Wish You Were Here (30 page)

Word would spread, derisively at first – ‘
Les Anglais
, they've opened a restaurant!' But when they came to mock, they'd eat their words. And how many French restaurateurs did I know in London who said they only employed English staff these days, not French, because they worked harder? And boy, we'd work hard. James would work his socks off, I knew, although, in time, I hoped he wouldn't have to. As I say, we'd keep it small. To begin with. After that – who knows? A larger premises? More covers. But no. For the minute –
petite
. Manageable.

James jumped off the rock. He was pacing about, hands in his pockets jingling his change, keeping his face averted in an effort to show he was not infected. Like so many
foodies, we'd sat in countless restaurants over the years discussing the winning formula, how to do it properly, what would make a place really stand out. But we'd only ever dreamed. Had never really meant it.

‘And the girls?' he said, forcing some sarcasm into his voice. ‘They'd commute from London?'

‘The girls are only with us for the holidays, James. Tara's in her final year, and now that Amelia's finally decided to go to college – yes, they'd commute, if you like, in the holidays.'

‘Which they'll tire of. The novelty will wear off. All their friends are in London.'

‘Except Mum's going to keep her house. Jean-Claude has persuaded her to do that. They'll always have a base there.'

‘Oh, great, two teenagers living it up in Granny's Fulham pad. It'll be a drug den in no time!'

‘No, because, if they are there, I'll go back. They'll come to France for the first couple of holidays, but when, as you say, they want to be in London, I'll be there, too. The restaurant will be up and running by then. You won't need me all the time. And I can do some good PR in London, go and see reviewers, travel writers. Spread the word.'

I'd thought this bit through very carefully. The girls were my top priority: always had been. But I could still make use of my time back home with them.

‘And, anyway, they're not children, James. Amelia's nearly nineteen. They're young women. Plenty of their friends have parents who live abroad.'

‘Plenty?'

‘Emma's in Cyprus, Polly's in Dubai –'

‘Well,
yes, army. Or work.'

‘
We'll
be work,' I said fiercely, clenching my fists. ‘Working abroad. And crikey, they've had all their young life with us. It's not as if we shunted them off to boarding school at ten.'

He massaged his forehead hard with his fingers. Kneaded it. ‘I don't know, Flora. It's such a risk. To give up everything, my work, my whole career. All my medical training.'

‘You hate it. Hate what you do. What you once loved has turned around and bitten you hard on the bottom. You are so disillusioned. And this is not a risk.'

‘Of course it's a bloody risk! It could so easily go wrong. Go tits up and leave us penniless! God, I don't even know why we're talking about it. This is silly talk. Forget it. Forget I even discussed it with you – indulged you. I was caught up in the emotion of another moment, one that happened thirty-odd years ago. Vulnerable to – to emotive chatter.'

‘It is not emotive chatter.'

‘Oh, trust me, it is. It's holiday-itus. Crap. Pipe dreams. Forget it, Flora. We go back as planned, to our boring but salaried jobs, next week. Or, at least, I do.' He shot me a flinty look. ‘You'll look for another. I'm cross you even made me talk about it. Took advantage of the situation.'

He turned angrily on his heel and stomped off along the lane towards the olive grove, leaving me on the rock, looking out to sea, a flickering candle at my feet. I watched him go. Saw his tall, familiar figure wend its way up the hill, along the zigzag path, through the gate to the orchard. I lost sight of him then. But knew he'd march crossly. Go
back up the sloping lawn to the house, shoulders hunched, up the terrace steps and straight to bed. I turned and looked out at the vista before me. The soft lights of the few farms freckled in the valley beneath me glowed whilst the twinkling lights in the bay beckoned. The heavy night air was soft on my face. I stayed there, on my rock, hugging my knees, breathing in the scents of Provence, gazing a while. At length, I climbed down, picked up the candle in the jar and, having given him some time and some distance, followed my husband thoughtfully back to the house.

We were awoken the following morning by a terrible rumpus. I'd been fast asleep, having finally dropped off in the small hours, my head too full of the night's events to fall precipitously into the arms of Morpheus, so it was an almighty jolt to hear shouting – swearing, even – all in French. It took me a moment to wonder where I was. It didn't help that the voices were unfamiliar or, at least, the protagonist's was. An angry, voluble man. Livid, even. I sat up in bed, realizing I was covered in sweat. Throwing off the sheet for some air, I tuned my ear into the incredible row beneath me. Who could it be?

‘What the hell's going on?' growled James, still half asleep beside me.

Amelia burst into our room, wide-eyed in her pyjamas. I pulled the sheet up quickly.

‘There's this really fit guy in the kitchen, right, looks like Johnny Depp, who's clearly Camille's husband. He's kicking up shit with Michel and Thérèse.'

‘How d'you know he's Camille's husband? Pass me that T-shirt, please.'

She tossed me one from a chair. I wriggled into it. ‘Because Tara and I crept into her room in the tower when she wasn't there, remember? Had a poke around, found a few photos – we showed you, so don't pretend you don't know.'

‘Oh.
Right,' I said guiltily. I'd been cross, but interested, too. ‘Is Camille down there?'

‘No, she left. You know that.'

‘I just wondered if she'd come back with him.'

‘Why would she do that? They're estranged, remember? Duh. No, they're down there fighting over the girl, Agathe.'

‘How d'you know?'

‘My French is not that limited, Mother. I did get an A at GCSE. You'd be better, though. Go on, Mum, go suss it out.'

‘Don't get involved,' mumbled James sleepily as, with as much of a nose for gossip as my daughter, I tumbled out of bed. I slipped into my dressing gown – pausing only for a quick pee and a ruffle of my curls, should Johnny Depp be interested in the over-forties bedroom look – and crept down the passage towards the gallery. The landing ran right around the kitchen and drawing room on the first floor, affording a perfect view. Obviously, I kept well back from the action and slid against the wall, crouching down low, as the shouting, if anything, got more furious.

Tempers were indeed frayed: someone was incensed and, actually, I think I could have crept right to the edge and dangled my legs through the spindles and no one would have noticed. From a distance, I could just see, as Amelia had so rightly said, the top half of a very attractive dark-haired man with fine Latin features. He had slightly hooded light eyes in a narrow face, and a very straight nose. More of a young Alain Delon than a Johnny Depp, actually. He was sitting at the kitchen table by the open French windows in jeans and a blue linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His profile was towards me and he
was firing off a stream of invective, his face, under his tan, pale with anger.

‘She's an animal!' he was saying, in a cultivated Right Bank accent, spitting out the words. ‘She let's me discover, through a DNA test, when she already knows the result. Let's me take it, because she hasn't the guts to tell me herself. What sort of a woman – what sort of a
mother
, is she?'

Michel and Thérèse sat opposite him, dark heads bowed in silence. Thérèse had her apron on over her dress and Michel was in his
bleu de travail
overalls. They didn't look at him. Gazed down into their laps.

‘And you two – you go along with it. Duping me, selfishly, just to get what you want, neither of you having the courage to tell me, when I've been so kind to you. Letting you see Agathe as much as you want, because I know you adore her – and now I know why! The reason! You're filth. You …
you
!' – he swung round to Michel – ‘disgust me.' His lip curled, but it was quivering, too. He turned to Thérèse. ‘And you – you let him. Let him sleep with my wife. Your own sister!' At this his voice cracked with pain. Horror, too. He threw back his head and gave a primeval cry.

‘You have no idea, Étienne' – Thérèse's voice, when it came, was low, trembling with emotion – ‘how much that cost me. How much. But you also have no idea –
tu ne comprends pas
' – she clenched both fists on the table and leaned forward, her face contorted – ‘the lengths a woman will go to to have a child.'

‘There are other ways,' he whispered angrily, leaning forward also, right into her face. His fists were balled, too. ‘
Were
other ways, available to you.'

‘Expensive ways.'

‘Which
Camille paid for. Don't give me that crap!' He flung himself back in his chair.

‘Yes, she did, four times. But the last time, when it didn't work, the doctors said they wouldn't do it again. That was my last chance. No more IVF.'

‘There was another hospital. Where they said they'd do it again. You told me.'

‘Sharks, at a private clinic, with their eyes only on Camille's money – the hospital told us that, too. Told us private clinics would let us go on for ever, compounding our grief, our disappointment. But it wouldn't work. Not for us. This was the best way. The only way.'

‘Why didn't she do it properly, then?' Étienne lurched forward across the table again, right into her. ‘Be a surrogate mother, have all the tests, go through the motions, all the procedures?'

All three faces at the table knew why. Said it all. ‘Camille wouldn't do that,' Thérèse said eventually. ‘I knew. And I wouldn't ask. She'd paid for all the IVF … done so much already.'

‘She'd throw money at something, but she wouldn't consider putting herself out,' spat Étienne. ‘Wouldn't put herself through it, all those hospital visits, hoops to jump through, tests to take – but a quick fuck with her brother-in-law, who she's always fancied –
pas de problème
. It would amuse her. Appeal to her warped sense of humour. And to be granted permission?' He gave a hollow laugh. ‘What could be better? She's sick, I tell you.'

‘I didn't care. Still don't care, now,' Thérèse said defiantly. ‘I told you, I'd do anything.'

‘I bet she didn't even think she'd get pregnant. Thought
it was just a quick shag. I bet that was a nasty surprise. After all, she never did with me.' His voice lurched at this. He couldn't look at Michel. Turned away.

‘Maybe. And, yes, I think you're right. She told me she thought she couldn't,' said Thérèse. ‘But she did. And she selflessly had the baby for us – she didn't have to do that.'

‘Selflessly!' Étienne lunged right across the table, his face twisted and I saw spittle fly from his mouth. ‘Camille never did anything selfless in her entire life. She never wanted children, I knew that when I married her, but I thought I'd talk her round, I was so in love with her. I couldn't believe it when I did, when my campaign prevailed, when, so suddenly, almost overnight, when she'd been adamant about not having any – only the week before – she agreed. But she was already pregnant by then, and she knew it. Of course, I didn't question that it was mine. And, in a way, once she'd got used to the shock, it must have suited her. She'd have the child, which would satisfy me – my irritating, persistent pleadings – and round off her public persona in one fell swoop. Make her profile warmer, more accessible, more
human.
A constant complaint of her PR people. Too much the ice maiden, they said. But she'd never really have to look after Agathe. She would always be with you when it was her turn for custody. An equal share, the judge said, but I didn't understand that. Why shouldn't Agathe be with me the
whole
time, when, in Camille's care, she was always with you? So when I fought it, eventually, in the courts, stupidly – oh,
so
stupid.' He screwed his eyes up and thrust the palms of his hands into them. ‘You all watched. Stood by and watched.'
He removed his hands. ‘And, at first, it goes well for me. The judge is sympathetic, I can tell, until Camille, knowing she's about to lose, knowing the judge will side with me and knowing, too, what that will do to her image: Camille de Bouvoir loses custody of her child – imagine! She insists I have a DNA test.
Merde!
' He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand, his face tortured.

Two figures crept to join me: Amelia and Tara, in their pyjamas.

‘Is it good?' whispered Tara, crouching down beside me.

I made an anguished face. ‘So sad.'

They hugged their knees.

‘Thank God they had the humanity to let me know out of court, privately, when the results were in. But
you
knew. You could have told me the truth. Instead, it comes like a grenade, landing in the middle of my life. And, immediately – I know the rest. Know the father. It comes to me like another bomb, an unexploded one this time, one I've been sitting on for years. I wouldn't let myself believe it at first, would not let myself consider it. The horrible truth.' He gave a strangled sob and his head dropped into his hands. Tara gripped my arm. ‘So now, I lose Agathe completely,' we heard him say in a muffled voice. ‘I am worse off than when I started.'

There was a terrible, chilling silence.

‘Never, Papa.' A small voice made the three of us jump. Our heads swung to the left. Through the French windows at the opposite end of the room, from the garden side, a small figure in short, floral pyjamas had crept in.

‘Agathe?' whispered Tara, who couldn't see. She craned her neck. I nodded. Put my finger to my lips.

‘You
will always be my Papa – always. Now and for ever. I don't care what a court says. If you don't.'

Étienne clearly couldn't speak, so overcome with emotion was he. But in an eloquent gesture, as she approached, he drew her to him with an outstretched arm. With the other, he wiped his face, which was wet with tears. She stood beside him, her arm around his shoulders, his around her waist.

‘And Thérèse and Michel will be my uncle and aunt, even though Thérèse has been like a mother to me, always, and Michel, a second father. That is how I'd like it to remain. As it's always been. The three of us. Just as it is now. During the week with Papa in Grasse, the weekends here, with Thérèse and Michel. Just as always. But I don't want to see
Maman
. Don't want to go to her in Paris, in the holidays.'

Tara squeezed my arm. ‘Quite brave,' she whispered.

Étienne swallowed. He composed himself. ‘At all,
chérie
?'

‘She scares me,' Agathe said in a small voice. ‘When I know I'm going there, when you drop me off, I sweat. And when I go up to her apartment, she never comes to greet me – her maid lets me in – and when I do see her, she says, “How long are you staying?” I know she doesn't want me. She's happy when I'm in my room, or watching TV. If we go out, we go shopping, for her. Chanel. Saint Laurent. I sit on a chair. And I never say the right thing. And always she tells me to speak up. And, sometimes, when I'm there, I wet the bed. That makes her very angry. And she's right, I'm too old, I shouldn't. But she doesn't like me,' she finished sadly.

‘She never liked anyone very much,
chérie
,' said Thérèse
softly. Her own sister. ‘It's just how she is. She can't … trust. And if I told you, as a child, she, too, wet the bed … Our mother, you see. Your grandmother. Camille was so pretty. Too pretty for her. With this brilliant voice. Like our mother. It was not the same for me. But that's another story.'

So many stories. Tragic ones. Stretching back and back in time. Affecting so many children. How many more, I wondered? Sally. Rachel. Camille, too, it seemed. James and Thérèse were survivors. Me, too. By the grace of God and the skin of our teeth. The ones who got away. I squeezed my own children's hands tight.

‘But if that's what you want,
ma chérie
, I'm afraid I am not the person to implement it,' said Étienne sadly. His voice was broken. ‘Not in a position. I am weaker now than I ever was. I have no claim on you.'

‘No, but I am in a position,' said Michel, speaking for the first time.

The girls and I shuffled along the wall a bit on our bottoms, in a bid to see his face properly through the banisters. It was pale and tense. Determined. ‘From now on, what you want, Agathe, is exactly how it will be, with no one telling you what to do, or where to go. In our hearts, we have always acknowledged and regretted the terrible wrong done to Étienne. And I know you will love her now, Étienne, as you always have done, because you are a good man. We are her aunt and uncle, you are her father. Her mother will not care one fig; she will be relieved. She is not maternal. The situation will remain unchanged, but Agathe, you will never have to go to Paris again. If she objects, wants you as an adornment, to be photographed with her, like she did in London, taking you out of school
for two days, I will tell her that I will go to the press. Tell them the real story. I do not care. But she will. Very much she will care. You will be with your father and your aunt and uncle here, in Provence. Not go to Paris.'