Wish You Were Here (25 page)

‘I suppose.' She bit her thumbnail and sat on the bed in her bikini, slim and brown. I threw a few more bits in my bag. ‘Except yesterday, you said you didn't mind.'

‘Shock, I suppose.' I kept the bright smile going, making myself look at her and trying to appear as cheery as possible. Her blue eyes in her tanned face looked worried. ‘Is everything OK? Daddy seemed a bit … you know. Clenched.'

‘I think he's a bit cross I didn't think of it sooner. I mean, going home,' I said, trying to stick as close to the truth as possible: the best way to lie. ‘I should have been the one to see our finances wouldn't survive this, but I was a bit swept away with the glamour of being here. All of this!' I swept my hand to indicate the high-ceilinged room, its elaborate cornice, the canopied bed, the chandelier, the view out of the open window to the hills and the sea beyond.

She
nodded. ‘And you'll be back?'

‘Of course I'll be back, darling!' I gave her a hug. Squeezed her tight. ‘Now, I'm going to put you in charge of making sure people don't treat the place too much like home: empty the odd ashtray, chivvy the others to stack the dishwasher occasionally to help Thérèse … d'you think you can do that?'

‘Of course.' Tara did that sort of thing anyway. She walked to the door with me as I picked up my bag. ‘Rachel says she'll take you to the airport.'

‘Oh, really?' I stopped short of the door. ‘Not Daddy?'

‘No, he's gone to the vineyard to get some more wine with Sally and Grandpa. He said he'd told you? Said goodbye already?' Her brow puckered and her worried eyes searched mine.

‘Oh, yes. Yes, of course he did. I forgot. I thought he meant he was going later, after supper.'

‘But he said goodbye?'

‘Of course he did, darling, stop worrying!' I laughed, squeezing her shoulders as I went on, but only my mouth was smiling; my head was spinning. Crikey. Where was James? In his head? Shot of me already?

I prattled on about it being good to be able to give the plants back home a watering, that I was pretty sure Maddy, our neighbour, didn't get round to it as often as she might. About how I'd have lunch with Lizzie, maybe launch a sustained attack on Maria, a show of force – ‘girl power!' I joked, raising a clenched fist. Tara raised a thin smile.

At the foot of the curved staircase, in the cool of the limestone hall, Rachel was waiting with her handbag and her car keys. I got a shock when I saw her eyes. Scared.
Knowing. Had he told her? My heart jumped. What had he told her?

‘Bye, darling!' I said brightly to Tara, giving her another quick hug. ‘Say goodbye to the others for me!'

‘Aren't you going to? They're only out there.' She pointed to the terrace, which could just be seen through the French windows of the inner hall, where some of the party were gathering for lunch. It would be odd not to say goodbye to my other daughter, who was ambling across in a sarong, book in hand. She saw me through the open door and came across.

‘Ma. Gather you're deserting us.' She took off her sunglasses. Looked surprised. So I'd got that a bit wrong, too.

‘Yes, off to grovel,' I chortled, giving her a hug.

‘Unlike you?'

‘Oh, I have my obsequious moments.'

‘Well, if she says no, spit in her coffee.'

‘Will do. Bye, everyone!' I tripped across the hall and stuck my head around the door, but didn't set foot outside. The boys went to get up, but I was too quick for them, gave them a cheery wave and darted back.

‘Say goodbye to Mum and JC for me, will you?' I asked Amelia as I returned to the front hall.

‘They're only by the pool.'

‘I know, but we've got to hustle if I'm going to catch this plane. Toodle-oo!'

And, with that, we were off, Rachel and I, leaving my daughters standing together on the front steps watching us go, their boyfriends, unperturbed, already back to their game of cards. But blood was quite thick, I thought, as they shaded their eyes with their hands, waving uncertainly as Rachel and I drove off. And their faces said it all as I
studied them in the wing mirror: how unlike Mum. Totally unlike Mum. But I could put it down to age, or hormones, or, of course, their father.

As we swept up the drive it occurred to me that Rachel's fingers on the steering wheel were tight. She'd barely said anything. Her mouth was pursed, too, as she stared straight ahead at the road. I felt cross suddenly, at this melodrama. OK, nothing much happened in Rachel's life, but could she please get a sense of proportion? Could everyone get a sense of proportion? Including James?

‘Rachel, what's he said to you? James? You look like I've fallen so far from grace there's no hope of redemption for me in this world, let alone the next. As if I'm a scarlet woman!'

‘You're not, are you?' She glanced at me.

‘No, of course I'm bloody not! I kissed him, for God's sake, after a drunken evening. Just as James … anyway. And now I'm being sent home in disgrace like a fourteen-year-old.'

‘He can't help it, Flora. I know it seems like a huge overreaction, but it's not his fault.'

This annoyed me. The sister knowing more than I, the wife, did.

‘Well, he
can
help it, if only he'd give it a bit of rational thought. He's jolly lucky I'm complying and not staying for a stand-up, knock-down fight.'

‘He was so sure of you, you see. Knew you'd never stray. This is shattering for him.'

‘A kiss,' I said weakly, knowing she was right. That James was shattered. That I couldn't have stayed.

‘It's what it symbolizes. And who it was with. I think
he was almost enjoying having Max here, knowing he was desperately in love with you and that you wouldn't give him a second look.'

I was silent. It was indeed so terribly different to him and Camille. I licked my lips. Swallowed. We drove on in silence. I knew they went deep, these siblings, but I wondered how deep. Deeper than with me? I felt jealous. Knew it would take so long to undo this. I also felt utterly exhausted.

The magical scenery swept by. At length, though, the vines, the sunflowers and the lavender gave way to villages, then ribbon development, then solid urbanization. As we reached the outskirts of Nice, where washing hung from tenement windows and stray dogs trotted purposefully along pavements, a couple of women, tottering in mini-skirts and heels, shoulder bags on chains, stepped out in front of us at a pelican crossing. Rachel stopped sharply. We watched as they made their way across, cackling with laughter, leg muscles bulging from the strain of the heels, faces over made up, on their way to town. As she shifted into first gear, Rachel said softly, ‘It's to do with Mum.'

I gazed straight ahead. Nodded. ‘I know,' I said, equally quietly. We drove on.

I did know. About James, Rachel and Sally's mother. Drummond's wife. Of course I did. I watched as the two women disappeared from view in my wing mirror. About how she'd tottered – or driven – into town with a faceful of slap. Until Drummond had had enough. They'd all had enough. I blinked rapidly as Rachel took the slip road up to the airport. And of course I'd been conscious of the nature of our bond in the early days: how we'd clicked so quickly. Why, perhaps. Why I wasn't shocked by his
childhood. Because I'd endured something equally unconventional, with my own mother. Why he totally understood about me being unable to forgive Max's infidelity. As he was unable to forgive me now. He'd always said he'd be incapable. Made that clear. I used to joke and ask what he'd do if I ran off with the milkman?

‘Oh, tuck a child under each arm and head for the wide-open spaces,' he'd say. Meaning it.

‘My children, too!' I'd retort, knowing it would never happen: that I never would.

‘You'd have to fight me for them.'

A grim courtroom drama had flashed through the banter like a sharp knife. He'd already contemplated it. Thought it through. And now, here he was, making me head away from my children; my girls, standing uncertainly together in their bikinis and sarongs in the drive, shading their eyes to watch me go. What was he putting in motion? When all the time … the ecstasy on his face as he kissed Camille swept back to me in a rush, like the tide surging up the beach: the complete and utter abandonment.

‘I'm sorry!' I said to myself as we approached the terminal building, but actually aloud, too. ‘No, I'm sorry, it's just not on!'

Rachel came to a halt behind a row of cars outside Departures. She didn't speak.

‘It's not fair, Rachel. And I won't tell you why, but it's not.'

She looked neither surprised nor startled by my outburst. In fact, she didn't look at me at all. We both got out of the car and she waited while I went around to the boot and got my bag. I came back and kissed her. Thanked her for the lift.

‘I'm
sorry. None of this is your fault.'

‘And none of it is yours, either, really,' she said ruefully, so ruefully that I caught on her tone. But she was already getting back in the car, putting on her seat belt, glancing in her rear-view mirror to pull away. And then she was off.

I stood for a moment, mid-pavement, the warm breeze snaking around my bare legs, watching her go. I turned and walked towards Departures. As the glazed doors slid open automatically I felt the chill of the air conditioning. A blast of reality. I was still musing on Rachel's words as I glanced up at the screen to check my flight. Delayed. Oh, splendid. By how long? It didn't say. And it wasn't the only one, either: many were, I noticed. Resignedly, I joined the queue behind the familiar orange easyJet desk.

The commuters were the usual suspects: middle-class, middle-income families disgruntled at being herded like cattle, with only a distant memory of the glamour of a bygone era of air travel, too poor to upgrade to a better, classier airline. As I queued, I became increasingly incensed by Rachel's words.
Not your fault
. Too right, it wasn't my fault. We'd both had a difficult time, a difficult upbringing. Both been true and loyal throughout our married life and both had a minor indiscretion, astonishingly, within days of one another. Wherein, then, lay the difference? All of a sudden, I caught my breath. Not in the same queue but leaning languidly against a desk at the next counter was a more urbane, sophisticated sort of traveller. One in a crisp chambray shirt, stone-coloured chinos, with a deep tan and very deep-blue eyes. It was Max. Watching me. Waiting for me, even. I swallowed. Left the line of passengers and walked towards him. Herein, of course, lay the difference.

‘You are absolutely the last person I need to see,' I told him, dropping my bag, practically on his foot. ‘You are the reason I've been sent home in disgrace.'

‘I know.' He tried not to grin. Failed. His eyes sparkled naughtily.

‘What are you doing here?'

‘Waiting for you.'

‘You knew I'd be here?'

‘Sally told me.'

‘Well, I'm on my way home, Max.'

He affected a long face. ‘Shame.'

I narrowed my eyes. ‘And my marriage may well be over.'

‘I doubt it. Come on. Let's go and have lunch.'

‘Use your eyes, please. I'm getting a plane.'

‘I know, but it's delayed, they all are. Baggage handlers' strike, didn't you know?'

‘No. I didn't. Shit.
Bugger.
I'll ask,' I cast about wildly.

‘I already have. At least five hours, they say. Most are leaving tonight, though. You'll be OK.'

‘Will I?' I said grimly.

‘Come on, I'm starving. Let's go into Nice.'

‘No, thanks. I'll get a sandwich here and wait.' I sat down on my case. A bit like Paddington Bear. But it was small and squashy – hand luggage, remember – so I wobbled precariously.

‘Oh,
don't be absurd, you've got hours! The only reason this lot aren't going anywhere is because they haven't got some knight in shining armour waiting to whisk them away for a slap-up meal. Where's the harm, Flossie? I'm not going to jump on you. Don't get ahead of yourself.'

The harm, as we well knew, was in the chat, the drink, the banter, and how it would look to James. But, actually, I was becoming increasingly furious with that man. It occurred to me that I had broken away from Max of my own volition: would he have broken away from Camille if he hadn't been interrupted? Forget running up to her bedroom in the tower – we all knew he wouldn't do that – but what about a lengthy grapple in the gazebo? Not one kiss but several? A spot of first base? He'd have been up for that, I bet. How dare he send me home?

‘Wait here,' I muttered. I strode off to find an orange-clad easyJet official, no mean feat at the best of times, but particularly impossible in an airport packed with furious commuters. Eventually, I tracked one down. He indeed confirmed that nothing was leaving the tarmac for at least five hours, but most would go before midnight. Hopefully. Maybe. Fingers crossed. I came back.

‘OK, you're on. But I warn you, I'm in a filthy mood, Max. And if I had to choose anyone to have lunch with right now, you wouldn't be top of my list. In fact, you'd be right at the bottom.'

‘You've completely charmed me, Flossie. I'm putty in your hands.'

‘Oh, sod off.'

‘Where did you learn to flirt like that?'

‘Funny.'

Outside,
in the short-term car park, we found his silver Mercedes, which, through the miracles of modern technology, converted to the roofless variety in seconds flat. I slid nervously into the passenger seat, aware he was still laughing at me.

‘I might have known you'd end up with a car like this.'

‘I haven't the faintest notion what you mean.'

‘An incredibly obvious crumpet-catcher. A topless model.' I dragged a scarf out of my bag and wrapped it around my head, then put on some dark glasses.

‘You're travelling incognito?'

‘You're public enemy number one, Max.'

‘And you know so many people in Nice.'

‘I'm not taking any chances.'

‘You look a bit like my cleaning lady.'

‘It's a look I rock regularly.'

We set off.

In the event, we didn't go into Nice. The centre would be impossible, he told me, far too crowded, and there wasn't anywhere remotely acceptable on the outskirts, so we'd drive along the coast for a bit, to a little place he knew. Of course he did, I thought, watching him out of the corner of my eye as we swept along the coast road. His older, now familiar face was tanned and handsome, blue eyes narrowed behind sunglasses, a cornflower-blue shirt conveniently matching those eyes and the sea beyond – his underpants, too, no doubt – brown arms and hands muscular on the wheel. The wind was in our hair – I'd ditched the scarf by now, as it threatened to throttle me – and the sun on our faces as we flew along at speed. A vast stretch of Mediterranean swept away to the horizon on
our left: tiny sailboats bobbed, speedboats trailed snakes of white foam and girls waterskied in bikinis. It was a long way from Clapham. Riviera Radio played the while, and some French crooner sang, not quite ‘The Girl from Ipanema', but something impossibly similar. Then came the adverts, asking if we were all right for drinks cupboards aboard our yachts? If our Ferraris could do with a service in Cannes? Everyone here, it seemed, was rich: basking in the sunshine and their wealth. Including Max, of course, I thought, glancing at the rest of his sartorial ensemble – chic chinos, Italian shoes – comparing it again to James's ancient Crew Clothing which he dragged from the bottom drawer year after year. I sighed. But then, in a highly uncharacteristic move, I decided to surrender to the moment, reasoning it was highly unlikely I'd ever be in such a car again, with a man as handsome as Max, in such an utterly sublime setting. Defiantly, I leaned my head back on the expensive blond leather headrest. Occasionally, I caught Max glancing at me, amused. The next time he did, we both smiled. But not in a clandestine way, more in a ‘This is OK' sort of way.

The restaurant was well off the beaten track, which pleased me. We drove up a narrow lane into the hills, navigated a series of hairpin bends, then climbed, almost up a dirt track, through pine woods. A few goats turned to stare amongst the sweet-smelling needles. Cicadas sang their deafening music. Right at the top, we parked on a promontory. I stepped out of the car and turned. Gasped. The most beautiful sea view met my eyes. The restaurant and its terrace were perched perfectly to make the most of the
sun-drenched bay below. I felt sure someone out at sea aboard their gin palace must even now be sipping a Martini, shading their eyes up at us and murmuring, ‘Darling, that must be a terrific place to eat. What a position. Let's go.'

And here I was. Of course, I shouldn't be, I thought, as I followed Max inside, but no one would ever know.

‘This is gorgeous, Max,' I conceded.

‘It is rather special, isn't it? The patron is a huge fan of Camille, which is the only reason I've secured a table.'

‘He thinks you're coming with her?'

‘Yes, you're going to be a colossal disappointment.'

‘Story of my life.'

I whipped out my lippy and hid behind Max as he explained, to a swarthy maître d', in perfect French, that I was Camille's personal assistant, and we were hoping she might show up for coffee, but that she had a terribly tight schedule. It was something James would never have done and, as we were shown to our table, although I was cross with my husband, I was pleased about that: I mentally notched up points in his favour.

‘You haven't lost your devious ways,' I told Max as chairs were pulled out with a flourish at what my practised eye told me was the best table on the terrace. The only free one, too; all the others occupied by beautiful people sipping champagne and eating oysters under a burgeoning pagoda of trailing vines and pale-blue lobelia.

‘Needs must,' he told me airily.

We sat and admired the view, although, once he'd glanced at it, he removed his glasses and smouldered naughtily in my general direction. I remained resolutely
glued to the seascape but caught his expression out of the corner of my eye. Too obvious, I told myself. Who wants a man who smoulders?

The trouble was, after a couple of glasses of rosé, which was chilled and delicious and slipped down an absolute treat as we waited for our escargots, smouldering didn't seem so terrible. In fact, it seemed really rather welcome. And, apart from anything else, I reasoned, as I listened to his entertaining music-world chatter, about which I'd asked in order to steer him away from more personal matters, when would I next be sitting at a table like this, obsequious waiter filling up my glass and hovering solicitously, in light of my recent dismissal? Max must be quite a big deal in his own right, I realized, for them to be sanguine about him appearing without the star herself. What exactly was his relationship with Camille, I wondered? I asked him.

‘Oh, you mean you're no longer interested in the logistics of a two-month tour of the States complete with sound crew and diva? You're cutting to the chase?'

‘I needed to ease myself in. Ten minutes on how you decide which venues to play and which to resist has helped enormously. That and two glasses of wine.'

‘Excellent news. Well, as you already know, Camille and I had an affair.'

‘Had?'

‘Definitely past tense. But I was certainly bewitched by her, I admit that. Entranced. As James is now.' He grinned at me. ‘She has a tremendous ability to ensnare men.'

‘In an incredibly obvious way.'

‘And when you hear her sing, you're lost. I was, for quite a while. And then, of course, there's the vulnerability; the
little girl lost in a world that's only after her talent. You want to protect her, look after her.'

‘And you left Mimi for her.'

He frowned. ‘How did you know?'

‘I worked it out. Never quite believed the fling-on-tour bit. Men always leave their wives for another woman. They rarely step into a vacuum.'

‘Aren't you the wise old sage. Yes, all right, I left Mimi for her. I was besotted, at the time. Flattered, too, I suspect. But then, little by little, you see the other side of Camille. The ego, the arrogance, the self-absorption.'

‘Little by little?'

‘I know. Women see it sooner.'

‘But then we're not trying to get into her capri pants.'

‘True.'

I paused. ‘So … were you in love with her?'

‘I think I was, for a bit. But it's funny how, once that goes, it disappears remarkably quickly.'

‘And it has gone.'

‘Yes.'

It wasn't at all what he'd said before. Before, he'd said he'd felt very little for Camille. I was pleased, in a way. Max wasn't a shallow man. I'd been perplexed by that.

‘So now?'

He shifted in his seat: a regrouping gesture. ‘Now I'm thinking of working with Jonas Kaufmann, in Italy. He's asked me.'

‘That would be good, surely? He's equally famous?'

‘He is, and it would get me away. I could delegate Camille.'

‘And Mimi?'

‘Yes,
well. That's another story.' He looked beyond me, into the distance. Leaned his elbows on the table and massaged the bridge of his nose wearily.

‘Would she have you back?'

‘She would. Just. We'd have to work hard, obviously.' He leaned forward and played with his fork. His face had dropped. ‘It wouldn't be easy. I'm realistic about that.'

‘But at least she'd forgive you. At least – your family, your son …'

‘I know,' he said quickly.

‘A second chance, surely?'

‘Yes, but you can never snap right back to where you were, Floss. This isn't a fairy story. There'd be days when she'd still hate me, find it hard to forgive. Gloomy Monday nights in January when she'd rehash what I'd done. There'd be sulks, rows, bitter recriminations.'

‘You could have counselling?'

‘
More
counselling.' He groaned. Rubbed his eyes again. Then he sighed. ‘Yes, we could. And it might work. But it's never going to be exactly the same.'

I remembered thinking that the other night: that James and I would never be the same, that we'd sullied our marriage. But one kiss each. Come on. It was nothing to what Max had done.

‘But I got it wrong in the first place, you see,' he said into his plate of snails as they arrived. ‘
Merci.
If I'd got it right with you, none of this would have happened.' Blue eyes flashed across the table to meet mine.

‘That suggests other people are at fault. It shifts the blame. I'm not so sure it wouldn't have happened anyway.' I refused to be seduced.

‘You
mean I'd be a shit whoever I married?'

‘No, because you're not. But I'm not convinced you can abdicate responsibility like that. Say, Oh, if I'd been with her, I'd never have strayed.'

We ate in silence for a moment, attending to the tricky business of eating escargots but also alone with our thoughts.

‘You know this is my last throw of the dice, don't you, Flossie?'

‘I know.'

‘That, despite all the banter, if you said yes, I'd forget Italy, forget Kaufmann, forget going home. Follow you wherever. Do whatever you wanted.'

I concentrated on extracting a snail from its shell but, actually, I didn't need to. Knew I could look up into those deep-blue eyes, heavy with meaning, and love, actually, and have no problem saying what was in my heart. I put down my fork.