Out of My Depth (14 page)

Her brother shook his head. ‘I reckon not. Look, you can see these are brand new. They’ve still got the creases on from the packet.’

‘You’re right. She got them for us.’

They sat and contemplated Freya’s garish duvet for a while. ‘I should give these Action Man sheets to the little kid,’ said Jake. ‘He’d like them, I bet.’

Freya giggled. ‘You shouldn’t! I’ll tell you why. You’d have to swap. I saw his bed, and he’s got Teletubbies.’

Jake’s jaw dropped. ‘No way! Everyone knows Teletubbies are only for actual babies.'

Freya shook her head. ‘I know that. She doesn’t. Shall we go for a swim?’

Jake nodded, and wrapped a towel around his waist to begin changing.

‘Don’t bother,’ said his sister. ‘You turn that way and I’ll turn this way. We’ll both do a quick change. No looking.’

He nodded. This house was cool, and the pool looked brilliant. There was tons of exploring to be done in the garden. He thought this was going to be an all right weekend.

The house was full and I had never felt so alone. I hid in the kitchen. Everything was organised, the children’s food was almost ready, and I was supposed to be on the terrace. At this point in the schedule, I should have been officially opening the reunion weekend. Instead, I skulked, making work for myself where there was none.

I could hear my guests out there, but I couldn’t see them. Roman had brought me a vodka and tonic and made me promise to come out as soon as I could. The kitchen was uncomfortably hot, with the oven at two hundred degrees. I was sweating, which could prove disastrous for my silk dress. I opened the oven door and was greeted with a blast of scalding air. The potatoes were still fine. The chickens were still nowhere near ready. And I already knew that.

The fish fingers were ready to go into the frying pan, when they were needed. I did not have to stand over them.

Everyone was fine out there. They were wittering about how gorgeous it was, about how the early evening sun lit the house up like gold. Roman was pouring drinks so fast I thought he might strain his arm.

I longed to talk to somebody, properly. Amanda had brushed me off, and I was still smarting. Tamsin was giving me the creeps, just by her very presence. Izzy was the only one of the three of them that I felt able to have a conversation with, and she had been non-stop busy with her little boy. He was, I now admitted, rather sweet. I had misjudged him at first. Earlier, I caught myself staring and smiling when I watched him climbing on the low branches of the little fig tree, laughing with excitement and pride.

My eyes watered as I shut the oven door.

The starter was gazpacho which was chilled in the fridge. The table was laid. The salad was in the fridge, as was its dressing. Pudding was ready to go. I could find nothing, at all, to do.

I could hear them talking. A woman laughed. I didn’t know which of them it was. I shook my head and wondered at myself. These people were here because of me. I was wearing full battle dress and warpaint. Every part of me was buffed, highlighted, varnished or plucked, as appropriate. Usually, that was enough to keep me going.

I sidled through the glass door, onto the terrace, without giving myself the option of reconsidering. Nobody noticed me. I gave my studio a wistful glance. I would have given anything to have been in there, creating a gorgeous painting. One, ideally, that did not feature Sarah Saunders.

Amanda had made an effort, in a nice pink Chanel dress that I had tried on in London, though Amanda’s was several sizes larger. Like me, she was made up as if for the stage, and she was just as nervous as I was, judging by the way she was knocking back her drink. Patrick looked bored in a short-sleeved white shirt and a pair of slacks, and Roman was carrying off navy linen with his usual aplomb. Tamsin was frighteningly chic in black.

As for Izzy . . . I almost felt a physical pain on Izzy’s behalf. Her dress was white, with a pattern of small rosebuds. As I edged closer, I heard Tamsin saying to her, ‘But Izzy, you look lovely.’

‘Oh, you’re being too nice,’ Izzy replied, sounding relaxed. ‘It’s Top Shop, but it was all I could afford. I knew I wouldn’t be smart enough, but it covers the worst of my upper arms, and it’s the best shape for me at the moment, so that’s the most that could be done, unfortunately.’

‘No,’ Tamsin replied, looking intensely into Izzy’s face. ‘You look great. You look like yourself, not like some, some footballer’s wife.’

I told myself that Tamsin was referring to Amanda, but I knew she meant me, too. I put my hand to my mouth, as if ‘ remembering a kitchen emergency, and fled.

‘You all right?’

I spun round. Tamsin was in the doorway, holding a bottle of gin and another of tonic. I hated gin and I never drank it, ever. Gin was a depressant, and it affected me instantly (so much so that it was certainly psychological). When I drank it, I started to doubt everything. I often wondered why people liked it so much. I thought it was probably not coincidence that G&T was a quintessentially British confection. It chimed with the British character in some way. Gin was probably like cannabis. I had made numerous attempts to develop a cannabis habit when I was living in the squat. It sunk me into paranoid depression, while rendering stronger characters happily mellow. Vodka and champagne, separately, were my tipples of choice. I went for uppers every time. Coffee was my best friend; chocolate my worst enemy.

Tamsin was smiling. She was slender and toned, rather than skinny and scrawny as she used to be, and I realised that she must exercise. She would not have dreamed of that in her teenage years. Through gritted teeth, I told myself that I was glad that Tamsin had grown into herself. It was not Tamsin’s fault that her particular brand of minimal stylishness made me feel flouncy. I felt like a royal bridesmaid intruding into the Matrix. I felt — she was right — like a footballer’s wife.

It took me a couple of deep breaths to locate some composure. I dropped the fish fingers into the frying pan while I waited.

‘Fine, thanks, Tamsin,’ I said, serenely. ‘Just making sure I’ve got it all under control.’

‘Oh, Susie,’ Tamsin said. ‘Of course you have. Can I do anything to help?’

‘No,’ I said, firmly. ‘Absolutely not. There’s really nothing to do.’

I followed Tamsin’s gaze as she realised that, indeed, I was doing nothing. I quickly picked up a spatula and turned the fish fingers.

‘Drink, then?’ she offered. ‘That was, in fact, the purpose of my visit. Your boyfriend’s too busy charming your guests to attend to your glass.’ She held out the bottles. ‘G&T for you?’

I laughed. ‘No way. I had a vodka, but I think I might switch. Could you grab me a glass of champagne?’

‘Stylish lady. Of course.’

I tried to relax for a moment. A vision of Tamsin and her mother, crushed by twisted metal, sprung into my mind, and I screwed my eyes up to make it go away.

‘Is Roman charming Amanda?’ I asked weakly. It was the first thing that came to mind.

Tamsin, halfway out of the door, turned and laughed. ‘In the most innocent way possible. I don’t think you have anything to worry about there.’

‘I’m glad he’s being a good host.’

I tried to think of other things. I used to have the vision of Tamsin and her mother all the time. It was vivid. It was dark inside the car. There was blood. The teenage Tamsin turned her head to one side, wincing in pain. She tried to say something to her mother. There was no reply.

I forced it from my head, and tried to think about Roman instead. I tried to dwell on the day I met him, four years earlier. We had been at a party in Paris. It was hot and noisy, and I was uncomfortable and about to leave. Then he had wandered over to me.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Are you English?’ I checked. I hoped so: I was heartily sick of using my atrocious French.

‘Yes,’ he replied, smiling wickedly. And French, too.’

‘Half and half?’

‘Father English. Mother French. Split right down the middle.’

I forced myself to remember what he had looked like. Young and fresh-faced, but with a certain aura of having lived a little. Blue, loose shirt. Black eyes with a sexy glint. He was twisting his wine glass in his hand, round and round.

‘You must be more one than the other, though,’ I had objected. ‘I mean, where did you go to school?’

‘In Paris, until I was fifteen. Then in London. It was a bit tricky swapping language and fitting in halfway through a GCSE course, but my dad did my coursework, so I scraped by. I didn’t get going properly until I took A levels.’

‘But what do you feel? English or French? They’re very different. What are you?’

‘A mongrel. Depends who I’m talking to. In England I’m English. In France I’m French. I was married to a French woman until last year. Then I was more French. Now . . .’ I wondered whether I was imagining the suggestive look he was giving me. I knew I wasn’t. ‘Now I feel the English side of my heritage needs some attention. Or should I say British. Where are you from, Susie?’

I laughed at his transparency. ‘London. And Wales.’

‘The most famous Welshwoman I’ve met.’

‘They hardly stop me in the street.’

‘But everyone knows your work. I love your paintings. They brighten up people’s lives. I’d say that the person who creates them has a spectacular spirit.’

Roman had charmed me in an old-fashioned way, and I had allowed him to woo me. I was sick of English men who hated me earning more money than they did. Roman loved my success, and this was refreshing. I had no problem with the fact that he had been married, even though he was, as a result, wary of anything approaching commitment. In fact, that had probably drawn me to him. I liked his childish enthusiasm for dangerous sports, as well as the fact that he wasn’t fanatical, that he was as happy spending six hours in a pub as he was spending a week on a snowy mountain. He encouraged me to get things done, and he helped me relax.

Within six months, he was showing me farmhouses in Aquitaine that I could buy for a fraction of the value of my flat in Notting Hill. I said I would only buy one if he would live in it with me.

Roman did all the paperwork for the house purchase, escorted me to schmooze the mayor when it was necessary, and made sure we got to know our neighbours. He organised the renovation, and mucked in with the builders when he could. Roman fitted in instantly, even though a Parisian, here, was as curious as a foreigner. He had a social life. He drank beer with men, and watched the local rugby teams. He even, occasionally, played, if they were desperate. I had not managed to integrate, yet. It was not because I was not welcome. It was because I held myself back.

Roman had dabbled in many different professions. He would sometimes shut himself away to write poetry, or else he would spent weeks with his head buried in a book about website design. He did not take any of it very seriously, and I liked that about him. I liked the fact that he didn’t have a job. I was glad to have him with me.

‘One glass of champagne.’ Tamsin handed it to me, and hung around. I had successfully dispelled the unpleasant image, so I managed to smile. ‘Remember Janie?’ she said, leaning in the door frame.

‘How can I forget the lovely Janie. I looked her up on Friends Reunited once. It said she was working for the government.’

‘The thought police, probably. She was supposed to dance naked down Queen’s Street. I remember it. When Nelson Mandela became President.’

I looked at her and grinned. ‘Let’s track her down, then. Enforce it.’

‘I’m not sure the world’s ready. Janie at thirty-two. There’s something I can’t imagine. You’re certain I can’t help?’ She laughed. ‘I must say, you seem almost improbably organised. Not that it’s improbable for you. But it would be for any mere mortal.’

‘No,’ I said, validated and energised by the flattery and trying not to show it. ‘Actually, yes. Can you tell the kids their dinner’s ready?’

I stayed in the kitchen, listening to the conversation in the dining room next door. I realised at once that nobody had any idea I was listening in, and I kept as quiet as I could.

It started well. The kids were eating fish fingers with oven chips and green beans. Sam said, through a mouthful, ‘This is nice! I thought we were going to have funny food.’

I heard Jake laugh and say, ‘So did I.’

‘Me too,’ added Freya.

Izzy was supervising, and soon Patrick came in. I heard him pull up a chair, scraping its legs over the tiled floor. I heard the little bump of his gin and tonic being set, slightly too hard, on my dining table.

‘Ahhh,’ he said, slightly drunk. ‘Better.’

‘Cooler,’ Izzy agreed.

‘More relaxing. Once you get used to the lack of glare it’s really rather wonderful. Don’t you love the smell of these old French houses?’

‘I do. It’s terribly evocative.’ There was a sound of scraping cutlery before Izzy continued, and I hoped she wasn’t polishing off Sam’s fish fingers. She needed to preserve her appetite for later. ‘I haven’t been on a French holiday for years. It takes me right back to when I was a teenager. From this distance, my youth looks rather innocent and lovely.’

‘Whereas at the time . . . ?’

‘Nothing of the sort. Always longing for the next thing, wishing the years away. Worrying about my bum, when in fact I’d give anything now to have that bottom back.’ She sighed loudly. ‘Everything was possible, then. We had everything, and we had no idea. I was desperate to grow up and meet Prince Charming and have a fairy tale wedding and live happily ever after. That was all I thought about. I wanted to be at the centre of a blissfully happy family.’ She paused, probably to drink. ‘What a waste of energy. If I knew then what I know now, I would have revelled in every moment of my youth and beauty.’