Wish You Were Here (19 page)

‘Obviously!' I laughed back, but my head said,
fucking hell
. I was
engaged
to him, Sally.

‘Max has had loads of girlfriends,' she said kindly. She patted my hand. ‘He's a very attractive man.'

‘Yes.'

I wasn't so sure. I knew Max much better than Sally did. He wasn't a roué. Had never been a player. I sniffed a man covering his tracks, littering it with phantom girlfriends.

‘So …' I felt my way. ‘After he and Camille split up …'

‘There was nothing to split, Max said. It was just a casual thing on location as far as he was concerned. And when I got James's email saying he'd administered an EpiPen to a child on a plane and the mother had lent him a villa in France and would we like to come, I didn't think to ask who it belonged to, just squealed and emailed back, “Yes, please!” So that was all I knew to tell Max.'

Camille
had also asked James to keep her name quiet. Claimed she didn't like people knowing where she lived.

‘So Max didn't know who it belonged to?'

‘Any more than I did.'

‘But
she
knew.' I was thinking aloud. ‘About you. She knew he'd probably come with you.'

‘Exactly.'

I stared, horrified, as the full implication dawned. ‘You think she engineered this whole thing? To see Max?'

‘I do. Think about it, Flora. She asks for your email at the airport to send you a bread-and-butter thank you, and when she sees the name she thinks – hello: Murray-Brown. That's an unusual surname. She knows Max is seeing a Sally Murray-Brown. So she investigates. Asks James to lunch. Discovers he does indeed have a sister called Sally. So she suggests his entire family come out. But asks that he keeps her name quiet.'

‘Odd.'

I recalled her at the airport: very much in a hurry at the baggage carousel, to which she'd arrived late, making for the exit and leaving her minions to collect the luggage. At the last moment spotting James and having no choice but to come across, but hardly on a mission. Then, suddenly, lunch at the Hyde Park Hotel, and then, lo and behold, the surprise holiday, hurtling down the tracks. I felt a nasty taste in my mouth. For us, as a family. For having been duped. And for my James. Who, even now, was probably mixing her favourite lunchtime Bellini in her favourite tall glass, with sugar on the rim, running around after her like a puppy dog, making, if I'm honest, a bit of a fool of
himself. Which Camille encouraged in order to … what, make Max jealous?

‘Does she strike you as the type to make a huge, magnanimous gesture?' persisted Sally. ‘Or the type to casually write an email of thanks, not even a letter?'

‘The latter,' I agreed.

‘I reckon we're all here because she wants to try to get Max back.'

I shook my head, staggered. My heavens, she was cool. A very smooth operator. Although, of course, what Camille didn't know, I thought, my head spinning, was the subtext. That Max and I had once been together, had been very much an item and were quietly getting to know each other again. And that once he'd got over the shock of whose house he was in – I remembered Sally saying he was flabbergasted – he wasn't averse to spending his holiday here, because he, too, had an agenda. Had known all along I was coming.

‘So … what is it that worries you, Sally?' I said carefully. ‘I thought you and Max had a very casual relationship?'

‘We do,' she said quickly. ‘He was straight with me from the beginning, as I was with him. Absolutely no strings attached. We're playing this one for laughs. Otherwise, I wouldn't have got into it,' she said firmly.

‘Right.' I was surprised at her vehemence. Rather admired it.

‘I was just a bit shaken, I suppose. To discover the lengths she's gone to, to engineer this. And I feel a bit bad for James.'

‘Me, too,' I agreed, as, at that moment, Max came through the gateway to the walled pool in swimming trunks and a
pink shirt, a book and towel under his arm. As he peeled off for a swim, Sally got up and sashayed around to greet him. She rose up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss, then took up position on the bed beside the one on which he'd placed his book and towel. Max reached down and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze before walking around to the deep end to dive in. Just then, Camille appeared through the gate at the other end of the walled garden. I'd never seen her by the pool before. She wore a green silk sarong around her hips and a white bikini top, which just about encased her considerable bosoms. Her figure was to die for; slim and brown but curvaceous, she was a veritable pocket Venus, and in keeping with the mythological analogy, her blonde hair flowed in ripples down her back. If Max saw this vision of female pulchritude, he didn't acknowledge it. His eyes didn't flicker towards her. Instead, feet poised on the edge, he raised his arms and executed a neat swallow dive into the shimmering blue water, hardly rippling the surface.

Three pairs of female eyes watched intently as he travelled the length of the pool underwater. Before he made it to the other end, I quickly pulled mine away. Drew the brim of my hat defiantly over them. Oh, no. Count
me
out, I thought in horror. Count me
right
out of the equation.

That
evening, as we dressed for dinner, I told James what Sally had told me. He listened, but I could tell he didn't want to believe me.

‘Oh, no, I think that's just a coincidence, darling.'

‘Do you?'

‘Yes. You girls with your conspiracy theories. I'm sure Camille was as surprised as anyone when Max turned up.'

‘But did you even know they knew each other? Let alone had an affair? I mean, they kept that very quiet, didn't they?'

‘Well, for obvious reasons. He's with Sally now, and if Camille's going through a custody battle – I knew about that, by the way, she's having a terrible time with her ex. He's called Étienne de la Peyrière, and his family rule the roost round here. Own half of Grasse. I'm going to see if I can get her some help. Chap I was at Cambridge with is a brilliant family lawyer.'

‘I'm sure she's got the best that money can buy already, darling.'

‘Well, she seemed pretty interested.'

‘Right.' I tied the strings of my espadrilles in a bow. ‘Thérèse told the girls he's nice.'

‘Who?'

‘Étienne de thingy.'

He laughed hollowly. ‘Not according to Camille, and she
should know. I gather he's a complete shit. Have you seen my blue linen shirt?'

‘You didn't put it in, it was dirty.'

‘Damn. And I've run out of contact lenses, which is annoying.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, I'll have to wear my glasses.'

‘James, don't …'

‘What?'

‘Nothing. Come here.' I was sitting on the bed. I stretched out my hand and he came across. Sat down beside me.

‘We're all right, aren't we?' I asked him.

He laughed. ‘Isn't that the sort of thing they say in
Friends
?'

‘But aren't we?' I persisted.

‘Of course we are. And last night was lovely.' He kissed me perfunctorily. ‘And you're enjoying catching up with Max?'

‘Oh, yes. We went for a drink last night, which is why we didn't make the chateau.'

‘Yes, that's what I assumed. And the thing is, Flora' – he hesitated – ‘it's making us much better together. Getting out more, I believe it's called. Mixing with different people. Sparks us up a bit.'

‘Yes, that's what I thought, too. A couple of days ago. Yesterday, even. It's just …' I still had his hand.

‘What?' He brushed my fringe from my eyes. An affectionate gesture.

‘I just think we should be careful.'

He laughed. ‘Oh, don't be silly, darling, we're not seventeen.'

‘No.'

‘I'm
really not worried I'm going to find you snogging in the undergrowth with Max, if that's what you mean.'

‘I don't mean that.'

‘Nice man. I like him.'

I nodded. Odd man, my husband. Plain
odd.

‘Camille has got tickets to an Andrea Bocelli concert in Cannes on Friday,' he said. I now had no illusions about Camille leaving us. She was here for the duration.

‘Has she?' I got up and found my earrings on the dressing table. Popped them in and turned. ‘You go. You know I hate opera. How many tickets?'

He hesitated. ‘Two.'

I smiled down at him. ‘Honestly, go. You know I don't mind.'

I didn't. Did that make me odd, too? No, because I knew why she was here, even if James didn't believe it. Would I have minded if I'd thought she really was after my husband? Yes, of course. I quickly added some blusher. Caught my own eye in the mirror. But she wasn't.

Supper that night – a barbecue, which made a pleasant change – found me placed next to Max. I won't pretend I didn't engineer it. Once a noisy conversation was under way at the other end of the table, Amelia and Toby on either side of a debate about legalizing cannabis, both waving spare-rib bones at each other, everyone else lining up to take sides, I came straight to the point.

‘I gather you and Camille are not exactly strangers.'

He grinned. ‘Sally didn't waste much time.'

‘But why did you pretend you didn't know her? I can
understand not wanting to appear over-friendly, but we didn't even know you'd met.'

‘To tell you the truth, I was so bloody shocked when Sally told me whose house it was, and then, when she appeared on the terrace that first night, I didn't quite know how to handle it. She pretended she didn't know me, so I took my cue from her. Let myself be introduced. After all, it's her custody battle.'

‘So you know about that.'

‘She told me in Rome.' He shrugged. ‘I assumed that was the reason for blanking me here in front of her family, her sister.'

I speared a tiny caramelized onion thoughtfully with my fork. ‘You realize we're all here on your account? Every single one of us?'

‘Bollocks.'

‘It's true. For once, I agree with Sally. Camille has masterminded this whole shebang. You have no idea how manipulative women are, Max.'

‘Oh, I think I do.'

I'd forgotten he'd been married to Mimi. I wondered, for a moment, what it must be like to be Max. To be so attractive that women fought to get close to him. Arranged their lives around him. Not this one, I thought, ignoring the fact that his blue eyes looked even brighter now his face was tanned, his hair slightly flecked with gold. And, anyway, part of me thought that he was really only interested in someone as ordinary as me because I'd resisted him.

I was conscious of Amelia's eyes on me towards the end of supper and, after pudding, she followed me into the
kitchen, as I helped take some dishes in. She stood over me as I stacked the dishwasher under the island by the sink. Could have helped, of course, but she had other things on her mind.

‘Tara and I really aren't happy about it, Mum,' she said pompously.

‘About what?'

‘You flirting outrageously with Max, and Dad being knocked sideways by Camille.'

Tara appeared, hastening to her sister's side from the table. This was clearly a pre-arranged pincer movement. She nodded solemnly and they both looked po-faced. Any minute now some arm folding would go on. They folded their arms.

‘I'm not flirting, Amelia, and anyway, you were really rather interested yesterday.'

‘Yes, but it's too much now,' said Tara. ‘It's all a bit – you know – weird. And Dad's even worse.'

We turned to look through the open French windows. James was rocking with laughter at some comment of Camille's – one supper with her own family in the lodge had clearly been enough, and she was back with a vengeance. He was looking, I have to say, quite attractive as he embarked on yet another orthopaedic anecdote.

‘Dad's just having a nice time. Enjoying the attention.'

‘He looks like he's going to stick his tongue down her throat. It's gross. Anyway,' went on Amelia, ‘I think she's secretly after Max.'

‘What on earth makes you say that?'

‘She keeps sneaking him furtive glances, and he is really good-looking. How come you snared him, Mum?'

‘Thank
you, Amelia. I had my moments.'

‘What, in the Wimpy Bar? With your flared jeans?'

Lizzie had joined us now, sensing girl chat. She took out her Marlboro Lights and leaned against the draining board, but misjudged it and staggered slightly.

‘Frankly, I'm just jealous no one fancies me,' she pouted. ‘I'm the bloody single woman here. You might have invited some sex-crazed Lothario on my account, everyone's shagging except me.' Her mouth lurched at the corner as it did when she was pissed, and she fumbled to light her cigarette.

‘No one is shagging, Lizzie. And anyway, yesterday you said there was a glimmer of hope on the Jackson front.'

‘False alarm. He's still up to his eyes with work. Speaking of which, did you get Maria's email?' She blew out a thin line of smoke and attempted to fix me with swimmy eyes.

‘Yes. I did,' I said shortly.

‘And you're not going back?'

‘No, I'm bloody not.' Ever, I thought to myself, wondering if I meant it, or if it was just holiday bravado. I took a slurp of the Cointreau she'd brought in with her.

‘Going back where?' demanded Tara, ears pricked.

‘Maria's calling a meeting. The magazine's been taken over, so …'

‘You knew that. That happened months ago,' objected Amelia. ‘You said it didn't matter.'

‘Yes, but the knock-on effects are now rippling out. The implication is that anyone who wants to keep their job had better show up for this meeting.'

‘But you're on holiday.'

‘I
know.'

They looked thoughtful. ‘You could just go for the day?' suggested Amelia. ‘Get a plane from Nice?'

‘Yes, that's what I thought I might do,' agreed Lizzie.

‘Oi, are you lot coming or what?' Toby's voice floated across from where he and Rory were shuffling cards at one end of the table, ciggies and candles lit. The girls drifted off to play Vingt-et-un, bored now that we were talking shop and not men.

‘Watch yourself, Mum, OK?' was Amelia's parting shot to me. I rolled my eyes theatrically.

‘But not you?' asked Lizzie, her mind still on flights home. ‘You're really not going?'

‘I'm really not going. If they want to sack me, they can jolly well get on with it. Give me a nice fat redundancy package. I'm not going back to grovel.'

My eyes were on Max, at the table, helping Drummond, who could be jolly stiff, to his feet. He steadied him, found his stick and then stayed with him a moment as Rachel came round from the other side of the table to take him inside and up to bed.

‘Night, all.'

‘Night, Drummond.'

‘Night, Grandpa!'

He gave a cheery wave to the young with his stick, still brimming with delight at being here, amongst his family, in the warmth, which he can't have felt on his skin for years: since his days in Africa probably, in the army. Thanking his lucky stars for being alive when so many of his contemporaries weren't, before shuffling in.

‘Right.
Well, I don't have the luxury of choice, so I might. Go back.'

‘It's not a luxury, Lizzie, I don't have that either. We need the money as much as you do. It's just … I've come to the end of something with that magazine.'

I had. Had known it for some time now but had been in denial. Because I used to love it so. And I'd made myself believe I still did, but I didn't. I still loved the food: was still excited when something new hit my taste buds, some innovative combination of flavours. That moment when I realized there was someone highly creative in the kitchen was still a thrill. I remembered discovering Antoine Edelle in a tiny restaurant in Tooting, being struck by his prodigious talent, praising the young chef to the skies and being delighted when, a few months later, he opened in Greek Street to rave reviews. The delight in all that was still there. And it more than made up for the mistakes I couldn't help noticing, like Thérèse putting too much wine in the marinade tonight or balsamic in the vinaigrette. And the food was good here. Or last night, how the creamy morel sauce was just slightly too rich, badly needing a dash of lemon to cut through it – I'd seen Jean-Claude's face after his first mouthful, knew he knew, too: he approached food with a great solemnity, I'd noticed. Yes, most evenings I noticed something, but it didn't taint my pleasure. Noticing flaws was an occupational hazard, and I was proud of my training, my finely tuned palate. It defined me. But I wanted to turn it in another direction now. Do things differently. I knew how, too. Just couldn't quite admit it. Even to myself.

I swam up from the depths of my reverie. Helped
myself to another slurp of Lizzie's Cointreau. ‘To be honest, Lizzie, I think it's all just a storm in a teacup. Maria's holiday in Tuscany got cancelled at the last minute because her husband had to go to New York. She's probably a bit jealous of us all lying here in the sun.'

‘I know, I wondered that. She's really pissed off, apparently. I spoke to Colin. Serve her right for marrying an über-rich banker.' She sighed. Stubbed her cigarette out in a cheese plate. ‘Perhaps I'll play it by ear. See if we get any more missives tomorrow.'

‘Exactly. I would.'

Lizzie had been standing with her back to the draining board, facing the garden. She focused her gaze on the candlelit table. ‘I say, James is having fun, isn't he?'

I turned. Dried my hands. My husband was on his feet now, mimicking someone with an exaggerated limp. A hunched back, too, apparently. Was he Richard III? Camille was laughing prettily, clapping her hands with delight.

‘Is he making a fool of himself, Lizzie? The girls think he is.'

‘Of course not, he's on holiday. I haven't seen him like that for years, it's really lovely. He's such good company.'