Wish You Were Here (8 page)

Lizzie reached me first. Embraced me warmly. ‘Nothing to do with me, Flora,' she said firmly in my ear. ‘Absolutely all her own work.'

‘Darling!
How gorgeous! What a pad!' My mother was tripping across the gravel towards me, beaming widely. In another moment, she was embracing me warmly. ‘This is Jean-Claude by the way, isn't he heaven? I found him just outside Valence.'

What could I do but shake the hand of the tall, attractive man who was advancing, murmuring, ‘
Enchanté
,' his smile reaching right up to his sleepy sea-green eyes, which crinkled at the edges.

My smile was a great deal tighter than his and, although I managed to say something in response, it certainly wasn't ‘
Enchanté
'. Luckily, Lizzie was alive to the situation and appeared like magic to move him swiftly on to meet the others. Mum was oblivious, naturally, cigarette already alight, eyes, too, as they followed Jean-Claude's lean silhouette on its way.

‘We stopped off at his antique shop,' she went on in a low, excited voice. ‘Such a dear little place, we spotted it because it had the prettiest things for sale outside. Darling little bistro chairs, birdcages, baskets – just the sort of shabby-chic things I like – and inside, we found poor Jean-Claude slumped behind his desk. He'd got a terrible attack of the glums because he needed to get to the
brocante
fair in Aix for more stock – he'd practically run
out – but his van had broken down. So I said we'd take him. Wasn't that lucky?'

‘Very. So he's off to Aix, is he?' I kept the bright smile going, admittedly slightly encouraged by this news.

‘Oh, yes. Eventually.'

‘Right. So how long is he staying?'

‘Just a few days. You know how it is.'

I did. Just a few days could turn into months with my mother, and in the case of one particular character called Neville, years. ‘Is he your stepfather?' the children at school would ask. ‘Yes. No. I don't know.' I didn't. What constituted a stepfather? Someone who took you to ballet and swimming (he never did that) or someone who slept with your mother (he certainly did that) before sliding off to some dodgy record company he ran just off the King's Road. Neville, Charles, Tommy, Casper … all pleasant men, none violent or unkind to me – my mother picked well – but just not what I wanted. Not what I'd read about in Enid Blyton. I wanted a mother who made jam, a father who came home in a suit, a brother called Tim and a dog called Rufus.

‘He's the most terrific cook. He's been telling us about how to marinate hams and smoke fish properly. And he does all sorts of fascinating things with pickles.'

‘We have a cook. And you know all about pickles, you're forever getting yourself into one.'

‘Oh, darling, don't be a bore, he's terribly amusing. And the children will love him.'

‘Is he a boyfriend, Mum?'

‘Oh, boyfriend, shmoyfriend …' She waved her
cigarette airily. Saw my face. ‘No, of course not,' she said quickly. ‘But he is frightfully attractive, don't you think?'

He'd gone to help Lizzie with more luggage from the car and was well out of earshot now.

‘Mum, you promised!' I hissed.

‘I promised no more unsuitable younger men. But he's older than he looks, darling. At least fifty.'

‘But what will the Brig and the others think?'

‘Oh, the Brig won't mind, you know what he's like. He's on cracking form, incidentally. Looks divine in his summer gear, very tropical.'

‘You've seen him?'

‘We bumped into him and Rachel on the boat. They were staying at hotels on the way down, too – in fact, we thought they'd beat us here. Sally and her new man are making their way separately.' Her face puckered a moment and she looked worried. ‘Flora, speaking of Sally's new man, Lizzie told me something rather disturbing in the car. She had a chat with Rachel on the boat, and it seems Sally has hooked up with someone … well, someone rather surprising. It appears she's lost a bit of weight and she ran into him while she was cooking at a rather grand house party in Fife. Flora –'

‘Granny!'

‘Darlings!' She broke off suddenly, her face wreathed in smiles as her granddaughters came running across the lawn towards her. Having met Jean-Claude, they were keen to get the lowdown, and looked thrilled to bits. Nothing their grandmother did could ever shock them. They ran into her arms and whatever my mother was about to say about Sally's new beau was lost in a flurry of greetings and
exclamations. They immediately went into a huddle to whisper about Jean-Claude.

James had made it up the hill by now and was viewing the scene with dismay. I couldn't meet his eye.

‘Lizzie, what were you thinking?' I hissed when she came back with her case.

‘I couldn't stop her,' she muttered. ‘You know what she's like, batting her eyelids: bat, bat, bat. He was in the seat beside her before I could say, “
Comment s'apelle?
” '

‘Oh, I
knew
I should have brought her with us. She's not to be trusted.'

‘Well, never mind, he's here now, and it won't be for long. He's actually terribly nice. Come on, show me around. And I need to talk to you.'

I linked her arm in mine and took her off, aware that James was tailing me. He caught up with us upstairs, despite me having taken the stairs at a canter, and cornered us halfway down the corridor. He was breathing rather heavily as he bore down on us.

‘Who, pray, is that man?'

‘He's an antique dealer on his way to Aix. Lizzie gave him a lift.'

Lizzie glanced at me in alarm.

‘He's clearly your mother's latest lover.'

‘No, no, of course he's not. He's about fifteen years younger than her.'

‘Exactly. Where's he going to sleep?'

‘Down the far end.' I waved my hand to indicate a long way away. ‘Next to Rory. And Mum can go next door to us.'

‘What, and you'll stay up all night patrolling the corridors on account of our daughter
and
your mother? Well, I
hope she creeps in his direction rather than ours. I really don't want to lie awake listening to that all night.'

‘Well, imagine how I feel!' I said heatedly.

‘I can't think what Camille will say.'

‘What's it got to do with Camille?' I snapped.

‘Well, she's bound to hear about it, isn't she? It's her house. It doesn't look great, does it?' He shot me a venomous look before stalking off pompously.

He was usually quite sympathetic towards my mother: the one telling me to relax about her attraction to increasingly younger men and to go with the flow, that it was no reflection on me. Under the opera singer's roof, however, it was clearly a different matter.

‘Unlike James to take the moral high ground,' commented Lizzie as I showed her into her room.

‘I think he's got a crush on our hostess and he wants us to all match up. I wouldn't mind, but when the Brig arrives he'll launch into “When I was at Dartmoor …” as if it's Sandy Lane, Barbados, but that's all right, apparently. As long as it's
his
family,' I said petulantly, which wasn't like me. I loved the Brig.

‘Crikey, I've even got a bell pull!' Lizzie was exploring excitedly.

‘It doesn't work. Amelia's already tried it with Tara listening to the row of bells in the kitchen, but they still have to revert to texting me when they want something.' I sat down miserably on the bed. ‘I'm so glad you're here, Lizzie. I've a feeling I've bitten off more than I can chew by having both sets of parents here. And now bloody Jean-Claude.'

‘Or JC, as your mother calls him – totally without irony, incidentally. It'll be fine, don't worry. Um, listen,
Flora, talking of James's family, we met the Brig and Rachel on the boat coming over.'

‘Yes, I know. Mum said. With the Brig looking like something out of a Brian Rix farce and Rachel telling her that Sally has met someone even my
mother
thinks is unsuitable.'

‘Exactly. And the thing is …' Lizzie scratched her leg awkwardly. ‘Well, the thing is, you know how you always say Sally is so competitive with you. So keen to outdo you …'

‘Oh,
don't
get me started on that. Remember that Christmas when James gave me some pearl earrings, and the next time we saw her she was wearing some which she told me were
much
bigger than mine!'

‘I know, and –'

‘That Joseph coat I bought, exactly. Which I'd saved up for ages to buy, and then she went straight on the internet and bought the exact same one. Albeit several sizes larger.'

‘Well, that's the other thing, Flora. She's lost some weight, apparently.'

‘So Mum said.'

‘Which means she's much more marketable, if you see what I mean.'

‘Well, that's no bad thing, although, knowing Sally, it'll be a couple of pounds at the most and it'll all be back on by the end of the holiday. Oh God.' I glanced at my watch. Got hastily to my feet. ‘We must go down to supper, Lizzie. Thérèse said eight o'clock, and I don't want to be late on the first night. James will kill me. He wants us all on parade.'

‘Yes, OK, but hang on a moment, going back to this
competitive thing.' Lizzie looked strangely nervous. ‘The reason this guy she's with is unsuitable –'

‘Is because he's one of Mum's ex-boyfriends. I'm already there, Lizzie.'

‘No, not one of hers …'

‘Shit – one of yours? Please don't tell me it's that chiselled-faced moron you met last time we were in Scotland? The druggy-looking one?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. It's –'

‘Well, thank the Lord, because, frankly, I sometimes think that despite Amelia being so opposed to it all at the moment it wouldn't take much to skew her in the opposite direction. She is so mercurial, and the last thing I want is some good-looking dude peddling wacky bacc –'

‘Oh,
wouldn't
it take much!'

Suddenly, Amelia flew through the open door and was amongst us. I froze, horrified.

‘Oh! Darling. I was just saying –'

‘Just saying you think I'm so fickle that if some sad boyfriend of Sally's or Granny's turned up with an ounce of grass in his pocket I'd be like – ooh, how exciting, can Tobes and I have a spliff, you experienced old hippies, you? Thanks for that, Mum. No, really. Thanks. I came to tell you supper's ready, by the way.'

She turned on her heel and stalked off towards the staircase, furious. I raced after her, appalled. Flew down the stairs after her.

‘No! Amelia, I did
not
mean that! All I meant was that, delighted though I am that you
don't
indulge, I certainly don't want the older generation to think that just because they're with the young, you won't be shocked. Have carte
blanche to roll up wherever they want. You know how Mum likes to be part of the cool gang, and –'

Amelia turned on her heel at the bottom of the stairs. I nearly banged into her. ‘No, Mum, she
is
cool. Just because she doesn't act as everyone expects an older woman to act,
you
think she's embarrassing. Well, she's not. She's true to herself. And that is so refreshing.'

‘Refreshing! To you it might be, because you're a generation removed, but let me tell you, young lady, it wasn't much fun having no example to follow when I was growing up, and I am determined –'

‘To revert to the 1950s? Call me young lady?'

‘No, I'm just saying –'

‘What, Mum? Think about it.' We were glaring at each other in the hall; the colour was high in her cheeks. ‘You didn't turn out like Granny, did you? If anything, you're prim and proper, so how does it follow that setting a
good
example is going to create a good child? You should probably go in for a bit of free love and dope-smoking if you really want to take your responsibilities to me and Tara seriously. If you really want us to end up exactly like
you
.'

Her dark eyes blazed right into mine before she turned and marched off. Through the double doors she swept, in her long patchwork skirt, to the inner hall, then out through the open French windows to the terrace, where supper was laid on a pretty Provençal cloth, and where everyone was sitting waiting, ready to eat. Amelia, now on the other side of the table, facing back towards the house, glared at me when I came into view.

Oh, splendid. Splendid. What a terrific start to the holiday, I thought, heart pounding, as Lizzie, who'd clearly
been waiting for the coast to clear, slipped past me to the terrace. She shot me a sympathetic look. I walked unsteadily after her and took the only remaining place at the table, which was between Rory and Jean-Claude, and, unfortunately, opposite Amelia.

I shook out my napkin, feeling wretched. I hated rowing with her. Would feel low for days now, worrying as she made me suffer: scowling and sulking and shooting me black looks at every conceivable opportunity, as she was now, across the table. And it couldn't be a more beautiful setting, I thought sadly, as I managed to smile at Thérèse who was setting enormous bowls of daube provençale on the table in front of us. This elevated terrace with its vast urns of pink bougainvillea, its limbs twisting right up to the balcony above, cicadas calling to one another in the soft, balmy air, the heavenly view over the valley and the sea in the distance, surrounded by my nearest and dearest. Let's face it, it was my dream. Why, then, did it suddenly taste so sour? I helped myself to a few pieces of beef and onion and felt it turn to dust and ashes in my mouth.