Wish You Were Here (15 page)

I was pleased he'd deliberately reverted to light chit-chat. I looked at him as he ordered for us. He was very attractive and aristocratic-looking. My French was good enough to know his accent was good: Parisian, not provincial.

‘How come you've ended up as a
brocanteur
in a little village, Jean-Claude?' I asked when our coffee arrived.

He smiled and lit a Marlboro, offering me one. I took it, knowing I needed it, and the coffee, too. My nerves were shredded. And when I was upset, I lashed out. Which wasn't nice.

‘I, too, grew up surrounded by nice things. My father was a diplomat and we lived in many beautiful places. We didn't own them, of course, the grand houses or the antiques, they were ambassadorial, attached to the house, but when my parents' marriage broke up and I lived with my mother, in very reduced circumstances in Brittany, surrounded only by ugly things, I vowed that one day I would surround myself again with attractive
objets
.'

‘Attractive women, too.'

‘Of course.' He blew smoke above my head and smiled, the smile reaching right up to his sea-green eyes. ‘Why not?'

‘So
that's always been your career? Antiques?'

‘No. Not always.' He paused. Seemed about to continue, then changed his mind. ‘And you,
cherie
? You like what you do? Eating for a living?'

I laughed. ‘Well, put like that …' I frowned. ‘Actually, no. I don't like it much now. I used to. But I haven't for a long while.' It was odd to hear myself say it. Out loud. Not just to myself. ‘I hate putting food in my mouth if it's not for pleasure, which, these days, it isn't, and I hate either hurting a restaurant's reputation and possibly its livelihood, or lying to my readers. It's a lose-lose situation.'

‘So give it up.'

‘Can't. We're broke,' I replied cheerfully. ‘Well, not stony broke, but we certainly need the money. There's never enough. I could never afford to be a lady of leisure, like some of my friends. Not that I'd necessarily want to. I have to help James.'

‘And James. He too is bored and disillusioned, I think?'

‘Yes, you think right.' I smiled. ‘But hey. So are most people, probably, if you ask them.'

He shrugged in a Gallic fashion, his neck disappearing right into his shoulders. ‘And yet you have free will! You are not beasts of the field. You could change all that in
un instant.
'

‘Oh, really?' I gave a mirthless laugh. ‘How? And still pay the mortgage? And the bills? Educate the girls?'

‘Oh, well, now you put up obstacles. You run scared. And subject yourself to the tyranny of middle-class values. And your girls are young women now, adults. You've done your job there.'

‘Right. So what do you suggest we do, Jean-Claude?
Chuck it all in and run a vineyard or something?' I swung my arm over the ancient wall to the serried ranks in the valley below. ‘Out here, perhaps?'

He shrugged. ‘Yes, of course. Why not? If that's what would make you happy. Life is so simple. If you let it be. Ah,
cherie
! There you are, I was worried!'

My mother appeared, looking radiant, a straw basket over her shoulder full of hats, lace and oddments, bags in the other hand. She kissed us both as Jean-Claude sprang to his feet to help her with them.

‘Such finds! Such beautiful stalls! And so lovely to come back and see you both sitting here.' She glowed with pleasure.

Jean-Claude was pulling out her chair eagerly, glancing up at the sun to make sure it was shaded. ‘Good. I'm pleased you had success. I feel responsible as a Frenchman – as host
national
.' He placed a hand on his heart with a playful smile. ‘It is important you English ladies are happy.'

I smiled and sank into my coffee as they chatted on. English ladies: one very beautiful, one not so, with only relative youth on her side. And how many times had I been in the very same situation? When a boyfriend of Mum's had tried to befriend me. Not in any scheming, Machiavellian way, not to worm his way in, just to help me. But I'd always resisted. Always felt tolerated. It would have helped if I'd been prettier, I'd always thought. To be beautiful was such a prize: to be escorted into a restaurant by a triumphant man – yes, as a trophy, but was there anything wrong with that? Surely only other women said it shouldn't be so? I remembered, after those years in Paris, after Philippe had died – I must have been
thirteen – coming back to England and going to boarding school. My choice, not Mum's. I'd read about it: Malory Towers. Philippe had left my mother some money and she bought the pretty house in Fulham and, very reluctantly, let me go. I was deeply unhappy there, a fish out of water in this all-girl, upper-class, alien establishment. One night I overheard a girl in the dorm saying, ‘Mummy says her mother's a tart.'

The following day was Sunday, and we were allowed out. Mum arrived with Gerald, her new boyfriend, whom I'd never met before, in his convertible Aston Martin, and they took me to lunch at a local country pub. I didn't speak to either of them. Mum looked flustered and deeply embarrassed as she tried to coax words out of me. I sat there, lumpen in my navy-blue uniform and thick woollen tights, hating her and Gerald, who, a rather nice twinkly banker, said quietly, when he thought I was out of earshot, ‘It's too much for her, Susie. Too soon. Don't worry.'

‘But she's so sweet, Gerald, darling. I want you to see her sweet.'

‘I know. And I will.'

He did, eventually, after about four years, when I finally came round, but only when I'd almost left school. A London day school, which Mum had moved me to soon after that awful lunch, knowing I was miserable. I'd sulked for almost that entire time, which was such a waste, because Gerald was very nice. Unfortunately, his wife, being English, wasn't as accommodating as Yolande, Philippe's wife, had been, and when she found out about Mum, Gerald had had to choose. He badly wanted to leave his wife and marry Mum, whom he loved very much, but then his own
daughter, Celia, who was a couple of years younger than me and at a similar London day school, attempted suicide. She slit her wrists in the bath. Obviously, he went home. And the whole family moved to a Jacobean manor house in Devon, as far away from Mum as they could get, and Gerald resigned from his bank and retired to become a high sheriff and shoot pheasant. They didn't need him to work any longer – he'd made plenty of money – and his wife kept a close eye. Which of course is how it should be, keeping families together. Not yielding to a ‘home-breaker', which was another expression I'd heard applied to Mum at school.

Mum and Jean-Claude had broken off their conversation to watch me as I stared into space, my coffee cold before me.

‘Darling? I said, did you buy anything?'

‘Oh. No. I didn't.' Don't sulk. Not again. I could almost feel the scratchy woollen tights. Mum's eyes were anxious. I rallied. ‘But I've seen all Jean-Claude's finds – amazing.'

My mother's face broke into a relieved smile, as if I'd actually said, I'm happy with your lifestyle, Mum, and I love your latest man.

‘Yes, aren't they?'

Jean-Claude smiled at me over the rim of his cup, patting my back, I knew. Good dog.

And of course it was easier to behave these days; as an adult, not being alone. How I'd wished for a sister or brother when I was young. Yearned. But these days, with James and the girls, who couldn't give a damn, who showed me the light, it was simpler. Although, actually, I'd been shown the light before. Been shown that it was no
reflection on me who my mother was and how she behaved. Max had done that. He'd taught me to embrace my exotic mother, to admire her, not to be ashamed. He'd done my small family an invaluable service.

I sipped my cold coffee and swam up from the past to the present. As I broke through the surface, I put my sunglasses on in defence. Glanced around at the bright, bustling market. My eyes snagged on a white dress I'd seen earlier this morning, with a plunging neckline. Sally was engaged in a heated discussion with a stout, wind-battered monsieur. So she was here, too. She held a brightly painted jug in one hand and gesticulated wildly with the other, leaning across his stall of similarly decorated crockery, pursing her lips, showing off, and arguing loudly in terrible French that it was far too expensive. Max was beside her but distracted, staring over the walls of the town across the valley to the luxuriant green hills beyond, hands in his pockets, as far away in his head, it seemed, as those hills. It was inevitable, of course, that I didn't look away quickly enough and that he felt my gaze upon him. There was no mistaking the look he gave me this time as he turned and our eyes met, not over Sally's naked bottom, but over the distance of years: of different lives, marriages, children, the death of his beloved mother, I'd heard, lives spent without each other. It was wistful. Indeed, I'd go so far as to say it was full of regret.

Camille arrived that evening, fresh from a sexy convertible Alfa Romeo driven by a minder, on a gust of warm Provençal air and Nina Ricci's L'Air du Temps. If she'd also trailed a four-foot Isadora Duncan-style silk scarf, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised. I'd forgotten how beautiful she was and what charisma she exuded. Petite but powerful, she swept across the drive towards the terrace, where we'd all gathered – assembled, perhaps, a little over-excitedly – awaiting her presence. She wore a silk fuchsia shift dress, and two little dogs on leads dangled from a tanned hand. Before she reached us she handed them to the driver, a thick-set individual with no neck and lots of jewellery, who carried her bag. He disappeared around the side of the house.

James had been at fever pitch for the past hour, consulting Thérèse as to which aperitif to serve, which canapés were her favourites, wanting to get everything just perfect. Quite right, I thought, keeping the bitch within firmly in its kennel. She's been so generous – although I couldn't help noticing he'd changed his shirt, twice.

Camille came up the terrace steps, took off her sunglasses and smiled around, taking us all in. ‘Look at you, all gathered and looking so heavenly on this perfect evening! Have you found everything you need? All you require?' She went around, kissing everyone twice, whether
she knew them or not, which of course she didn't, whilst James, as master of ceremonies, introduced everyone. Our girls and their boys coloured up in excitement, and when she'd turned away, I noticed Toby snap her profile on his phone.

‘It's all completely wonderful,' I assured her when it was my turn. ‘What a gorgeous place!'

‘And you found the town all right? You'll want to go there, it's sensational.' Her voice was a low purr, and she looked deep into my eyes.

‘We've been already,' James assured her, handing her a glass of chilled champagne. ‘We went this afternoon, it's stunning!'

She made a face. ‘But not, I imagine, at that time of day. No, no,
cherie
, you want to go in the morning, before the sun and the crowds. And Seillans is even better. Such hidden treasures, such colours – truly
charmant
. I'll take you tomorrow myself.' She bestowed a huge pussy-cat smile on him, employing her eyes, too. James swooned visibly.

‘I say, my dear, you've been inordinately kind to suffer such an invasion.' The Brig beamed broadly at her. ‘The last thing you want to do is take us round the ruddy sights. Particularly when you must know them like the back of your hand.'

‘
Au contraire
, it's no trouble, and if I show James, then he will know where to take you all, you see?'

James was now hopping around like a Labrador on heat, flushed and delighted in his pink gingham shirt.

‘You must be so proud to have such a talented son, Dr–rummond,' she said, pronouncing his name like a drum roll and settling herself down in the centre of the cushioned
basket sofa as James topped up her already full glass. ‘Thank you,
cherie
,' she murmured up at him.

‘Oh, well, yes.' The Brig blinked, surprised. ‘I mean, it's always nice to have a medic in the family, isn't it? And he's frightfully good on bunions and wot not. I suffer terribly, you know. But, talking of parental pride – look at you!' His eyes and mouth widened in delight. ‘I gather you have a daughter – she must be
so
proud, and all your relatives must be beside themselves.'

Camille made a face. She patted the seat beside her. ‘Sit.' The Brig obediently sat. ‘My mother was a great opera singer herself, far greater than me, so I think perhaps it is not so extraordinary for them.' She patted the sofa cushion to her left and James also sat obediently; indeed, he almost sat on her hand, so snappy were his reactions. I badly needed a camera. Amelia caught my eye and grinned.

‘Your own mother is dead, James? I notice she is not here?'

‘Yes. Yes, she is.'

A silence fell. Camille, sensing she'd hit a nerve, turned and clasped the Brig's hand. ‘I am sorry, it is still too new? Too recent, yes? I'm afraid I am very sensitive. I pick up on these things so quickly, my emotional antenna is very acute.'

‘No, no, not recent. Many years ago, as it happens.' The Brig said matter of factly. ‘It's just the circumstances were rather harrowing, so one does rather draw a veil.'

‘Of course,' said Camille, pressing on to open the veil. ‘Long illnesses can indeed be difficult. I know only too well. My own father died of cancer.'

‘Oh,
no, it wasn't anything like that. She was killed, you see.'

‘
Alors!
' Camille looked stunned. Reared back and clutched her heart.

‘Um, Camille, your daughter, she's not with you? Cheese puff?' I interjected, knowing, if pressed, that the Brig was only too keen to confess, and then to give a detailed account of life behind bars at Her Majesty's Prison Dartmoor, regaling anyone who was interested – and most people jolly well were – with an account of all the characters he'd met in there. Donaldson, his cellmate, featured particularly strongly; he was a shaven-headed Glaswegian who'd done time for murder, having knifed someone in a pub brawl. They'd been released at about the same time, and Donaldson had worked for Drummond as an odd-job man on his estate, living, until his recent death, in one of the cottages. They'd been very close. Oh, it was all very uplifting and heart-warming and right on, but I could tell by the look on my husband's face that his father the ex-con was not necessarily the first impression he wanted to give his new crush. I loved him enough to spare him that. Camille was still digesting this information, but I was right in her face with the cheese puffs and my question, so she couldn't ignore me.

‘Agathe? Yes, she is here, but she got out of the car at the lodge to see Thérèse and Michel.'

‘Of course, you popped in there first.'

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Agathe did, but I was keen to see how you were all getting on. And to see that my room is ready in the tower.'

‘Ah,
we wondered. Only there's a locked door at the far end of the corridor –'

‘My private apartment,' she told me firmly, touching my arm and giving me a level look.

‘Of course,' I was flustered. ‘I didn't mean …'

‘Your sister is very attractive, James?' she said, peering around me and waving my plate of canapés away with a bored hand.

‘Oh. I suppose. Yes, she is,' said James, surprised, as we all were, not used to Sally being complimented thus.

‘She never used to be. Used to be frightfully fat,' the Brig told her in a stage whisper, leaning in. ‘But then she ate like a pig. Cooks for a living, you see. Temptation always there.'

‘Ah. So your family are all interested in food?' She looked up at me. ‘James told me about your job. It sounds so fascinating. And your other sister-in-law? She is in the food industry, too?' She looked at Rachel's ample behind.

Why did I feel she was laughing at us? And the trouble was, Camille had a carrying voice, and poor Rachel blushed. Not one to dissemble, though, she came across.

‘No, in fact I don't do much at all, I'm afraid,' Rachel said. ‘Daddy's fairly moribund these days, so I'm pretty much around to look after him.'

‘Couldn't do without her,' the Brig said warmly. ‘Particularly now Donaldson's gone.'

‘Melon ball, anyone?' I asked quickly, finding another plate.

‘Donaldson?'

‘My roommate. Met him at Dartmoor. Splendid chap. Worked for me for years.'

‘Oh,
but Dartmoor is such a beautiful place! Agathe learned to ride there when she was in England.'

The Brig's face lit up. ‘Did she, by Jove! Whereabouts?'

‘Actually, her father took her.'

‘Ah, splendid. Well, yes, it's a wonderful moor. And, of course, being low-risk and therefore at the top of the pecking order, I had one of the rooms on the top floor, with a panoramic view. Bars, of course, but still. People used to visit and say that, position-wise, it would be the envy of many a country-house hotel. Remember, darling?' He turned to Rachel. ‘You never saw my cell, of course.'

‘Are you rehearsing or performing, Mme de Bouvoir?' Rachel asked swiftly, seeing Camille look mystified.

‘Oh, Camille, please. Rehearsing. The actual tour doesn't start until next week. But you must come. I'm doing one special preview night near here, in Cannes.'

‘Oh, well, we'd love to, but I'm sure we wouldn't get tickets …' Rachel blushed, realizing she'd looked artful, which she wasn't.

Camille held up the palm of her hand like a traffic policeman. ‘I have two. One of which, of course, James shall have; the other, if it is all right with Florence, I will give to you.' She raised questioning eyebrows at me.

‘Flora. And, yes, of course it's all right with me. Rachel's very keen on opera.'

‘You are?'

‘Oh, well, recordings, and box sets,' I heard Rachel muttering as I moved away. ‘I don't get to go, of course. Although once, many years ago, with the school, in Edinburgh …'

‘What did you see?'

‘
Madame
Butterfly
. But I was only about twelve.'

‘But it left an impression?'

It did, and she and Rachel embarked on an animated discussion, Rachel growing pinker with the attention. I wished I didn't dislike Camille. Everyone else seemed to love her. I passed around the nibbles. After a bit, Camille got up and went to talk to the teenagers and Lizzie, who were standing slightly apart, by the balustrade. They chatted for a while and I heard them roar with laughter. Camille stood back and admired Lizzie's dress and I saw Lizzie flush with pleasure at having her Stella McCartney recognized, at being acknowledged as a discerning fashionista. Even Mum and Jean-Claude fell under her spell, as she broke into enthusiastic French to talk to them, although I noticed she addressed Jean-Claude much more frequently than Mum, who, despite her age, was far too beautiful. Mum wouldn't have noticed. She never noticed – or acknowledged – anything unpleasant. Surfed nicely over life's inconvenient hummocks.

Out of frame, Thérèse and Michel were quietly loading the dining table at the far end of the terrace with our supper. Unparallelled delights were appearing from the kitchen. A huge platter of oysters sat on a bed of ice; curling pink langoustines lay between artfully arranged crabs; and there were bowls of tiny pink prawns. From inside, the most wonderful aroma of
lapin à la moutarde
drifted through. My appetite had certainly come back on this holiday, prompted by the joy of eating for pleasure.

‘The stops,' Jean-Claude commented to me
sotto voce
as he topped up my glass, his eyes darting towards the laden table, ‘are surely being pulled out tonight.'

I
smiled. ‘Quite.'

Dinner was indeed delicious. A lively, convivial affair, too, with everyone showing off a bit, wanting to be able to say when they got home, Oh yes, I know Camille de Bouvoir. Or even ‘my friend Camille', which was how it must always be for the famous, I realized. I was seated well away from her, at the other end of the table, but watched her in action with James beside her. He'd organized the seating plan. She flirted shamelessly with him, but not, I noticed, with Max. Maybe when one was surrounded by attractive people all the time, they rolled off one's back, and someone as interesting and clever as James undoubtedly was – he was regaling her now with some amusing medical story – was perhaps a novelty? And no doubt, having established that Max worked in the music industry, she'd lost interest. She knew all about that. No, it was the operating theatre she wanted to hear about, and James had a good many stories, apocryphal or otherwise, to tell. I saw him reach back into his reserve for more as she threw back her head and roared with laughter, or gasped with horror, depending on which was appropriate.

Her hand went to her heart: ‘
Non! Mon dieu!
The wrong kidney?'

‘It happens,' James assured her. ‘And never have an operation at the weekend if you can help it. You get all the part-timers.'

‘But surely all surgeons have passed the same tests? Performed the same operations? Surely they are equally good?'

‘You'd think so, wouldn't you? But think of the tenors you work with. Some better than others?'

‘
Mais
oui
.' She pulled a disgusted face. ‘Some can barely sing!'

‘
Exactement!
' trilled my husband. ‘
Je n'ai rien à ajouter
.' He turned to Rory, opposite, who was listening. ‘I rest my case,' he explained.

‘Your French is excellent, James,' Camille said quietly, and, emboldened, he picked up her hand and gallantly kissed the back of it. They smiled at one another.