The French for Always (16 page)

Very gently, one of the men had put a restraining hand on Sara’s arm as she made to climb in after it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said. ‘I may need to work on him
en route
. There won’t be room for you.’ He’d turned to Antoine. ‘Can you bring her to Sainte Foy? We’ll be able to update you when you get there. And you’d better call his family as well.’

‘Of course.’ Sara dialled Patrick Cortini, but when he answered the phone and she opened her mouth to explain, she found she could get no words out and tears began to pour uncontrollably down her face. Antoine, who was standing beside her, gently took the phone from her shaking hand and spoke to Thomas’s father, his voice calmly relaying the urgency of the situation. He hung up the call and then, putting an arm round Sara’s shoulders, he led her to the car that Héloise had arrived in. ‘Come. We’ll take you.’

She had no memory of the drive to Sainte Foy along twisting country roads. All she could remember was how she’d strained to catch a glimpse of the flashing lights of the ambulance on the road ahead, but seen nothing; that and the way her heart had seemed too big for her chest as it pounded with her love for Thomas and her terror that she might lose him.

They’d been shown to the waiting room on arrival at the hospital, the stretcher with Thomas’s still-unconscious body having been whisked straight into an emergency room where the door was firmly shut. ‘We’ll let you know as soon as we have news,’ the nurse had said, giving nothing away, although the expression in her eyes was grave behind her professionally sympathetic smile. Patrick and Robert arrived a few minutes later and Patrick embraced Sara in his strong arms, smoothing her hair as she wept on his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she’d whispered.

‘You, above all others, have nothing to be sorry for,’ he told her. And those were all the words that were possible as they sat side by side on the hard, grey plastic chairs, holding hands tightly, waiting to hear whether Thomas would live.

After what seemed like an eternity, during which Sara willed Thomas back to life with each breath she took, a nurse finally appeared in the doorway. She smiled broadly and nodded. ‘He’s come round. He’s going to be all right.’

The waiting room erupted with cries of thanksgiving and relief, as all five of the anxious watchers hugged each other and wept with joy.

‘You can come and see him. But one at a time.’ The nurse held up a finger to stop the stampede.

Sara stood back to let Patrick go first, but he shook his head. ‘My boy has just had a near-death experience. Let him see the face he really wants to see the most. I think he deserves a truly beautiful welcome back to the land of the living!’

She stood at Thomas’s bedside. His face was almost unrecognisable, swollen and blotchy, the lower half covered by the plastic oxygen mask. His hand rested at his side, the brown, work-toughened fingers looking helpless and vulnerable against the cold white sheet. Hesitantly, she reached out to touch them. His eyes opened, slits in the puffiness of the surrounding skin. The green pulse on the heart monitor seemed to pick up its pace a little, the beep giving away his body’s response to her touch. She bent to kiss his forehead tenderly, her tears of joy anointing his hair, and the two of them stayed that way for a few moments, the silence broken only by the quiet background hiss from the oxygen cylinder and the steadily reassuring electronic murmur of the monitor.

Drawing back a little, she stroked his poor face with gentle compassion. He reached up a hand and pulled the oxygen mask away from his mouth.

She put out a hand to restrain him. ‘Don’t you need that?’

‘Not now that you’re here.’ His swollen tongue still made his speech a little indistinct. ‘Sorry I gave you such a scare. And I really don’t think I’m looking at my best right now.’

She looked at him, narrowing her eyes mock critically. ‘Well, you do look a bit like Shrek, now you come to mention it. Just a little less green, perhaps,’ she laughed. ‘But I quite like this look on you. In fact, I could probably even learn to love it, if you’re thinking of making a habit of eating wasps.’

He smiled. ‘Wonderful. You’ve passed the test. Now I know you truly love me for who I am, not just for my amazing good looks!’

She came round to the other side of the bed, carefully avoiding the wires hooking him up to the machines at his side. ‘Move over,’ she nudged him, and climbed onto the bed to lie beside him so that she could hold him in her arms and feel his around her in return. He pulled the oxygen mask right down so that he could kiss her properly. ‘Weird,’ he said. ‘I can’t feel a thing.’ Then he kissed her again. ‘Wow. Pins and needles in my lips. I think you’re bringing me back to life.’

Just then there was a cautious tap on the door and Patrick’s head appeared round it. He beamed when he caught sight of the two of them. ‘That’s my boy,’ he said approvingly. ‘Great to see you’re in such good hands!’

Thomas reached out his free hand and held on to his father’s tightly. Sara gently pulled the oxygen mask back into place and got up from the bed, kissing Patrick on the cheek as she passed, going out to give the two of them some time together and to report back to Robert and the others in the waiting room. Her heartbeat was still a little unsteady, she noticed, as her shoes squeaked back down the corridor, but now, rather than pounding in terror, it was because it was skipping and racing with the sheer joy of Thomas being alive:
joie de vivre
.

‘
O
kay
, team, last wedding of the season. Let’s make sure it’s as good as all the others have been. Antoine, we’re going to need a hand swapping the beds over. We’ll be turning the garden room into the honeymoon suite this time round. The groom is disabled so they need wheelchair access.’

‘I can help,’ said Thomas. He was sitting at the kitchen table with them, having been released from hospital the previous evening. His face had shrunk back almost to its usual size, just a little puffiness remaining in his lips. ‘I look just like a celebrity now,’ he’d remarked last night, pouting like a Hollywood starlet into the mirror as he brushed his teeth in the cottage.

Sara dug him in the ribs. ‘Don’t be so vain! You remind me of a goldfish I had when I was little,’ she laughed, bringing him back down to earth with a bump. She couldn’t stop hugging him, touching him at every opportunity, to reassure herself of his warm, solid presence.

She turned to him now. ‘Thomas, leave it to us. You need to rest after all you’ve been through. Save your strength for Saturday night.’

‘Nonsense,’ he protested. ‘They pumped me so full of adrenaline and steroids at the hospital that I’m now super-human.’

He stood up and then immediately sat down again as his legs wobbled beneath him and his head spun.

‘Watch yourself, Tommy-boy,’ Karen ruffled his hair fondly as she passed. ‘You’re still more Rubber-Man than Superman. You can direct operations from here today. Leave it to us.’ She turned to Sara. ‘I’ll get the Allen keys.’

As they worked to transform the ground-floor guest bedroom into a space worthy of the bridal couple, Sara briefed Karen and the Héls Belles. ‘The groom is an ex-serviceman, injured on duty in Afghanistan. Lost the use of his legs, poor man. He’s marrying his physiotherapist; they met while he was in rehab.’

‘Oh, that’s
so
romantic,’ sighed Hélène. ‘A handsome soldier and a beautiful therapist.’

‘Hmm, well, from what I can gather there’s a bit more to it than that. His mother seems to be most disapproving about this marriage. Apparently he was originally engaged to be married to what she calls “a most suitable gel”, but after he was injured the suitable gel decided not to go through with it. I feel a bit sorry for the new bride, who is going to have a disapproving battleaxe of a mother-in-law to contend with. Mrs Cavendish told me, when she phoned to confirm the booking here, that they’d had the original wedding all planned in the regimental chapel. But when it fell through, everything had to be cancelled of course. And then her son announced he’d fallen in love with what she calls “the nurse” and they refused to have the service in England. Felt they wanted to get away somewhere that had no connotations with the previous plans I suppose, understandably. But Mrs Cavendish is in despair as she says she knows nothing about Pippa’s “people”—as she puts it, at frequent intervals.’

‘What a snob,’ sniffed Karen.

‘Now, now. It’s not our place to judge. Although, I have to confess she did put my back up when she said she was going to have to make all the arrangements as Pippa’s family is almost nonexistent. “No pedigree” was the exact phrase she used.’

‘Well, then, it’s a good job it’s a wedding, and not Crufts,’ Karen retorted tartly.

Héloise chipped in, as she and Antoine dismantled the twin beds, ‘If they’re in love then that’s all that counts.’

‘And anyway, I reckon it’s better to be a mongrel than a bitch!’ was Karen’s parting shot as she headed upstairs to start on the other rooms.

‘Right, you lot, that’s enough of the scurrilous gossip. We’re here to make this a happy and memorable day for everyone involved. It’s the bride’s day, but her in-laws are footing the bill, so let’s do our best to help them all enjoy it.’

T
he bride’s
expression was not exactly one of joyous anticipation. In fact, Sara could sense waves of anxiety and anguish as she went out to greet Pippa and Josh. Josh was stroking his bride’s hand, trying to reassure her. ‘Don’t worry; it’ll turn up in time. The airline said they’d make sure they get it on tomorrow’s flight so it’ll easily be here a full twenty-four hours before the wedding.’ He turned in his wheelchair to shake hands with Sara and Thomas. ‘Bit of a drama with the luggage, I’m afraid. The most important suitcase got left behind at Gatwick. Wedding dress, the whole bang-shoot.’

The bride smiled. She was trying to put a brave face on it but her lower lip was looking a little wobbly. ‘All I’ve got is my wedding shoes and my underwear. At least I had
them
in my hand baggage.’

‘Sounds all right to me!’ Josh tried to cheer her up. ‘Just wear those and we’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, you poor girl.’ Sara couldn’t help but give Pippa a reassuring hug. ‘That’s the last thing you need at this stage in the proceedings. Which airline was it?’

‘Well, that’s the irony,’ said Pippa. ‘We booked all the flights with the same airline, to come here and then onwards for the honeymoon. It was more expensive that way but we thought it’d be safer. We’d have been better off on one of the cheaper ones probably. But they have reassured us it’ll be here tomorrow.’

‘I can drive to Bordeaux Airport to collect it if you like,’ offered Thomas. ‘That way it’ll be one less thing for you to worry about.’

‘Oh, that’s so kind—would you?’ When she smiled, there was a flash of the radiance they’d come to expect in their brides. Pippa’s tense shoulders seemed to relax just a little.

‘Of course—all part of the service. Now, come and let us show you the château and your room.’ Sara led the way, with Pippa pushing the wheelchair and Antoine bringing up the rear, carrying the bags that had made it.

The couple had arrived before any of the other guests, including the formidable Mrs Cavendish. Sara was pleased that this gave the pair a chance to see round their wedding venue in their own time and enjoy a few hours together peacefully before the onslaught began and Pippa’s new mother-in-law waded into the fray.

After they’d settled into their room she gave them a tour of the chapel, the dining marquee and the barn where the reception would be held, and then installed them in the sunshine on the terrace with a restorative afternoon tea. They looked so happy together, just the two of them. She suspected that the wedding was going to be quite an ordeal for Pippa, being scrutinised and judged by Mrs Cavendish and her army of smart friends and family. But then again, why shouldn’t the poor girl be entitled to her dream wedding?

From the kitchen window, Sara could see a convoy of hire cars winding its way up the driveway from the road below. She dried her hands on a tea towel and went out to the car park. A large, immaculately coiffed lady in an expensive-looking lilac jacket was ordering her husband to ‘Mind that hatbox, Henry! I’m not going to be able to find another Belinda Foster anywhere around here if you damage it...’ thereby ensuring that anyone who was listening was aware that she had invested some serious money in her outfit in order to outdo everybody else in the wedding party.

‘Mrs Cavendish?’ Sara proffered a hand. ‘Welcome to Château Bellevue de Coulliac.’

S
ara glanced
down at her mobile phone. She was expecting a text from Thomas to confirm that he’d picked up Pippa’s suitcase safely at Bordeaux Airport and was on his way back with it. They both knew the bride would only be able to relax—in so far as that was going to be a possibility—once she knew it was safely on its way to the château... The phone rang and Sara snatched it up. ‘Have you got it? What? What?! What the hell did they go and do that for?’ Her voice rose before she could stop herself, and she quickly pulled herself together as Héloise and Hélène looked up from where they were prepping the vegetables for that night’s dinner, looking at her wide-eyed. ‘But how quickly can they get it back? Is there nothing they can do? Tell them to turn the plane around!’ she hissed into the phone. ‘Okay... okay. I’ll go and tell her. See you back here soon.’

Sara rang off. The Héls Belles were looking at her expectantly as she stood in silence for a few seconds. She took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’d better go and tell Pippa that her suitcase is going to be waiting for her when she arrives in Mauritius for her honeymoon. They’ve gone and put it on the wrong flight. Someone at the airline found their booking for the flight on Sunday and assumed that was where it was to go... so we have a bride who is about to have to face the mother-in-law from hell and a daunting crowd of socially aware wedding guests, with no wedding dress.’

She raked her fingers through her hair in exasperation. Poor Pippa was going to be devastated. And Mrs Cavendish would certainly make the most of this ghastly situation, milking it for all it was worth. What on earth could they do? It was already Friday afternoon, less than twenty-four hours to go to the wedding. And here, in the depths of rural France, designer wedding dress emporia were somewhat few and far between.

Hélène and Héloise exchanged a glance and Héloise nodded.

‘What size would you say she is?’ asked Hélène.

‘Oh, a bit smaller than me, I think. A ten at most. Probably an eight. English sizes I mean.’

‘Can I borrow your phone a moment? There may be something we can do.’

‘Anything!’ Sara exclaimed. ‘Although what we probably need right now is a miracle...’

S
he tapped tentatively
on the door of the makeshift honeymoon suite. ‘Come in!’ called Josh. He was lying on the bed and Pippa was massaging his legs. ‘See how wonderful my lovely bride is?’ he said cheerfully. ‘She even keeps the circulation going for her useless husband. So beautiful and so talented in very many departments. I know I’m the luckiest man alive. One of these days I’m determined I’m going to stand on my own two feet again, with her help.’

Sara felt a slight catch in her throat, and was unsure whether it was down to her nerves at what she now had to tell Pippa, or down to the sight of this touchingly brave couple, who would certainly face challenges in their future together but who were so happy to be facing them together. Over the course of this season, she’d been able to observe a fair range of couples up close and personal, the emotional pressure cooker of a wedding always a good test of a relationship, but here, surely, was the definition of true love.

‘Any word from Thomas yet?’ asked Pippa.

‘Actually there is. And I think you’d better sit down...’

The blood drained from Pippa’s face as Sara began to explain.

‘
T
urn right here
,’ Hélène leaned through the gap between the front seats of the car and directed Sara past the
Mairie
in the hamlet of Saint André-et-Appelles and up the hill through vines and plum trees. Turning into a small country lane, Hélène pointed out Gina and Cédric’s house, where a large black cat sat basking in the afternoon sunshine like a furry Buddha. A little further on they pulled up in front of a stone cottage, where a tiny old lady dressed in black and leaning on a walking stick stood waiting for them in the doorway.

The four of them—Hélène and Héloise, Sara and Pippa—clambered out of the car. ‘Mireille, it’s so good to see you again,’ Sara said, kissing her warmly on each cheek.

‘
Mamie, je te présente Pippa Hall,
’ Héloise made the introductions.

Sara felt a pang of doubt as the old lady led the way into her house. The girls had said she had a dress that might just fit Pippa, but were they really going to find something suitable here?
Well, beggars can’t be choosers
, thought Sara, and then winced at the phrase: Mrs Cavendish already thought her daughter-in-law was exactly that. They were going to have to work a miracle, under these dire circumstances, to prove her wrong.

Mireille led them up a steep and narrow flight of stairs, her stick thudding on the floorboards, to an attic bedroom under the eaves of the stone house. Hanging on the door of a vast mahogany
armoire
was a white linen sheet, pinned at the bottom to shroud the dress. The girls bent to undo the pins and a little cloud of dried lavender flowers tumbled out onto the wide wooden floorboards, releasing their dusty fragrance into the early evening sunlight that streamed in through the open window. Carefully, reverentially, they eased the sheet off, under their grandmother’s direction.

Sara gasped. And then turned to look at Pippa who stood gazing at the dress, dumbfounded. Mireille’s eyes sparkled, clearly delighted at their reaction. She stroked the soft cream silk, her gnarled, arthritic fingers gentle against the delicate fabric.

‘I’ve never seen anything so beautiful!’ said Pippa, looking as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

‘This is incredible,’ said Sara. ‘It looks like...’ she tailed off.

Hélène nodded. ‘It’s Christian Dior. The New Look. Vintage 1947.’

Mireille spoke in rapid-fire French and Héloise translated for Pippa’s benefit.

‘My grandmother was a seamstress, working in Paris for a small—and then relatively unknown—
couturier
when she met my grandfather, who was fighting for the Free French during the war. They got married once the war was over and came back to live down here. She made her wedding dress, with a little help from the
couturier
himself. It’s made out of parachute silk, because it was hard to come by other fabrics for wedding dresses at that time, but you can see they embroidered it with silk thread and sewed on these seed pearls which Monsieur Dior himself provided.’

‘It’s the New Look style,’ continued Hélène. ‘See how the waist is nipped in but the skirt is so full. It was Dior’s reaction to the end of rationing, a statement of plenty after the tight skirts of the war years.’