Wish You Were Here (2 page)

‘
Alors
, there you are!
Regard
– look at my
petite
Agathe. As right as what you English bizarrely call rain, and all thanks to you,
monsieur
. My name is Camille de Bouvoir and I am eternally grateful.'

James took her tanned, extended hand. ‘James Murray-Brown.'

‘Orthopaedic surgeon,' I purred. ‘And I'm his wife, Flora.'

She briefly touched the fingers of the hand I'd enthusiastically offered but turned straight back to James.

‘I knew you were a surgeon. I could tell by those hands. So sensitive, yet so capable.'

‘Aren't they just?' I agreed, although no one seemed to be listening to me.

‘And I would like to repay your skill and kindness.'

‘Oh, there's really no need,' demurred James, embarrassed.

‘May I take your email address? I somehow imagine you would be too modest to get in touch if I gave you mine.'

‘He would,' I confirmed, scrabbling around in my bag for a pen and withdrawing a distressed tampon instead, but Madame de Bouvoir had already produced her iPhone. She handed it to me wordlessly and I tapped away dutifully, very much the secretary to the great man. Very much peripheral to proceedings.

‘I
will be contacting you,' she promised, pocketing it as I handed it back to her. ‘And now, Agathe wants to say something.' She gently shepherded her daughter forward. ‘
Cherie?
' The child was as slim as a reed, with widely spaced almond eyes in a heart-shaped face. Although not yet on the cusp of puberty she was very much in the Lolita mould: destined for great beauty.

She took a deep breath. ‘Thank you so very much,
monsieur
, for saving my life. I will be for ever grateful to you and thank you from the bottom of my 'eart.'

She'd clearly practised this small, foreign speech on the plane with a little help from her mother, and it was delivered charmingly. An elderly couple beside us turned to smile. James took the hand she offered, bowing his head slightly and smiling, for who could not be enchanted?

‘
Mon
plaisir
,' he told her.

Courtesies having been observed, Mme de Bouvoir then kissed James lightly on both cheeks three times. She briefly air-kissed me – only once, I noticed, as I lunged for the second – and then, as a socking great pile of Louis Vuitton suitcases were wheeled towards her by one of her chunky attendants, she sashayed out of the concourse ahead of the trolley, bestowing one last lovely smile and a flutter of her sparkling hand.

James and I gave her a moment to get through customs, where no doubt she'd be met by a man in a uniform, before we waddled out with our bags.

‘Great. You know exactly what that will be, don't you?' muttered James.

‘What?' I said, knowing already: even now regretting it.

‘Some poncy restaurant we've been to a million times
already. We'll have to sit there pretending we never go anywhere smart and endure a lengthy, excruciating meal, which we're force fed anyway on a regular basis.'

‘Not necessarily,' I said, with a sinking feeling. I grabbed my old blue bag as it threatened to slide off the trolley.

‘We're probably going there tonight!' he yelped.

I avoided looking at him, stopping instead to look in my handbag for my passport. James froze beside me.

‘Dear God, I was joking. Please tell me we're not out tonight, Flora. I'm knackered.'

‘We have to, James. I've got to get the review in by tomorrow.'

‘You're not serious.'

‘I am.'

‘Jesus.'

‘How else d'you think we're going to pay for that bloody holiday? Shit. Where's my passport?' I delved in my bag.

‘I've got it.' He produced it from his breast pocket. ‘Where are we going?'

‘Somewhere in Soho, I think. Oh yes, Fellino's. I have a feeling Gordon Ramsay's trying to take it over and he's resisting.'

‘Hasn't he got enough bloody restaurants? Have you texted Amelia?'

‘Yes, and she's outside whingeing about us being late. Apparently, we should have let her know the plane was ten minutes delayed. As if I haven't sat for enough hours in that wretched car park waiting for her.'

‘Can't you ask Maria to put it in next week's edition? Say you'll go tomorrow?'

‘I've tried, but apparently Colin's already let her down.
He was supposed to do the new Marco Pierre but he's got a sore throat, so someone's got to do one.'

‘Oh great, so Colin's got his excuse in first, as usual.'

I ignored him. We were both very tired.

‘You could google the menu on the web? Write the review from that? Say how delicious the tiddled-up turbot was?'

‘Oh, good idea. Like I did at Le Caprice, only, unfortunately, the turbot was off that night, and the scallops, both of which I'd waxed lyrical about. I'd rather keep what remains of my job, if it's all the same to you.'

‘But you know Fellino. Can't you ring him and ask what the special is? See what he recommends for tonight?'

‘It's fine, I'll go on my own.'

‘No, no, I'll come,' he grumbled. ‘Blinking heck. Who goes out for dinner the night they get back from holiday?'

‘We do, if we're going to go on holiday at all,' I said with a flash of venom. There was the briefest of pauses. James's voice, when it came, was light, but it had the timbre of metal.

‘Ah yes, forgive me. For a moment there I thought I was the successful alpha male in this partnership. The high-earning surgeon with a career on a meteoric rise to the stars, providing for his family.'

Heroically, I held my tongue as, tight-lipped, we followed the other weary travellers down the corridor to the escalator. We climbed aboard wordlessly, passed through Passport Control, then trundled out through Nothing to Declare.

We ran from the terminal building in the pouring rain, not an umbrella between us, the trolley skidding around in front of us on the wet pavement, heading for the drop-off zone, where two pounds secured ten minutes.

‘There!' I shouted, pointing as I spotted Amelia in the battered old red Clio she shared with Tara. The trolley span out of control as we tried to escape the hail which lashed our faces and we lunged off at a tangent to retrieve it. The car, when we reached it, was vibrating to ear-splitting music whilst our daughter sat boot-faced within, smoking, engine running, exhaust fumes billowing.

‘Where have you been?' she shrieked as I flung open the boot. ‘I've been here ages, it's cost me ten quid already. I've had to go round five times!'

‘Why didn't you park properly?' I asked breathlessly as James tossed the case in.

‘Because I thought that would be even more expensive, and the car park's miles away, and it's raining, in case you hadn't noticed. Why didn't you text me to say it had been delayed?'

‘Why didn't you track it, Amelia?' asked James. ‘With all that expensive technological equipment at your fingertips that surely would have been the sensible option. “Hello, Mummy and Daddy, did you have a lovely time in Paris?” '

I slammed the boot shut, thinking of the countless times
I'd waited for her in Arrivals, excited as she came back from school trips, skiing holidays, her gap-year travels.

‘And some bastard keeps moving me on when I'm literally a second or two over time. Quick, get in.' She was revving up now, glancing fearfully in her rear-view mirror as, sure enough, a uniformed jobsworth bore down. ‘Dickhead,' she muttered, giving him the finger, but only once his back was turned.

Soaked to the skin, James and I eased ourselves gingerly into the hideous melee of crisp packets, water bottles, Styrofoam cups, empty beer cans, cigarette cartons, articles of clothing, sleeping bags, fancy-dress paraphernalia, make-up and even a pair of underpants that decorated her car.
Our
car, James would seethe, periodically. As I limbo-danced into the back, my husband in the front dared to turn the music down. Not off, but down.

‘It's really cut into my allowance,' she told him grimly as she shifted into first. We pulled away with a lurch. ‘And I got stuck in horrendous traffic on the way so, basically, it's cost me a fortune in petrol.'

‘Well, it's lucky you got stuck, isn't it, since the plane was delayed,' remarked James. ‘Otherwise, it would have cost you even more.'

‘It's very kind of you, darling,' I said smoothly from behind, knowing which battles to pick. ‘Everything OK at home?'

‘Yes, except I had to buy way more food. You didn't leave nearly enough, so that's totally cleaned me out.'

‘I left masses! A lasagne in the freezer, two pizzas, and the fridge was bursting with cold meat and salad. We've only been gone three days!'

‘Tara
had some friends round on Saturday night. They pretty much saw it off.'

‘All of it?'

‘Well, no, because, as I say, I bought some more. Spent about forty quid, I suppose,' she said wearily, as if exhausted by the responsibility of running a household. She raked a hand through her hair. ‘But I'll tot it all up at home and add on the petrol. Let you know the damage. How was it, anyway?'

‘Very refreshing, darling,' I said buoyantly, slapping on a smile, determined not to fight quite so soon.

‘After all, water is refreshing,' James observed as the windscreen wipers swept away litres of the stuff.

‘Oh, shit, you had this? All weekend, like we did?'

‘Pretty much. There was a glimmer of hope on Saturday between eleven and twelve and we managed a quick canter through the Tuileries and a twirl round the Place de la Concorde but other than that, it was bars and restaurants.'

‘Which you spend your life in,' she said, with a hint of genuine sympathy. ‘That sucks.'

‘Particularly since yet more sucking ensues tonight, with a visit to one of the West End's premier eateries. Would you like to accompany your mother, Amelia? Endure a slap-up meal?'

‘No, thanks,' she said quickly. She was an old hand at these lengthy marathon events. ‘Unless Toby and I can go?' she hazarded, for effect only, knowing I was vociferous on the subject of her and Toby the Troglodyte, as James called him, impersonating her father and me. I subjected this to the silence it deserved.

‘Still,'
she smiled, ‘you kids had fun? Hotel not too scabby?'

‘Not too scabby, darling.' I returned her grin in the rear-view mirror. Approaching sixty pounds now clinking assuredly into her pocket, she was prepared to be cheerful.

‘And did it all come back to you? Paris?'

‘Well, I was only eight when I left, but yes, it did. I saw my old school, went to Montmartre, where our apartment was, visited the café we had lunch in, which was still there, that kind of thing. Took a trip down memory lane.'

‘Cool. You know what Granny said when I first found out you'd lived there? I said, “Gosh, Granny, you must know Paris really well,” and she puffed away on her ciggie and said, “Not really, darling. I only ever saw the ceiling of the Hôtel de Crillon.” '

She hooted with laughter as I grimaced. My mother's reminiscences about the wilder side of her youth were, in equal proportion, a source of fascination for her granddaughters and horror for me.

‘Well, that's a fat lie, because Philippe bought us an apartment.'

‘She was joking, Mother. Do pipe down.'

I breathed deeply. Counted to ten.

‘She came round, by the way,' Amelia went on, swerving suddenly to avoid a cyclist. I clutched my handbag nervously. ‘Granny, I mean. To check out Tara's new boyfriend. We agreed, obviously.'

‘Obviously,' I said testily. ‘But you forget, I've met him, too. And I think he's quite delightful.'

She smirked. ‘Because he's going to Durham to do history. Did you spot the ironed creases in his chinos?'

‘At
least he's got chinos,' commented James, trying to retune the radio into the Test match. ‘Unlike the Trog.'

‘Ah, but the Trog's got soul, Dad. Try long wave, it's better for Radio 5.' She expertly switched it across for him. ‘We were wondering when we were going on holiday, by the way. Is it still the first week in August?'

I stiffened. ‘Who was wondering?'

‘Well, me and Toby, obviously. I imagine it's OK if I bring him to Scotland? To Grandpa's?'

I tried frantically to catch James's eye in the rear-view mirror, but failed; he was still fiddling with the radio dial – a heroic feat on this white-knuckle ride. The Trog and the Brigadier, James's father? On his Highland estate? Plus James's two sisters?

‘Yes, fine, darling,' said her father, who never saw any complication until it reared up and bonked him hard on the nose. ‘The more the merrier.'

‘Great. I'll tell him. We might bring Will and Jess along, too, they can come in the van. Oh, and they've got a dog, they found it in Streatham, but Grandpa won't mind.'

I shut my eyes and rested my head. This was so like my elder daughter. Spot a small gap and push home the advantage. Within a twinkling there'd be an army of drop-outs dripping around the glen, trailing long skirts, greasy hair, cigarette ash and stray dogs. Exhausting.
Quite
exhausting. And who was going to be cooking for all these people?

‘Can we just pause a moment, please, Amelia? Talk about it when I've got over one holiday and got my head round the next? I've only just got off the plane!'

‘Yeah, yeah, sure, we can pause,' she said in feigned astonishment, eyes widening in disingenuous wonder at
me in the mirror as if I were completely overreacting. Unhinged even. ‘I've mentioned it to Jess, obviously, but only, like, briefly. I'll tell them I'll let them know. When you've calmed down a bit.'

I clenched my teeth. What was the point in going away? In having a so-called ‘mini-break' when it disappeared so quickly and assuredly down the plughole the moment I returned? I wasn't up to Amelia's strength of purpose, her sheer doggedness, I decided. She should be a shop steward, a trade union official. She campaigned for things and, once she'd got them, beaten her opponent, she popped up again like a mole with something else, waving it like a crusade flag. Had I spoiled her, I wondered? Indulged her? Yes, because all children of this generation were indulged, possibly because we'd had them later and had more money to spend on them. ‘They're so lucky!' we mothers would shriek to one another in our designer kitchens over our glasses of Chardonnay. ‘Our parents didn't even know which O levels we were taking they took so little interest, and we had to work in shops, Mars bar factories, weren't given bungee allowances!' But our parents had had us in their early twenties – or, in my mother's case, when she was just nineteen – so they were still young and involved in their own lives, not scrutinizing their children's. There was a lot to be said for being a young parent. Except that Tara, who was eighteen months younger than her sister, and therefore had an even older mother, disproved this theory. She was less … grasping. Less sharp-eyed. But then, life was easier for her. If you were pretty and clever, life tended to plop into your lap more, didn't it? There was less cause to be opportunistic.

As
we neared home, lurching heave-makingly around the corners in our grid of Clapham streets, I wondered nervously if that purple thing I could see poking out of the back of Amelia's T-shirt was another tattoo. Or just a label? I leaned forward to peer, but she braked suddenly at a junction and I nosedived hard into her neck.

‘Shit – Mum!' she squealed.

‘Sorry, darling – sorry! Just wanted to – to see what speed you were doing.'

‘Thirty, obviously, in a built-up area, and that really hurt. I've just had Toby's initials put there in Sanskrit.'

You had to admire her candour. Her carapace. No shame. No guilt. She was eighteen years old and she'd jolly well do as she liked, thank you very much. No doubt always would.

‘Your father saved someone's life on the plane,' I said quickly, to change the subject. Needles full of purple dye piercing my darling daughter's neck, the back of which, as a baby, I'd cradled as I'd lowered her into the bathtub, or, later, divided two plaits between as she went off to school, loomed heart-wrenchingly to mind.

‘Really? What – mouth to mouth?' She turned to her father.

‘No, an EpiPen to the leg. Your mother's exaggerating, as usual. Well, if you're frittering away your allowance on a tattoo, I'm clearly giving you too much. You can foot the grocery bill
and
the petrol. Thank you, Amelia. We can walk to the kerb from here, in the words of Woody Allen.'

Amelia had stopped outside the house and was about to reverse into a space, but her father was already out,
slamming the door and walking up the path to our front door, his back rigid.

‘What's his problem?'

I sighed. ‘He's old-fashioned enough to imagine you at some glittering ball in a few years' time, your hair piled on your head, a silk gown slipping off your shoulders, diamonds in your ears, Toby's initials trailing down your back.'

She gave it some thought. ‘Yeah, sounds good. Hasn't hurt Angelina Jolie, has it?'

Angelina Jolie's looks and my daughter's were similar to the extent that they both had long, dark hair.

‘No, it hasn't,' I muttered meekly.

‘And anyway, Tobes paid, so I didn't use Dad's precious allowance.'

I was too weary to say that her boyfriend paying to have his mark branded on her neck for posterity would probably incur her father's wrath only further, and left the conversation where it was. It was done, and that was the end of it. Apart from a skin graft, of course. Hideously painful and expensive, but always possible and, naturally, where my mind had already fled. Come two in the morning, I'd be creeping downstairs in my dressing gown having not slept a wink, googling it. And ringing Clare in the morning. Clare's twenty-three-year-old son had recently had a dagger removed from inside his wrist before embarking on his new job at Goldman Sachs and, as a neat, cautionary tale Clare had made his fifteen-year-old brother watch from the gallery, to illustrate the lunacy of gap-year indiscretions.

And of course this was Amelia's gap year, she was
bound to spread her wings, make a few mistakes, even. But surely a gap had to be between something? Her A-level results from one of Berkshire's premier boarding schools had precluded university, but photography at art college had seemed a possibility, until Amelia had poured scorn, claiming that all art-school photography looked the same and she'd be better off doing it herself. She'd tossed her dark curls dismissively. ‘I'd rather find my own voice, thank you.' I hadn't dared glance at James at this but, to my surprise, he'd jumped at it.