Wish You Were Here (20 page)

I glowed. Lizzie had sat next to him at supper.

‘It's good for us, isn't it, Lizzie? All of this?' I looked out at the lively table, a game of cards at one end, explosive laughter at the other, the lights strung so prettily through the trees on the lawn.

‘ 'Course it bloody is. Christ, we're not dead yet. Let the young shake their heads and suck their teeth, I'm not
reining in. Not for one moment. In fact, I'm going skinny-dipping with Sally.'

‘Is that where she is?'

‘Yes, starkers in the pool. Come on. While the kids are playing cards.'

She grabbed my arm and, full of Cointreau, we hastened off. Giggling like schoolgirls, we ran out through the side door and then around the other side of the house. We picked our way across the sloping lawn, through the spinney in the dark, and under the cedar tree to the gate in the old walled garden. A few minutes later I was beetling back alone, eyes wide, fully clothed. Mum was in the pool, too.

In the pitch black, my mind not on the route I seemed to have veered from, I cannoned straight into someone in the dark. I shrieked.

‘Oof – steady!' Arms came out. It was Max.

‘Oh – God, it's you!' I clasped my heart with relief.

He laughed, steadying me. ‘Who did you think it was, the bogeyman? Word is the girls have got their kit off down at the pool. Couldn't get down there quickly enough.'

‘Yes, but, actually, maybe not, Max. Mum's in there.'

‘Oh. Right.' He turned about abruptly.

‘Exactly.'

We went back up the cinder path together. I grinned up at him in the dark, lurching only very slightly. ‘Odd, isn't it? Amelia and Tara would be horrified if I went in, but I think I'm still young. So why am I aghast at my own mother?'

‘I think it depends,' he said carefully.

‘On what?'

‘On whether the pool has underwater lights or not.'

I
giggled.

‘Do you still smoke?' he asked.

‘Occasionally. But, like skinny-dipping, not in front of the children. I operate a strict regime of hypocrisy.'

‘Let's have one over here, then.'

He drew out a pack and we wandered off the beaten track a bit, towards the horses' field beyond the spinney. It was a moonless night, with just a sprinkling of stars above, like diamonds tossed carelessly on to black velvet. The horses came ambling across the field to greet us, and we stroked their velvety noses. Let them blow into our hands. Max lit two cigarettes the way he always used to and passed me one. We leaned back against the fence.

‘You haven't lost that habit, then,' I observed.

‘I have, actually. Haven't done that for years.'

Instantly, I was transported back to the many times he'd done it for me: on the top of the number 19 bus as we rumbled back from the West End after the cinema. Inside the cinema, in the days of little ashtrays between the seats. In the Italian bistro afterwards, him lighting both from a candle dripping with wax as we argued about the film, never agreeing on anything we'd seen. And then, of course, in bed, at his flat. Flicking ash off the navy-blue sheets into a small pewter ashtray on the floor beside us that had belonged to his grandfather. Burning a hole once. I could tell Max had gone to these places in his head, too. We didn't speak, just smoked in silence. At length, Max cleared his throat.

‘I miss you,' he said simply. ‘Miss those days.'

I swallowed. Kept my face free of expression. ‘You're idealizing them, Max. Because it was our youth. That's
what people do. Because we were young and carefree, we look back fondly. But we can't recapture it.'

‘You do, too?'

‘Look back? As a rule, no. But I did just then.'

‘We were good together, Flora. We never stopped laughing.'

He'd deliberately conjured up a very seductive image: one that was hard to resist and one which, when I was young, when he'd betrayed me, had been the hardest. Max and I would laugh until the tears rolled down our faces. Until our sides hurt and we had to sit down. About anything. Nothing. Someone in the street going so fast they were bent at right angles. Max would suddenly mimic them, going right up beside them as he did it. A shop assistant or waitress with a funny turn of phrase, which we'd employ for the rest of the day, in a Sybil Fawlty voice – ‘Ta ever so.' ‘Will you be wanting sauce with that?' ‘If Madam would kindly desist from smoking.' So many things collectively tickled us, and life was so serious now. It seemed to consist of a series of problems to be solved in rapid succession, popping up like moles the moment the last one had been bashed on the head.

‘Nothing's that funny now,' I observed.

‘It can be.'

He reached up and brushed the hair from my eyes, something James had done earlier, but this time an electric current shot through me. I steadied myself on the fence, knowing I was full of Cointreau and giddy on warm Provençal air under a starry sky. That this wasn't real life. We stubbed our cigarettes out simultaneously and glanced at each other. Or I did. I was aware Max had been watching
me for some time. I was shocked by the intensity of his gaze: by the depth of feeling. Suddenly, all the years rolled back in a snap, as if I'd let go of a roller blind I'd been hanging on to, to keep the darkness in place. The light flooded in and, with it, a myriad of other memories I'd shut out. Bright, sunlit ones, like playing football with his small cousins in Hyde Park, Max in goal, deliberately letting them shoot past him, their shrieks of delight. Driving to the coast in his convertible MG, me hanging on to the surfboard we'd tied above our heads which threatened to disappear at any minute. Running down dunes in our swimming costumes into a freezing North Sea. Lying on our backs in the sand, windmilling our arms to warm up. Sleeping on his roof terrace in South Kensington during a heatwave, being woken by thin clear light and the rattle of milk bottles below. It might have been twenty years ago but, right at this moment, it felt like yesterday. So when he took me in his arms and kissed me, it felt entirely natural. In fact, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

At
length, we pulled apart, our hearts racing. I say at length, because the kiss was a long one: I'd like to tell you it was brief and hurried, but it wasn't. It was also highly charged and emotional; full of longing on his part and high excitement on mine. Afterwards, we held each other tightly and I could hear his breath roaring in my ear. Then, as one, we stepped back in shock. Gazed at each another. ‘Blimey' sprang to mind, but happily not to my lips.

‘I've got to go,' I muttered, and he nodded quickly in agreement.

It occurred to me, as I saw the shock in his eyes, that he was as taken aback as I was. This hadn't been premeditated. He hadn't planned this in any way. He'd just meandered down to the pool full of food and booze, as I had, with a cheeky desire to surprise some naked women. He hadn't followed me or engineered it, any more than he'd engineered us dipping out of sight of the teenagers to have a cigarette. It had just happened. But … had it been lying in wait all these years? Ready to ambush us? Had it been tucked away in our minds as something to do one day? To finish what was started – and ended so brutally – all those years ago? It seemed to me I'd just melted into his arms and turned my lips up to his without a second thought.

No time to speculate further, though, because as we emerged from the spinney, the house was in sight, lit up in
all its glory. My adrenalin was pumping fast as we walked up the sloping lawn and I felt the words ‘Adulterous Witch' writ large on my face as we rounded the corner and approached the post-dinner table to sit – rather conspicuously, in retrospect – as far apart as possible. Neither of us got a second glance from the others. They carried on drinking and laughing and playing cards, as if we hadn't been missed at all. Max went to the far end to watch the game and I pulled up a chair beside Jean-Claude, who was talking to Thérèse. It was all too easy, wasn't it? I thought, picking up a stray drink, my hand trembling ever so slightly. An extramarital affair? So simple. No wonder it happened so often. Not that it was ever,
ever
going to happen to me.

James was opposite me, beside Camille, who was talking to Jean-Claude and Thérèse now.

I smiled. ‘I'm off to bed,' I told him. There. Quite normal, that two-timing voice of mine.

He smiled back, and something in his eyes told me he remembered our conversation in the bedroom earlier. About us being all right.

‘Me, too,' he agreed.

We got up as one, as a happily married couple, and said goodnight rather generally. I didn't look at Max or my daughters. Together we walked through the house to the hall. Up the curling staircase we went, James pausing to collect a paperback he'd left on the landing windowsill. I waited for him as he riffled through the pile. My heart was still pounding and I was terrified he'd hear it. Once in our room, I brushed my teeth, slipped quickly into bed, then turned away and shut my eyes. James was only just behind me. He turned out the bedside light.

‘Night,
darling,' he said sleepily.

‘Night.'

He, too, turned over and was asleep and snoring in moments. I lay there for what seemed like hours, waiting for my heart rate to come down, waiting for my breathing to return to normal. Wondering if I'd ever be the same again. Well, I wouldn't, would I? I'd kissed another man. I'd irrevocably changed, in the space of ten seconds, the nature of our marriage. It would never be the same, I'd seen to that. It's very fabric, intricately woven over many years, had been yanked, and when a loose thread revealed itself, pulled apart. What would happen now? How would this change manifest itself? I was so transparent – everyone said so – would he guess? Would I have to tell him? We told each other everything. Always had done.

The following morning I awoke with a start. Abruptly, as often happens, when something extraordinary has happened. But, strangely, in the soft warm light that streamed through a gap in the shutters, what had felt so momentous and painful and totally wonderful all at the same time a few hours ago suddenly seemed faintly ridiculous. What a fool I'd been. To get pissed like that. And how stupidly I'd behaved. It had been late and dark and all my senses had been skewed with drink, but really. In the excitement of the moment, and in the middle of the night, it had felt far more portentous than of course it was. Just a stolen kiss with an ex-boyfriend in a dark wood. Stupid, Flora. But not the end of the world. Move on. Don't, whatever you do, breathe a word to James – I can't believe you
considered that last night – and never, ever, let it happen again. There. Job done.

James stirred beside me. He turned over and hugged me from behind so that we slotted together like spoons. Sleepily, he kissed my shoulder. My eyes bulged slightly at the opposite wall as he kissed me again. I wasn't entirely sure this was what I wanted, but on the other hand … maybe it was. To prove that last night had indeed been an aberration. A silly deviation from real life. James pulled me in closer and I acquiesced. Yes, last night had just been a ridiculous episode not to be repeated: to be put down to drink, holiday madness and happenchance.

Ten minutes later James was bounding around the bedroom like a teenager, humming loudly and running me a bath. He was fresh from the shower, stark naked, towelling his shoulders vigorously, his love life a positive riot at the moment.

‘This holiday has done us the world of good, darling,' he declared heartily, bending over the bed and planting a kiss squarely on my lips. ‘It was clearly just what we needed!'

Clearly, I thought guiltily as I watched his bare bottom retreat back into the bathroom. I wasn't convinced it would necessarily feature in any agony aunt's advice on how to reignite a tired, marital sex life, though. I wasn't sure kissing an ex-boyfriend and letting your husband have his ego massaged by a sexy soprano would necessarily be amongst Graham Norton's Top Tips in the
Sunday Times
.

Speaking of that very same sexy soprano, the sound of her dulcet tones began to filter up through the floorboards. Except they weren't dulcet and the floor wasn't providing much of a filter. They certainly weren't pleasant. She was
belting out scales, at full volume and at an increasingly high pitch, whilst accompanying herself on the piano. As they got higher and higher, they became shriller and shriller. Then came the arpeggios.
Screeching
arpeggios. She was certainly very good, but very,
very
loud. I had no idea one person could sing to that volume; it sounded more like a fully blown choir. Would the windows shatter, I wondered? Instead, our door flew open. Tara, tousled and astonished, put her head around.

‘What is that
terrible
noise?' she whispered.

‘It's Camille practising.'

‘Make it stop,' she begged.

‘You're lucky to be hearing it at all,' retorted James, appearing from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. ‘People pay good money to hear that.' He cocked his head appreciatively as the floorboards rattled.

‘
La – la – la – la –
LAAAAAA
!!!!
'

The whole house shook. And must be awake, too.

‘Sounds like she's being stabbed,' Tara said. She shuffled back to bed and I pretended not to hear Rory muttering to her as she closed the door.

On and on it went.

‘Bloody
hell
!' I heard Sally shriek from next door, then she dissolved into giggles. I wondered if her sex life had been pepped up, too? As a result of last night? I shut my eyes tight. No, I did
not
want to think about that. Instead, I leaped into the bath James had run me and agreed that no, I didn't think Camille would mind if he went down and slid quietly into the room to listen, keeping to myself the view that he would be in a minority of one. I visualized him, creeping into the drawing room with the grand piano
in the window, polishing his glasses and perching on a sofa to listen adoringly. Indeed, when I went down later – the noise too deafening to do anything else – this was the scene I encountered. Except it wasn't Camille playing the piano, as I'd imagined, but Michel.

He scowled slightly at being interrupted, even though Camille hadn't seemed to notice. James frowned and motioned me away, as if he was acceptable at an operatic masterclass, but I wasn't.

So Michel was rather talented, I thought, closing the door quietly, as Camille broke into the aria from
Madame Butterfly
. It was one thing to thump out scales but another to play this. Not just a gardener. At the end, James applauded loudly.

‘Bravo! Oh, bravo!'

I cringed for him and, unfortunately, he burst into the kitchen glowing when I still had two fingers down my throat in mock-disgust.

‘What are you doing?'

‘Got something stuck.'

‘Oh. Isn't she marvellous?'

‘Marvellous.'

‘And guess what, she's been asked to perform that aria on stage tonight, with Bocelli, practising as a preview for her tour. So I'll actually see her in action!'

‘Oh that's great, James.' I really was pleased for him. He was having the time of his life. ‘So' – I suppressed a smile – ‘she'll step up on to that stage, vacating the seat beside you – and everyone will think … she's with you!'

‘Yes!' He squealed. Then realized. ‘I mean – no.' He looked worried.

I
laughed. ‘Don't worry, darling. It's only one night. Why shouldn't you look as if you're escorting a celebrity? I'd be chuffed to bits if I was, and it was – I don't know, Michael Bublé, or someone.'

He shot me a grateful look, and I knew in his head he was already wondering if she'd kiss his cheek before she got up from the seat beside him, like they did at the Oscars, enjoying his fantasy to the hilt.

The next visitor to the kitchen was not so euphoric. Lizzie swept in, smartly dressed in a navy-blue jacket and skirt, clutching an overnight bag.

‘Just as well that dreadful caterwauling woke me up. I'm going to catch the 11.50 from Nice, if I can.'

She dumped her bag and clip-clopped in her heels to the cappuccino machine in the corner.

‘Oh really, why?' James looked surprised.

‘Hasn't Flora told you?' She glanced around. ‘It's the day of reckoning. Maria is summoning the troops.

James raised his eyebrows at me.

‘Lizzie's exaggerating,' I said smoothly. ‘Maria's pissed off because she's stuck in the office, so she's trying to wreck everyone else's holiday. You frighten too easily, Lizzie.'

Lizzie arched her eyebrows at this: it was patently untrue. She really didn't, as a rule, and I really did, but right now, our roles seemed to have been reversed. Generally, it would be me getting the first plane back and Lizzie who'd be dragging her feet and telling me not to panic. But not today. Today, as she bustled about behind me, finding her iPad, checking timetables, I sat at the kitchen table sipping my coffee, watching the morning sun cast a shimmering haze over the lawn, heralding a beautiful day and the
promise of more heat to come. Today, I was happy to let the real and stressful world wash over me in a liberating manner, as I gave myself up to the delights – which, let's face it, were coming in many unexpected guises – of my much-needed Provencal holiday.

Sally and Max were next down, and we all greeted each other cheerfully, as if a starlit snog had never happened.

‘Morning!'

‘Morning, all! A lovely one, as ever.'

Max's eyes snagged on mine and then darted away, but you'd have to be very acute to notice, and no one did. Jean-Claude and my mother were next, looking stricken.

‘Terrible,
terrible
noise!' Mum whispered, coming in, clutching feebly at the furniture in mock-horror and looking appalled.

I frowned as Camille came in through another door on a cloud of Diorissimo, in tiny white shorts and a strappy top. For an opera singer, she was minutely built and I wondered where the strength and power of that voice came from? All in the spectacular lungs, I imagined.

‘My darlings, I hope you don't mind fending for yourselves tonight, I've secured a few more tickets for tonight's performance. Michel and Thérèse are coming with me.'

‘Oh, no, not at all!' we all chorused instantly.

‘Of course not, you've been so kind,' I said, as she ignored us anyway and swept on out to the terrace, taking the coffee Lizzie had just made for herself, leaving her looking startled.

A cosy camaraderie prevailed in the kitchen: a palpable relief at the thought of being on our own tonight, without any member of the de Bouvoir family.

‘We
could go out?' suggested Sally quietly over her coffee as she sat down opposite me.

‘Or I could cook?' said Jean-Claude, joining us at the table. ‘I'd like to.'

‘Really? Would you?' I turned to him in delight, always keen to reject the Eating Out option these days. And we were so happy here, weren't we? In our womb-like existence. Our own little world. I wanted no intrusion from the outside world, no reminder of reality, no piercing of my bubble. Indeed, I'd almost forgotten the chateau belonged to Camille at all.