Plan B (20 page)

My heart pounded at the idea of talking to him. I panicked. ‘Don’t do anything right now. Talk to Bella.’ I watched Alice and Louis emptying the kitchen drawers, and decided to let them get on with it. As far as I could see there were no knives. ‘Bella!’ I called. ‘Charlotte’s found him.’

Bella appeared instantly, a white cotton tunic in her hand. ‘Where? At work? Is he OK?’

I nodded and handed her the phone. Coco appeared by my side and touched my shoulder. ‘Your sister has found Matt?’ she checked, in French.

‘Yes. He’s at work, just like he always is on Monday.’ I turned to her, conscious that I was holding myself together. ‘Why hasn’t he called me?’ I switched into English. ‘Why the fuck hasn’t he called me? Even if he’s leaving me, he has to tell me. He has to leave a note or
something
. What is going on? What about Alice?’ Coco pulled me into her shoulder but I stiffened and pulled away. I looked at her. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t relax. I need to stay in control.’

She nodded. ‘You are very English,’ she pointed out, in French. ‘A Frenchwoman would be a torrent of emotions. You’re keeping it all inside.’

‘I have to.’ I tried to listen to what Bella was saying, but I couldn’t take it in. I did not want to speak to Matt. I could not bear to hear what he might say to me.

‘Still there,’ said Pete. ‘She’s on the phone.’

‘Arse,’ said Hugh.

‘She’s looking at us.’ Pete looked away quickly and tried to sip his coffee, which was far too hot. He thought it had been microwaved in the cup, because he could barely touch the handle. He put it down quickly before the scalding liquid got anywhere near his lips.

‘Still?’ Hugh was pretending to read the tabloid paper that was on the table. His eye drifted over a story about footballers and sex, but his brain didn’t process it.

Pete stole a look. He made accidental eye contact with Charlotte, who stared grimly at him until he looked away, which happened quickly. ‘Oh yes,’ he told Hugh. ‘Very much still looking at us. Still on the phone.’

‘Christ. She’s telling fucking Emma.’

Pete laughed. ‘Or she’s hiring a hit squad. She must have followed you here.’

‘No shit. Fuck it, she’s supposed to be the scatty one.’

Pete gathered a large helping of egg, sausage and chips onto his fork. He dipped it in ketchup, then dipped it in brown sauce, and opened his mouth wide to receive it. He chewed vigorously for a few moments.

‘The thing is,’ he said, still chewing, ‘does it matter? You’ve left Emma. That was your choice. You’re going to have to talk to her sometime. I mean, it’s generally considered good manners to let someone know when you dump them. Plus I don’t see sexy sis here storming in to confront you.’

‘She will. She’s an actress. She loves scenes.’

‘It’s not about her.’

‘She never liked me. Nor did Bella. The aunt was the worst. She knew I was a bad ‘un the moment she met me. She could see right through me. She was scary.’

Pete shrugged. ‘Good thing it’s not the aunt out there now, then. Anyway, none of it matters now. You’re free of them all. You’ll never see them again.’

Hugh picked up his half Guinness. ‘Cheers to that,’ he said. Pete managed to pick up his coffee, and they toasted Hugh’s escape from Emma.

He braved a glance at the window. Charlotte gave him a withering look, put her phone back in her handbag, and walked away.

‘I have told her anyway,’ said Hugh. ‘I sent her a letter.’

Jo closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She expelled the air through her mouth as she had been taught to do in her yoga class. She did it again: in, and out. All around her, people were rushing to work. She knew she was blocking the pavement. Men and women in suits, and a few tourists with maps and cameras, were stepping out into Jermyn Street to get past her. There was some huffing and tutting, but nobody addressed her. She tried to keep going. She instructed one foot to step in front of the other. It was no good. She couldn’t move.

She had to get to the gallery. She needed to open up. She had meetings all morning and an auction to go to in the afternoon. She was a hundred yards away from the door, but she was paralysed.

A woman stopped next to her. Jo felt her presence, but didn’t look.

‘Excuse me,’ said the woman. ‘Are you all right?’

Jo turned her head and looked at her. She had made herself up immaculately that morning, knowing that she needed a mask. Normally a hard look from her could easily frighten off someone like this woman, who was soft, overweight and kind. The woman put a hand on Jo’s shoulder. To her horror, she felt her face crumpling.

As the woman cradled her, Jo sobbed. She cried on the woman’s shoulder for two minutes. Then she pulled away and apologised. The woman gave her a cotton handkerchief and walked her to the gallery door.

‘If you need anything, I’m a Samaritan. My name’s Glad. Glad Muir. Here’s my card. Call me if you need to.’

She squeezed Jo’s shoulder and watched her open the gallery and turn off the alarm. Jo sat down and stared at the card. Everything had become too strange. She had just been rescued by a stranger whose name was Glad.

As I drove away from Pounchet I knew that I was leaving half of myself behind. This was the biggest test I had ever faced. I thought about my childhood. It was probably not; but it was the biggest test I could remember. I was Emma Meadows, and I was single. The only reason I was not getting divorced was because he had never wanted to marry me.

Alice was ensconced in our house with her aunt. Bella’s husband, Jon, was coming out with the boys the next morning. Christa and Geoff were arriving on Thursday, as planned. It broke my heart that Bella would probably be taking Alice to school for the
rentrée
, on Thursday, and that Christa and Geoff would be there to pick her up.

Matt had left me. It was official.

His letter had arrived the previous morning. Much as I would have liked to have forgotten it, every word was burned on my memory.

Dear Emma,

I knew that Matt had not written that letter. I had thought I knew him better than anyone. I had spent four overwhelmingly happy years with him. I could not let this letter mark the end. I desperately hoped that something sinister was going on, that he had, perhaps, been blackmailed, or got himself into a huge financial crisis, and that he was doing this to save me and Alice from his mess. If he needed help, then I was on my way to save him. If he had met someone else, which was, though I hated to acknowledge it, the more likely option, then I was on my way to show him that he had underestimated me. I was travelling to London, on my own, to find him.

Bella had offered to make me ‘look fabulous’ to win him back, but I had brushed her away. She didn’t understand. This was not about outward appearances. A pretty dress and a spot of lipstick was not going to bring him back. Charlotte had insisted on meeting me in London. I had agreed, reluctantly.

I drove north to Villeneuve on the ring road and onwards, to Bordeaux. The countryside, all the way, was flat. Rows of pine trees stretched away on either side of me. There were hundreds of miles of trees. Now that I drove out of our corner of France, I realised how geographically confined we had been for the past seven months. Alice and I had not travelled further than Mimizan. That was an hour from home. We had spent every night under our own roof. Although we had kept in touch with England, it had seemed increasingly remote.

We will have to go back to England now, I reminded myself. It will be a shock, but we will manage. I wondered whether we would look back in the future and see these months as a dreamlike interlude. Alice would barely remember it.

I struggled to maintain my self-possession as I contemplated a future without Matt. I had to find him to see what was going on. Did he really imagine that I would bow out of his life so obediently? He probably did, because I had always done everything I had been told.

I could not remember ever having been angry before. I felt the beginnings of it now. I was possessed, unable to think about anything other than Matt. I was humiliated: abandoned by my supposed life partner, by the man who had said that he would always adore Alice and me. I was devastated that he had downgraded that, in his letter, to adoring Alice and respecting me. We had made Alice together, out of love. She was a combination of our genes. He had left her without saying goodbye.

None of it added up. By the time I arrived at Bordeaux, I had convinced myself, yet again, that Matt needed me to come and rescue him. I could not think about any other possibility. I was on the edge.

I landed at Gatwick at half past three. It felt odd to be making the journey that Matt had made so many times, and to be making it on my own. I thought, in a detached way, that I ought to have enjoyed the journey. It would have been nice to have been in a state of mind to appreciate the pleasures of travelling alone: to have relished sitting by the window for the whole journey and staring blankly at a book, to have appreciated the rare chance to travel unencumbered by crayons, beakers of juice, or emergency biscuits. I found a small plastic dinosaur in my handbag and clutched it in my palm, a kind of talisman. It was a stegosaurus, and its plates pressed sharply into my hand.

I had hand luggage and nothing else, so I walked straight out into the airport. Gatwick was immense and busy. The air smelt stale, as if it had been inhaled and exhaled too many times. People of all ages and nationalities rushed past. Signs showed me the way to places I did not want to go to. Announcements rang out indecipherably. The dull momentum of the place assaulted me, and for a moment I was utterly lost.

I found a cashpoint, and took two hundred pounds from my British bank account. I checked the balance, which was healthier than I had expected. Then I queued in a newsagents and bought a newspaper, to give me change for the payphone. As I waited to pay, I noticed the huge array of chocolate, crisps and sweets on display. It was obscene. I had got used to the lack of snacking culture in France. It seemed sane. I took a bottle of water from the fridge, and lost my place in the line. When I got to the front, the man at the till said, in a mechanical voice; ‘Giant chocolate bar half price with any paper.’ He pushed an enormous bar of cheap milk chocolate towards me.

‘No thanks,’ I said.

He frowned. ‘You sure?’

I nodded.

‘Suit yourself,’ he said, gave me a
takes all sorts
look, and handed me a palm full of change.

I spent ten minutes looking for a payphone. A group of girls, all wearing tight pink T-shirts with ‘Amy’s hen party – watch out Barcelona!!’ printed on them walked around me, shrieking with laughter and drinking Bacardi Breezers. A small Asian man hauled his suitcase behind him, looking around, lost and distressed. Three backpackers were deep in conversation, blocking my path with their bags, and I edged past nervously.

I clutched the phone when I heard Alice’s voice. I felt dreadful about abandoning her straight after her father, but I was doing it for the sake of her future.

‘You be careful, Mummy,’ she said. Then she told me about the games she was playing with Bella, and then the money ran out.

I boarded the Gatwick Express. As soon as I sat down, I realised that my head was spinning. For a moment, I felt myself about to faint. I forced a couple of deep breaths, and leaned forward. My mind was full of bright lights and colours and people. I had grown up in London, but now I was dreading everything about it. I had become too rural.

When I regained control, I leaned back in my seat and looked at the people opposite. They were elderly tourists, who were smiling around at everybody and everything. The man caught my eye. He was white-haired, red-faced, and affable in a Hawaiian shirt and Panama hat.

‘Vacation?’ he asked. I thought he was Canadian.

I shook my head. ‘I wish,’ I told him. ‘I’m English. I live in France. I’m just back briefly.’

‘And that doesn’t constitute a vacation?’

I forced a small smile. ‘It certainly doesn’t.’ For a moment I considered inflicting my story on this couple, but I decided against it. They looked nice. I didn’t want to depress them. Besides, they were in England and everyone knew that British people did not share details about their private lives, least of all with strangers on trains.

‘Family problems,’ I told him.

I had a terrible fear that this was just the beginning. I had expended an enormous amount of energy over the years in pretending that my mother had never existed. I had never faced up to what had happened when I was a toddler. I had made a point of never thinking about it. I had never asked Christa about my mother. I had shaken my head when she had asked if I wanted a photograph for my room. Instinctively, even as a tiny child, I had decided to make a fresh start.

If Matt had left me, after everything I had done for him, then my whole identity was under threat. I had never uttered a cross word to him. I had done everything he wanted, been sweet when he was grumpy, indulged him when he was tired, comforted him when work was going badly, made him laugh, made his tea, made him come. I had cheered him on when everything was going well. I had borne him a beautiful daughter and had emigrated on his whim. I had done everything in my power to be a perfect partner. He had still rejected me.