having frightened me. Which was nice of him.

We turned to go but, as we did, Agathe appeared. She slid into the doorway to take her uncle's hand. As she looked up at me, I caught my breath. Side by side, I could see that her eyes were identical to Michel's. Her mouth, too: sullen, yet full and sensual. There was a striking resemblance.

‘Lizzie, did you see that?' I breathed, once we were safely out of earshot, hurrying away down the drive.

‘What?'

‘The child, Agathe. So like Michel!'

She shrugged. ‘A bit. But a lot of French children have that surly, Mediterranean look.'

‘Lizzie – she's the
image
of him!' I was fired up.

Lizzie
swallowed. She hesitated, then gave me a funny look as we approached the house. Paused a moment. ‘Maybe don't lie by the pool this afternoon, Flora. I'd keep out of the sun for a while. You've had a nasty shock.'

She gave me a quick hug, but then went on her way to the pool, looking thoughtful.

Of course, it hadn't escaped my notice that I'd clung to Max like a barnacle. Drenched his shirt, no doubt, with my sweat, but he hadn't cared: he'd held on tight with strong, protective arms like men do in the movies. He hadn't peeled himself off. Not even when Sally got out of the car. Well, you wouldn't, would you? If someone was that distressed?

I thought about this, and about other things, as I sat under the walnut trees with Rachel, in her quiet spot. She was fair-skinned and only troubled the pool to swim once a day, when no one else was about; otherwise, she sat here with Drummond and read or sewed. He'd gone for a siesta now. Others had, too. Lizzie, Mum, JC, Max and Sally – the latter for a siesta
complet
perhaps, as James and I used laughingly to call it. And the young were catching rays by the pool. Rachel and I sat in companionable silence, her embroidering and me pretending to read, remembering occasionally to turn the page. Thank God for a quiet sister-in-law. What I wanted, more than anything, was to be alone, with my crackpot theories and ideas, to mull over my derangements in peace, but I knew I couldn't do that on a family holiday. Knew it would look odd. Look where it had got me this morning? I knew I couldn't self-indulgently draw attention to myself by going on another long walk, or by driving to a deserted monastery or finding a church
to poke around; everyone would raise their eyebrows. I had to stay put, at least for a bit, and being with Rachel was the nearest thing to solitude, just as being with Sally was the nearest thing to being in a crowd. It was a wonder James was so normal with such siblings. Except, at the moment, I hated him, of course, so he wasn't. He was odd, too.

I watched surreptitiously over my paperback as Rachel stitched her tapestry. What passions boiled beneath that smooth, pale brow, I wondered, the one she presented coolly to the world? This wasn't the eighteenth century: surely it wasn't enough for her to be the unmarried sister, alone in a Scottish pile caring for her aging father, going to church, visiting the elderly in the village, dabbling with her watercolours? James and I had discussed it at length, and he'd always assured me it was, before changing the subject. His family was off limits. A closed book. We couldn't know everything about the person we were married to – I respected that – and I knew they'd suffered a terrible trauma, but I'd had an unusual upbringing too, and I was completely transparent. Too much so, probably. And although it all tumbled out of Sally, it was generally rubbish, as if she covered herself with garbage and hid beneath it, so one never knew what made her tick either. Both sisters were opaque in different ways.

I was rarely alone with Rachel, and if I'd been my normal self I'd have relished the opportunity to ask questions, enquire gently if she was happy with her lot, but I wasn't, so I didn't. I was the one with the problems, not her.

‘I don't suppose you'd like to drive into Callian, would you, Rachel? There's a chateau that's supposed to be quite
interesting. We could have a drink and be back in time for supper.'

‘Flora, I'd love to, but I promised Daddy I'd go tomorrow, it's on the way to Seillans. He's really looking forward to it. Apparently, it's got a moat. We're going to set off early, before the sun gets too much. It might take the gloss off it if I'd already been with you. Come with us in the morning?'

‘Yes. Yes, I might.'

We left it at that.

A little while later, probably twenty minutes or so, a shadow fell over my book. I looked up. Max was there in a dark-blue shirt. He smiled.

‘Would either of you ladies like to come into Callian? There's a church worth seeing, twelfth century. We could have a drink.'

‘And a chateau,' smiled Rachel, putting down her work. ‘Flora and I were just saying; it's all in the guidebooks in the kitchen. Do go, Flora,' she urged. ‘You'd love it. Don't wait for us.'

‘Is Sally coming?' I shaded my eyes up at him. I absolutely knew I didn't want to go with him and Sally and frantically searched my head for an excuse.

‘Sally's asleep. I think I'm going to leave her. Do her good to rest.'

Why, was she pregnant, I wondered wildly?

I nodded. ‘Sure. I'll come.'

Why not. My heart was pounding, though, as I closed my book. I'd clung on to that shirt quite tightly. Not the clean one he was wearing now, the one in the bottom of his wardrobe, in a heap, or in a linen bag, if Sally was that organized.

‘I'll get my bag.'

‘OK. See you at the car. Let's take mine.'

‘Fine.' As if it were a perfectly normal thing to do.

We walked back towards the house together, peeling apart as I went upstairs.

In our room, James was flat on his back on the bed, snoring for England, catching flies. I crept around, finding my straw bag, a hat, changing my shoes, looking in the mirror in the bathroom. My face was a little flushed, so I dabbed some translucent powder on. I brushed my hair, still long – too long probably, for my age, but heavily highlighted now to hide the grey. I studied my reflection, wondering why. Knowing why. I added some lipstick. Rubbed it off hastily. And no scent. But it was hot, so I did blast more deodorant under my arms.

I crept out, shutting the door softly. On the landing, I met Drummond.

‘Going out?' he asked, looking at the straw bag over my shoulder.

‘Yes, to Callian. Have a poke around.'

‘Ah – with Max. Yes, he asked me earlier, but Rachel and I are going tomorrow. Nice chap. Have fun, my dear.'

And on he went. Right. So when Max had asked both me and Rachel, it was in the certain knowledge that Rachel would decline. I paused for a moment, uncertain, my hand on the polished banister rail. I wasn't far from my room, and the girls were right about the acoustics. I could hear James's snores as if I were right next to him. It wasn't the most seductive of noises. In a twinkling I was tripping downstairs – like Cinderella off to the ball, except in wedged espadrilles, not satin slippers, oh, and my new sundress,
which I'd quickly changed into in the bathroom but neglected to mention just now – down the majestic stone staircase, across the flagstone hall. Ancestors glared down in a censorial manner from gloomy oils as I went, and I wondered how many far more glamorous mesdemoiselles had escaped thus, under their disapproving gaze amid the crossed swords and suits of armour, on secret assignations?

Max had put the roof down on his car, and I slid in beside him. We exchanged a quick, hopefully not too complicit, smile. As we sailed down the long gravel drive, through the iron gates at the end, and purred along the lane between the vineyards, I felt exhilarated. Safe, too, which was strange, given who I was with, but Max and I knew each other extremely well: knew we could sit in silence for a bit and not make small talk, just let the warm wind whip through our hair, the heady scent of sunflowers and lavender wash over us. It helped that we'd been in each other's company for a few days already, softening the shock of being together again after all these years. As we slowed down to go through a tiny hamlet, an old woman dressed in black hobbled out to cross the road, her equally elderly chihuahua on a lead beside her. Midway, the dog decided to relieve itself. We waited. And waited. Madame glared at us.

‘D'you get the impression she's indignant we're even watching?' murmured Max.

‘Possibly the crossest Frenchwoman I've seen to date.'

‘Steady. The competition for that title is stiff.'

‘Oh, really? Are they notoriously bad-tempered?'

‘Suspicious is more the word I'd use. But they have good cause to be. Their husbands are rascals.'

‘That's what Mum says.'

‘Sensible woman, your mum.'

I smiled. Looked at his profile a moment. I took a strand of hair from my mouth. ‘Max, I was really sorry to hear about your mother.'

He nodded. Didn't look at me, though. ‘Lucy?'

‘Yes.'

Finally, he turned his head. Gave me a sad little smile. ‘Thanks, Flossie.'

His old nickname for me. It took my breath away for a moment, but he'd said it without thinking.

‘Cancer?'

‘Yes.' He looked straight ahead again. ‘I gather you wrote to my dad.'

‘Yes. I was so fond of her.'

‘I know. Thanks for that. He appreciated it.' Madame finally achieved the other side of the road, and we drove on. After a while, Max's mouth twitched. ‘Notice you didn't write to me, though.'

‘Well, I –'

‘Didn't want to give me ideas?' He turned and gave me his wolfish grin.

‘Oh, don't be ridiculous!'

He roared with laughter. ‘Still so easy to tweak!'

I shook my head wearily, but found it hard not to smile, and the mood in the car was light as we drove into the beautiful town of Callian. We climbed up and up, snaking around the steep hill to the medieval town perched on top. Both sides of the road were already chock-a-block with parked cars, some at crazy angles.

‘
Centre ville
, d'you think?' suggested Max.

‘You mean in the total absence of spaces?'

He shrugged. ‘Fortune favours the brave.'

Miraculously, it did. As we approached the city wall, which was draped with pretty bunting to announce that the town was
en fête
, a car drew out of a space just next to the old gates. Max reversed in expertly, but it was tight. I swivelled round to help him.

‘About two foot.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Stop –
cripes
!' He'd nearly hit the car behind. When he'd finished the manoeuvre he turned.

‘Did you just say cripes?' he asked incredulously.

‘I was going for Christ and changed my mind,' I admitted, busted.

‘Thank you for not blaspheming, Flossie. I'm a sensitive chap and I'd have been truly shocked.'

I narrowed my eyes at him as we got out of the car. ‘Don't push it, Max.'

‘What d'you mean?' He looked at me with mock-bafflement.

‘The Flossie business.'

‘I called you that earlier!'

‘That was different. Don't take advantage.'

‘Why ever not?' He roared delightedly as he locked the car. ‘Haven't you seen the flags?' He nodded up at the bunting. ‘It's open season!'

More head-shaking and lip-biting from me as, together, we sailed on through the ancient archway into town.

Strange how the years rolled back. We could have been walking down Marville Road to Mum's for a drink in our
old trainers, or coming back from walking the dogs at his parents' house, strolling down the lane, our hands brushing cow parsley heads, in time for lunch. No nerves, no need to explain anything, just a lot to find out. I think we both knew we weren't going to the chateau, which was on the other side of the hill, or the medieval church in the Latin quarter. Instead, Max headed for one of the narrow side streets off the main square, as yet not particularly crowded, its restaurants still laid with paper cloths for drinks, not white linen for supper.

We found a pretty place with a raised terrace and a pagoda dripping with grapevines. There were a few empty tables outside. The waiter arrived almost immediately, pleased to have some custom, and Max ordered a beer for him and a glass of rosé for me. When he'd gone, he took off his sunglasses, folded his arms on the zinc table and leaned across. He smiled. Right into my eyes.

‘So.'

‘So.'

‘How have you been?'

‘For the last twenty-odd years? Fine. Apart from today.'

‘Oh, today.' He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Crossed wires. A mountain out of a molehill. Too much fuss made about nothing. I'm not interested in that, I want to know about the rest of your life. Quite a lot to catch up on, one way and another.' Our drinks arrived and he took a sip of beer.

‘Not really. Only if it's complicated,' I told him. ‘Mine's pretty straightforward. I could probably do it in about five sentences.'

He smiled. ‘OK. Go.'

‘No, you.'

‘What, from the beginning? In my case, we'll be here all night.'

‘Edited highlights, then.'

He paused. And, as he did, I studied his face. A few lines, obviously, and he was going grey at the temples. His hair was swept back instead of flopping forward in a fringe which he used to push back impatiently. His cheeks were slightly more sunken, but that only highlighted the good bones. It suited him. He gazed beyond me in thought. Came back and flashed me that grin.

‘Well, you dumped me, obviously.'

‘Obviously. You cheated on me.'

‘I made a tiny mistake.' He held his thumb and forefinger a centimetre apart. ‘A small slip.'

I winced. ‘Unfortunate analogy.'

He inclined his head, accepting this. ‘Anyway, there was no forgiveness from you. No Christian mercy.'

‘This is old news, Max. Shall we fast-forward? Reader, you married her?'