Wish You Were Here (9 page)

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Although I always told the children not to look at their phones during meals, I did, surreptitiously. It was a text from Sally: ‘On our way. Had a puncture in Rouen but be with you at about midnight. Save us some food.'

Despite my mood, I gave a small smile. Sally never forgot her stomach.

‘What?' demanded Amelia opposite me, not about to let me off the hook.

‘It's Sally. They're on their way. They had a puncture.' I glanced at my husband to make sure he'd heard.

James
nodded, more kindly now that he sensed I was getting it in the neck from our daughter. ‘We'll save them some food.'

‘That's what she was asking.'

We exchanged a knowing smile, at peace again, as James and I could be in moments. One sulker was enough in a family.

‘Not a secret lover, then?'

I turned to Amelia. ‘No. I have no life of my own, Amelia. You know that.'

‘More fool you.'

The meal continued. Toby looked awkward as Amelia looked mutinous, and I wondered how he dealt with her temper: it must have come his way by now. Mum, rather bucked now the pressure was off her, chattered away gaily. Tara sensed drama and looked nervous for Rory's sake, but she needn't have worried. He smiled gamely and even bravely tried to engage Amelia in conversation. Such was his heroism, it forced me to smile at JC beside me.

‘How long have you had your antique shop, Jean-Claude?' I asked.

‘Not long. One year, almost. I want for more.'

Don't we all, I thought. ‘I'm sure you'll have many more years to expand,' I said encouragingly. ‘It's always hard starting a business.'

‘Yes, because too many people want to sell crap like me.'

‘Oh.' I was startled. ‘I'm sure it's not crap.'

‘Is that not what you call it?' He frowned, perplexed. ‘Your friend Lizzie, she come in and say, “What a load of old crap.” '

‘She
meant bric-a-brac,' I said quickly. ‘That's what we call it. Or antiques, of course.'

My mother was sitting beside him and I realized he had his hand on her knee. He saw me look. Smiled. ‘You are protective of your mother. But you need not worry. We understand one another.'

‘Of course you do, because age is no barrier to anything, is it? We should all just be free spirits and leap into cars with any old passing trade.'

I'd said exactly what had come into my head, employing no filter whatsoever. I was slightly out of control and knocked my wine back boisterously, missing my mouth, so some went down my chin. Amelia was watching me again. Jean-Claude removed his hand from my mother's knee.

‘Your mother is a very beautiful woman,' he told me seriously. ‘Photographed by Donovan, dressed by Dior, Lizzie told me in the car. A flower of her generation. That sort of appeal never fades.'

‘I know,' I said, tears unaccountably springing to my eyes. ‘I know, and she's like that inside and out. Which is rare.' I swallowed.

‘Your father is dead?' he asked, changing the subject.

‘No idea.' I said brightly, blinking hard. ‘Mum got a bit confused in the seventies. A bit … flowery.'

‘Bitch,' muttered Amelia.

‘No, darling, Granny would say the same.'

‘What would I say?' enquired Mum.

‘That you got a bit muddled about my father.'

‘Oh, yes, I did. Sometimes I think it might have been Cat Stevens but, in my heart, I know it was probably that
frightfully good-looking photographer who keeled over in the nineties.'

‘Didn't you think it might be Leonard Cohen?' asked Amelia, brightening to this, her favourite subject. Rory was looking stunned, and I saw Tara make frantic eye contact with me to call a halt to proceedings, but it was too late. Amelia was showing off, enjoying herself. ‘After all, Mum's got a similar personality,' she went on.

‘Oh, thanks. Depressive? Gloomy?'

‘Exactly. And there was that song about Suzanne –'

‘Oh, no, that wasn't me,' interjected Mum. ‘He'd got the hots for Suzanne Verdal by then, Armand Vaillancourt's wife.'

‘But … you mean you honestly don't know …' Rory asked quietly.

I turned. ‘Who my father was? No. And was never tempted to find out. As my mother says, in all likelihood, he's dead and, if not, he'll be married, and who wants that sort of bombshell turning up on their doorstep?'

‘I suppose,' said Rory doubtfully. ‘But when you were younger …?'

‘Oh sure, I wondered,' I said lightly.
Wondered?
I'd been consumed by it. Even stalked a few other possible suspects with my then boyfriend, who was as intrigued as I was. I recalled the two of us gazing down into a Kensington basement kitchen, watching an older man in cords and a jumper eat Sunday lunch with his family. Reading about another in a fashion magazine. But I never did anything about it.

‘Mum hasn't got the nerve,' Amelia said. ‘You'd think she has, but she hasn't. God, if it was me, I'd have been snipping bits of their hair off, testing for DNA.'

‘Yes,
you would,' I admitted, knowing she was still furious with me or she wouldn't be so unkind, but also knowing Amelia envied me my exotic parentage. She was at that age when she didn't want middle-class, middle-brow parents, would have loved to have been able to say, ‘Mick Jagger might be my father …'

‘Do you think you ever will? Find him?' Rory clearly didn't like loose ends.

‘No. I'll leave it to Amelia to discover on
Who Do You Think You Are?
when she's famous.'

I smiled, meaning it. Wanting her to know I meant it. To my surprise, she smiled back, this sparky, combative, argumentative daughter of mine, whom I loved, along with her sister, more than life itself. And who I truly believed could do something great one day, if she put her mind to it. ‘Mum thinks I'm going to be the next David Bailey because I can take a few pictures.'

‘Why not?' I told her warmly, sensing an olive branch, knowing we were fine suddenly. Almost fine. Almost agreeing a truce on this balmy, delightful, Provençal evening: almost agreeing it was too beautiful to spoil, no matter how upset or hurt we were. ‘Amelia won this terrific
National Geographic
prize –'

‘When I was about fifteen.'

‘Sixteen.'

‘And went on to win another one run by
Countryfile
on TV. A national competition.' It was Toby who'd spoken up this time.

I turned down the table to smile at him, prepared to love anyone who loved my children. I'd often wondered if Mum loved me like that. She didn't seem to. Not in that
fiercely protective, perhaps obsessive, way. She just did her own thing and let me get on with mine. I sighed. Knocked back some more rosé. There was no prescription for mothering, of course. Sometimes it was best not to be too analytical, as I was disposed to be. Just let it all wash over you.

The evening wore on in a far more convivial manner than it had begun although, of course, nine bottles of rosé helped enormously. We'd all succumbed to first-night excitement and our relief to be here and, hopefully, the first rows were over and done with. We were settling down now under the soft, navy-blue sky to get seriously pissed.

James had nipped inside to ask Thérèse and Michel to join us after pudding, and Michel had arrived with a tray of tiny glasses, full of something evil-looking, which we all regarded in mock-horror but gulped down heartily. I watched as James, arms extended over the backs of the chairs beside him, expanded happily on his work to Thérèse when she asked him about it, enjoying her interest. Michel sat quietly by, listening, leaning in, picking up tips from the great man. Very occasionally, he'd glance in my direction as I pretended to listen to Mum's prattle and, again, his dark gaze would linger for a few moments longer than was absolutely necessary. Flirting. Definitely flirting, I thought with a sudden rush of excitement and neat alcohol to the head. But why me? I sucked my tummy in and sat up a bit straighter. No one had flirted with me for years, and Lizzie was younger and far more chic, with her snappy little haircut, Agnès B shirt and pedal-pushers. I wondered if she'd noticed? But she was engaged in a heated debate
with Tara and Toby at the other end of the table about whether or not feminism was dead, if it had all been sorted out in the sixties. Cigarette stuck to her lower lip, eyes drooping, mouth lurching off to the side; she was clearly spectacularly drunk, unlike the young, who were far more used to shots than us, the white-wine-guzzling generation. Why did we drink the filthy stuff when there were gorgeous liqueurs like this around? I knocked back another thimbleful when Michel slid one across the table to me, together with one of those sizzling stares.

This, along with the laughter, chatter and general state of inebriation, meant that we – or certainly I – completely forgot we were expecting other guests, so when Rachel's car drew up, only James heard it. But then, it was his family, so perhaps he'd been a little more alive to their imminent arrival. At any rate, he set off across the well-sprinkled lawn, and it was only when I heard car doors slamming and voices raised in greeting that I realized they were here.

James materialized from the darkness around the side of the house with his father, who looked older and smaller, as the elderly often do when you haven't seen them for some time. And of course he'd just endured a long car journey; quite shattering for any eighty-one-year-old. Under the twinkling lights hanging in the trees he came across the lawn with his stick, shuffling fast, blinking delightedly. I was already on my way to meet him and when I did I reached for both his hands, which were papery and bony in mine, like birds in rough silk.

‘Drummond. You made it.' I kissed him fondly. ‘How lovely to see you.'

It was. His delight was childlike, as I knew it would be.

‘My
dear! What a place! What a
palace
, in fact!' He waved his stick about demonstratively, mouth and eyes gaping.

‘I know! Aren't we lucky?'

‘
Aren't
we? I say, frightfully good of you to have us, Flora. You didn't have to, you know. Could have had a year on your own for a change, without the blasted outlaws. Or asked friends. But we are
so
thrilled.'

As so often happens, when one does the right thing against one's baser instincts and someone appreciates it, it felt good. I felt warm and happy and so pleased we'd asked them. There would be irritations, of course, but I loved the Brig and revelled in his pleasure.

‘And I'm thrilled you're here. I'd show you around, but it's best when it's light. Right now, what I'm sure you'd like most in the world is a drink.'

‘Would I!' he roared, squeezing my hands again but releasing them to wave his stick in greeting towards his granddaughters, who were hastening across. ‘Darlings! Get the beers in!'

‘Got more than beer, Grandpa!' They embraced him fondly. They adored their grandfather, long ago accepting the circumstances of the family tragedy.

Rachel was standing beside me now under the tree lights, her presence quiet and enigmatic as always. She'd probably been there all the time whilst the Brig and I had been talking, without me being aware.

‘Really decent of you, Flora,' she said, in her clipped, slightly detached fashion. She was small and squat with a sharp beak of a nose and a no-nonsense haircut streaked with grey. Not a shred of make-up. She rearranged her mauve cardigan around her shoulders. ‘I wouldn't have
bothered if I'd been you. Would have given us a miss this year.'

‘Nonsense, it's lovely to have you.'

It was now. And Rachel was never any trouble. Just a bit socially awkward. She never really initiated a conversation and found it unnecessary to keep one going for the sake of it, so one ended up making all the running, which was a bit exhausting. But then, she'd had a difficult life. Had never moved out of home, and probably never would now. She was the Brig's carer and was happy enough in that role, I think. It was the other one who was trickier. The other one, who, when her car arrived, would bound out of the semi-darkness towards me like some enormous puppy, all breathy and sweaty, ready with some incredibly chippy remark about how this place was lovely, but, my gosh, you should have seen the castle she'd cooked in the previous summer. That really
was
something. I hadn't seen Sally since Christmas, when she'd told me the Christmas pudding I'd brought was too dry and the cashmere shawl I'd given her would be perfect for Barney, her dachshund's, basket.

‘Where are the others?'

‘About ten minutes away, apparently. They would have been here before us, but they had a puncture. Flora, before they get here, can I just have a word?'

‘Of course. In fact, I was going to show you your room first anyway. I had a feeling you'd rather settle in and get your bearings than launch straight into the drinks.'

‘I wouldn't mind. I'll just say hello to the girls.'

She went across and greeted her nieces and my mother, and I waited for her by the French windows that led into
the kitchen. Her face seemed strained, but then Rachel was hard to read and I knew the best way was to give her time, not to prattle on and fill the silence but wait for her to formulate what she wanted to say. I wondered, as we went silently through the vast house to the front hall and stairs, if this would all be a bit overwhelming for her. Brechallis was a big house, to be sure, but this was on a different scale, and so opulent and richly furnished – over the top, even. She'd need time to adjust. I was glad I'd given her the small, slightly old-fashioned green room with a paisley print on the walls, shelves of paperback books and low lamps. It was somewhat apart from the others and it had its own little bathroom, so she could be private. I showed her inside. She gazed around as I leaned down to turn on the bedside lamp.