Wish You Were Here (22 page)

After another hand, Drummond yawned, and I used it as my cue.

‘Yes, I'm tired, too. In fact, I'm ready for bed,' I said, stretching. ‘Sorry, everyone, to break up the game.'

‘Don't be silly, my dear, I'm ready, too. I'm thrilled you played a couple of hands. Just like old times, eh?' He patted my shoulder. ‘I'm off.
Bonne nuit
, everyone.'

Drummond got unsteadily to his feet and both his daughters went to help him, holding his elbows. Rachel reached for his stick, which was propped against the table. She was making to move off with him and take him upstairs, when I said, ‘Um, Rachel, you wouldn't give me a hand laying the breakfast table, would you? Only Thérèse and Michel usually do it, and I thought maybe we should …'

‘Of course!' Rachel, ever solicitous, was shocked she hadn't thought of it herself. She flushed a bit as Sally took over Drummond. I wished I'd had the presence of mind to think of something else, something that wouldn't have made her uncomfortable.

‘I'll take Daddy,' Sally assured her, already making steady headway towards the house with her father. ‘I've been
looking forward to an early night, since Max is out. Toodle-oo!'

‘Night!' we both called, as Rachel began busying herself, clearing the debris of ashtrays and glasses from the table. I stayed her hand.

‘Rachel, that's not why I asked you to stay. It was all I could think of.'

‘Oh?' She paused. Looked down at me enquiringly.

‘Sit down a second.'

She sat. Blinked. Looked nervous. ‘What is it?'

‘I'm just so intrigued. By Sally. Last time I saw her, at Christmas, she was enormous. Played clock patience constantly by the fire, ate tin after tin of Quality Street, barely left the house except to collect the groceries, got terribly upset when she thought someone had taken her favourite cushion from her bed – cried, even, remember?'

‘Yes,' Rachel admitted, as we both recalled her running into the drawing room, shaking with sobs, accusing everyone until it was finally found, not on the bed, but under it. She was like a child.

‘And now here she is,' I went on, ‘slim as a blade, looking gorgeous, a handsome man in tow, off to visit friends in St Tropez – what's happened?'

She laughed. ‘Yes, it's amazing, isn't it? Such a turnaround.'

‘But what precipitated it, Rachel? Something must have done.'

She shrugged. ‘The weight loss, I suppose. If you lose five stone, it's bound to make a big difference.'

‘But what galvanized her to do it? To lose it in the first place?'

‘No
idea. She just did.'

I felt she was being evasive but couldn't be sure.

‘What, she just woke up one morning and thought, I know, I won't have four Weetabix for breakfast, I'll go for a run?'

‘I suppose …'

‘It was January, wasn't it?'

Rachel blinked rapidly. Looked beyond me. ‘Yes. January. The fifteenth. Just after Donaldson's funeral.'

‘Donaldson?'

Her eyes came back. She gave me a peculiar look. ‘You remember, Flora.'

‘Yes, of course I remember Donaldson.'

He'd been Drummond's right-hand man. His batman, almost. Orderly, I believe it's called in the army. The man he'd brought out of prison with him. The man he'd been close to and had given a cottage on the estate in return for manual labour. Drummond had adored him. They'd shared a cell, and Donaldson, a seasoned convict, a reoffending prisoner, had helped him through some very dark times. They'd been released within six months of one another, and Donaldson had arrived at Brechallis almost immediately. He was a reformed character who spent all his time mending fences, tending the sheep, which he'd learned to do, turning them upside down and clipping toenails, dagging and shearing them, clearing streams. But I'd always been a little scared of this tough, heavily tattooed, inscrutable man. He'd keeled over in a ditch, just after Christmas, trying to release a ewe from some brambles. Heart attack, apparently. Drummond had been terribly upset. He wasn't that old, either; must only have been in
his late fifties. James went to the funeral, I remember, but I didn't. But why should his death be the catalyst for Sally to lose weight? I opened my mouth to voice this.

‘Coincidence, I'm sure,' Rachel said quickly. She got to her feet. ‘I've no idea why I even mentioned it.' She brushed some imaginary crumbs from her lap, not looking at me. ‘Sally just got to a stage when she couldn't look at herself in the mirror any longer, that was all.'

‘She hadn't been able to do that for a long time,' I said slowly.

It was one of the things I knew about Sally. She avoided mirrors. There were none at Brechallis, except in Drummond's and Rachel's bedrooms. I'd had to put one in the guest bathroom. We all knew Sally didn't like seeing what she'd become; it was common knowledge, even if no one ever mentioned it.

Rachel swallowed. ‘Yes. Well. I think it just all came to a head. Anyway, I'll go and get the place mats for breakfast and then I think I'll turn in, Flora. Goodnight.'

She turned and went quickly inside, the conversation over, a curtain firmly drawn. And there was absolutely no chance of reopening it, of that I was sure.

The
following morning I awoke late, as seemed to be my wont these days. I'd heard James returning in the early hours, full of the joys, slightly pissed and making just a bit too much jolly noise as he said goodnight in loud stage whispers to his opera comrades on the landing. Faux tiptoeing around the bedroom, he'd banged into furniture and shed his clothes before falling into a noisy, snoring slumber beside me, no doubt dreaming of being on stage in tights and a codpiece, singing his heart out to his leading lady. I, meanwhile, despite the earplugs, couldn't go back to sleep. I tossed and turned, finally waking – I peered at the clock – at a quarter to ten. Annoying. A waste of another day. On the other hand, what was the rush? What, apart from the sun, which even now was streaming in through the shutters James had left ajar, did I have to get up for?

I sat up, stretched languidly and reached for my iPad. I tried not to read emails on holiday, but a glance at the recent additions told me there was one I really should open. I grudgingly complied.

Dear Flora,

Since you didn't feel inclined to attend the crisis meeting I called, and since, as you know, I have to lose at least three members of the
team in order to ensure the magazine remains viable, I am afraid I have no alternative but to make you redundant. It goes without saying that your hard work and loyalty to
Haute Cuisine
over the years has been exemplary, as has your commitment. I had hoped not to end our working relationship by email, but I'm afraid you left me no choice.

I do hope we can remain friends and wish you all luck for the future.

Best wishes,

Maria

I stared, shocked. In fact, I had a bit of an out-of-body experience. Almost felt as if I were floating up on the ceiling, looking down at myself. I wasn't sure I'd had such a jolt before. Oh yes, of course. In the pub. In Chelsea. With Coco. Now, though, despite the world wobbling briefly and me observing it from on high, it righted itself soon enough. I floated back down. Because part of me had known. A small part of me had thought, Don't go back with Lizzie. Then Maria will have to make you redundant. Just a small part. One I hadn't even properly admitted to myself, let alone to James. And a mighty big part of me realized now that I was relieved. It was sad to hate a job I'd loved so much, but I did, and I'd wanted someone else to make the decision for me. To push me. My lip curled, though, when I reread the email. Crisis meeting? What crisis meeting? She hadn't originally couched it in those terms. And when had she previously mentioned making anyone redundant? Never. And if she'd hoped to have the conversation in person, well, then, she'd already decided my fate,
hadn't she? I'd have returned to be informed by Maria, in that little-girl voice of hers, as she peered over the spectacles she wore for effect – we'd all sneakily tried them on – from the other side of her vast, glass-topped desk, and looking down her nose, so tiny after so much surgery it was a wonder she could still breathe through it, that there was no way she was responsible for this decision. That the powers that be – Didier in particular, from the parent magazine in Paris – was forcing her hand and she wished it could be otherwise. Then she'd flick back a sheet of expensively highlighted blonde hair, cross her minuscule knees in her tan leather Christian Lacroix skirt and wait for my reaction.

I thought for a moment, heart pounding, bolt upright in my Primark nightie. Then I reached over the empty expanse of bed for James's phone, which was on his bedside table. Reading the number from mine, I rang Maria's mobile. She answered immediately in her breathy whisper.

‘Hello?'

‘Maria, it's Flora.'

Shocked silence. Had she known it was me, she wouldn't have picked up, but I knew she wouldn't recognize James's number.

‘Oh, um, Flora,' she faltered. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't worry, it's not your fault. As you say, it's out of your hands. Can you tell me what the redundancy settlement is?'

‘Of
course
I can, darling. Hang on.' I heard her mobile clatter down on the glass desk as she riffled nervously through some papers. She returned a few moments later and mentioned a sum of money so large it made me blink.

‘Right.
A year's salary, then.'

‘I'd have liked it to have been more – you've worked for us for nearly eighteen years – but it was the best I could do, Flora.'

‘It's fine, Maria. More than I expected. Thank you.'

I doubt if anyone had ever thanked her for firing them. She became expansive in her relief.

‘Well, I told them there was no fucking way I was letting you go without a fight, and without a decent package. In fact, I was in the boardroom for two hours on your behalf, giving them what for.'

‘And you'll give me good references? Explain the economic imperative for letting me go?' I asked briskly, cutting through the crap.

‘Of
course
, darling, glowing references. I suspect you'll get a job on a rival magazine in moments,
and
pocket a year's salary.'

‘We'll see,' I said shortly. ‘Anyway, I must go.'

‘And we'll meet up?' she said urgently. ‘We've been friends for years, Flora. No hard feelings?'

‘None at all,' I told her, before saying goodbye.

We'd been colleagues for years, not friends. Maria was far too brittle and self-absorbed for me: I doubted I'd ever see her again. But my own phone was ringing now and I lunged to answer it, recognizing the number.

‘Lizzie.'

‘Oh, Flora, I'm so sorry!' she wailed. ‘I feel such a heel!'

‘You kept yours?'

‘Yes, but only just. I had to creep and crawl around her office for hours, until I thought I was going to be sick all
over her carpet, all over her Manolo Blahniks. I just feel so bad for you.'

‘Don't,' I told her. ‘I half expected it. Half …' I paused.

‘Wanted it?'

‘If I'm honest,' I admitted. I swallowed. ‘I'm tired, Lizzie. Tired of doing the same old thing, hammering out copy about another bloody artichoke or another steak tartare and pleasing everyone except myself. I want to go. It's time.'

She was silent on the other end. ‘Have you told James?'

‘Not yet. Only just heard. Might go and do that now. Are you coming back?'

‘You're joking! I'm doing all your bloody restaurants now. Forget the editorial column, I've got breakfast at The Connaught, followed by lunch at Le Caprice and dinner at La Rochelle – they've sacked Henry, too. I'm eating for three!'

I smiled. ‘You'll be the size of a house.'

‘Don't. I've already googled bulimia. We're all going to miss you so much, Flora. Everyone's devastated.'

This did threaten to choke me. The band of brothers in the little office on Charlotte Street, up those rickety stairs, crammed into our cave, whispering about Maria as she sat in splendid isolation in the room above, united in our common dislike of her. Years ago, we'd all bashed away at word processors, the air full of cigarette smoke and expletives as we mistyped, ashtrays overflowing. No cigarettes now, of course, and only laptops and iPads, so much quieter, but always laughter: me, Henry, Lizzie, Colin, Fatima, Sue, Blodders, Pat, Toenail – I'd miss them all. Miss the banter. The camaraderie. But let's not get too carried away. Let's
not oversentimentalize. These days, a lot of copy was written at home; journalism had become a lonely business. Still, I put the phone down feeling sad and nostalgic, and promising I'd ring Lizzie for a proper chat later and, yes, come in and have lunch with them all. At Bellingdon's, our favourite haunt on Charlotte Street, which she'd organize. For Henry, too. Poor Henry. His partner, Graham, had recently been made redundant as well. Then I got out of bed to have a pummelling, invigorating shower and threw on some clothes.

I found James in the drawing room with Camille. I'd followed the music. The hills were alive. There he was, like a dutiful gnome, but taller, on the edge of his chair. This time, she was at the piano, swaying slightly and singing softly as she played.

‘Oh – darling.' He got up as I came in, just a bit too quickly. Gave me a hug. Unusual.

‘Did you have a good evening?' I asked.

‘The best,' he told me warmly as Camille continued to play, not deigning to stop and greet me, I noticed, or even turn and smile.

James put a finger theatrically to his lips, and we crept out. He led me through the open French windows to the garden, where a few people were still having breakfast. He shut the glazed doors quietly behind us.

‘It was an amazing evening,' he told me, glowing. ‘Gosh, she's got an incredible voice, Flora. It's not until you actually hear her sing, in the flesh, that you realize how extraordinarily gifted she is. Ask Max.'

He and Sally were at the breakfast table in the garden in the sun. I turned.

‘Oh,
she's quite something,' Max agreed, glancing up from his iPad. ‘It's a phenomenal feat to project a voice across three or four thousand people, plus an orchestra of about seventy-odd instruments, with absolutely no amplification at all. One forgets.' There was genuine respect in his voice, and I wondered if Camille had wanted this: for Max to see her at her very best. We didn't meet each other's eyes.

‘The whole place erupted when it was announced she was going to make a guest appearance,' went on my husband, eyes gleaming, extraordinarily star-struck. ‘No one knew, you see, and you should have heard the roar when she got up to take to the stage – they went berserk! I've never heard such applause! First, she did the duet from
The Magic Flute
with José Carreras – he was also making a guest appearance – and then she sang an aria from
Carmen
. And my God, when she'd finished, you could have cut the air with a knife. Could literally have heard a feather drop. We sat in complete silence. I'm not ashamed to say I cried I was so moved, and even Max here looked a bit moist as we clapped away. We all got to our feet – the whole place was on its feet, wasn't it, Max? – cheering and stamping for ages. Extraordinary!'

‘It must have been.'

‘And they
implored
her to do another one, wouldn't let her go back to her seat. So she sang “
Un bel dí
” from
Madame Butterfly
– you know?'

‘No.'

James and I never went to the opera. I didn't think he liked it. Plus, we couldn't afford it.

‘Yes, you
do.
'

‘I
don't, James. Why would I?'

‘It's always on the radio.' He put his hand to his heart. Stood up straight. ‘
Un bel dì, vedremo, levarsi un fil di fumo, sull'estremo confin del mare
,' he warbled loudly, and only half ironically. James can't sing. At all. He's tone deaf. I felt my eyes widen. Max looked away. ‘
E poi la nave appare
–'

‘Da-ad!' Amelia, at the far end of the table, let her mouth drop theatrically. ‘God, stop him, Mum. It's embarrassing!'

Tara was pink, too, but their father was in the grip of an infatuation. He simply laughed at his daughters' distress.

‘You girls should get out more,' he joked, gaily plucking a croissant from the basket. He tossed it in the air, bouncing it on his arm like a cricket ball before catching it and munching away heartily. His eyes shone. ‘Get some culture.'

The girls made weary eyes at him, and I sneaked a look at Max. James was not normally so foolish and susceptible, and Camille was a very beautiful and talented woman. Max surely couldn't be totally immune to her charms if my husband was so bowled over. As if on cue, Camille appeared through the French windows in a crumpled little white dress. If anything, she looked slightly tired and vulnerable, always a winning combination with men. James gazed at her as if he could eat her up and even Max gave her a longer look than he would normally. He glanced quickly away, but I wondered if her magic was finally working.

‘Pool, d'you think, darling?' asked Sally, perhaps wondering, too. ‘Another hideous day in paradise?'

‘Why not?' Max agreed, getting to his feet and gathering his iPad and book. It was Camille's turn to watch him go. Plan her next move.

Agathe,
the ghost child, appeared out of nowhere beside her. She tugged her mother's arm. As Camille bent down, she whispered in her ear, cupping her hands around her mouth, something I'd always told my children was incredibly rude.

Camille nodded grudgingly and allowed herself to be led away. Agathe cast us a glittering, menacing look from her dark eyes as she tugged her mother towards her sister's cottage.

‘Pool for you, too, darling?' asked James, gathering up his own book.
A History of the Royal Opera House.
Dear God.