Wish You Were Here (24 page)

The children appeared. James endured a certain amount of teasing about his condition last night and the state of his head this morning. Drummond roared with laughter. Happily, he'd been in bed and was none the wiser. And he loved their jokes.

‘Was your father a bit squiffy last night, then?'

‘He was off his head, Grandpa. Fancy a nice glass of
beer, Dad? Or perhaps a few press-ups and a jog around the block?'

‘Bugger off, you lot,' James said good-naturedly, pleased to have their presence, which diluted their mother's. ‘When
haven't
you woken up with a hangover?'

‘Not often,' agreed Toby seriously. He straddled a chair backwards and got out his tin of tobacco, reading the situation wrongly, as usual. ‘And, actually, I sometimes wonder if I ever draw a sober breath. One day just merges into the next, you know? It's like a total blur, man.' There was a silence. ‘I mean – out here,' he added quickly, glancing up from his tobacco and seeing James and I join forces in the stony-look department.

‘How's that management-consultancy application coming on, Toby?' asked James, uncharacteristically. It was the sort of thing I might have said, or badgered him to ask, but he wouldn't. Would regard it as interfering, or controlling. I realized he was doing it to please me.

‘Yeah, I've almost filled it in,' replied Toby, surprised. He put the lid back on his Golden Virginia. Swung his legs round and sat properly on his chair. ‘Sending it off when I get back.'

‘Good.'

‘Great,' said Amelia, under her breath. ‘Two of them now. Happy days.'

‘Life is not all beer and skittles, Amelia,' I told her, wondering why. This was surely entering a battleground I neither needed nor wanted on holiday. Perhaps I was supporting James. Showing I appreciated his solidarity. To my surprise, she didn't flare up or stalk off.

‘I
know, but do you know why we all think it is? Why we all regard it as one huge bowl of cherries?'

‘No, do tell?' asked Drummond delightedly. He adored Amelia. Admired her spunk, he said, which always made her giggle.

‘It's because you've kept us as children for too long. Poring over us, controlling us, always so interested in our lives, wanting to look at our Facebook pages – we're incapable of functioning on our own. If fifty is the new forty, eighteen is the new fourteen. I'm just a baby.' She widened her dark-brown eyes. ‘It's not my fault I'm so reliant on you, Mummy, so helpless. You've made me that way.'

‘Your generation grew up much quicker,' Tara agreed. ‘You were left to sink or swim, so you swam.'

‘That's true,' agreed Drummond quietly.

‘You've coddled us,' said Amelia, warming to her theme. ‘So now we can't grow up. You'll have to look after us for ever.' She gave a bolshie grin.

‘I might have known it was my fault,' I said.

‘Actually, it's the fault of technology,' said Rory. ‘The only reason my mother can get hold of me every day is because of my iPhone.'

‘Does she?' I asked, surprised.

‘No, because I've turned if off. Told her there's no signal. But she would. Not every day, but a lot. She can't stop herself. And it's not healthy.'

‘No,' I agreed, thinking of my own upbringing. James's. Were either of those any healthier?

‘I think there's some middle ground,' said Rachel sensibly, ‘which perhaps the next generation will find.'

‘You mean when we have children?' Tara asked her.

‘Exactly.'

This sobered them up a bit, as they contemplated how they'd do it.

‘I'll let them do exactly what they want,' said Amelia predictably. ‘Make their own mistakes. Learn by them.'

I smiled. No point even being drawn into this one. It struck me that James and I could never part. Never go our separate ways. This was such a two-pronged effort. Such a struggle.

‘Yes, well good luck with that,' James said shortly. ‘I hope you enjoy clearing up the mess.'

‘So many children are still living at home at thirty,' Rory said. ‘Did you know, in Spain, the average child leaves home at twenty-eight?'

‘Exactly, because our development has been stunted,' Amelia told him. Nothing was ever her fault.

‘No, because of economics. Your generation could buy your own houses. We'll never be able to do that,' Toby told us.

James's eyes sought mine in mock-horror. I didn't respond, though. The thought of thirty-year-old Toby and Amelia living with us was indeed appalling, but I wasn't ready to join James on any jovial level yet. I drained my coffee and made my way back upstairs, leaving them to their discussion, which would go on for ages, round and round in pointless, rather boring circles, with Amelia feeling more abused and aggrieved at every turn.

No sign of Camille, of course, I noticed, pausing a moment at the tall window halfway up the stairs, where all the discarded books seemed to gather on the sill. I gazed out down the front drive to the lodge. She'd made herself
very scarce. Had gone into Cannes with Max, Sally told me, when I'd run into her just now at the foot of the stairs. Sally had been on her way to the pool. I'd been startled, but she hadn't looked remotely concerned.

‘They had to tie up a few loose ends, business-wise, after Wednesday night's performance. The sponsors wanted to have lunch with her, take some photos for PR, that kind of thing. It was part of the deal, apparently. And she didn't want to go alone. Obviously, Max had to go because he's the promoter.'

Obviously. Or was Camille's plan working? I knew Max had been alive to the fact that something had happened last night in the gazebo. Were these men, one by one, falling like flies, slotting perfectly into her grand plan?

‘And, actually, it's lovely to have a quiet day without the boyfriend around,' Sally giggled. ‘I've put a treatment on my hair – it feels like straw with all this sun.' She patted her oiled locks. ‘And I'm going to bake all day and read a crappy book. No need to impress Max with a Booker Prize winner today!' She flourished a fluorescent paperback gaily before sorting through the basket on the hall table where all the sun creams were tossed, ready for a peaceful day by the pool.

I watched as, suntan lotion retrieved, she appeared beneath me now, and went through the front door and down the steps. She padded across the gravel drive in her espadrilles, a basket swinging from her shoulder, hat in hand, long legs already brown and unbelievably slim. As she went, she passed Michel coming in the opposite direction, down the box-lined drive from the lodge, towards the house. He carried some vegetables in a trug. They smiled
and exchanged a few pleasantries before moving on. Sally tracked right across the sloping lawn towards the walled garden and the pool. As he came closer to the house, Michel stopped. He looked up at the tall window where I was standing, and gave me a very direct look. A very cold look. Flustered, I moved away. But it had chilled me. Why, I didn't know. Clearly, he had just glanced up, sensing someone's eyes upon him, that was all. I hurried on up to my room. Quickly, I changed my shoes, found my basket, slicked on some lipstick and made to go back downstairs. Before I did, I closed the shutters against the sun to keep the room cool. In the front drive I saw James already waiting, leaning against the bonnet of the car.

I put my dark glasses on as I went down the front steps into the gravel and the glare of the sun. I might not be looking forward to this little trip, but I was glad we were doing it. Could see the sense, actually. It would clear the air. Draw something of a line. James had parked on the far side of the fountain under the trees in the shade, and I didn't hurry as I crossed the drive. Trailed my fingers a moment in the cool water. It was hot and, anyway, he'd kissed another woman last night. Let's not forget that. He could wait. As I reached the car and put my hand on the door handle I caught sight of his face across the roof. It wasn't the Flora-pleasing one of last night: the abjectly apologetic, craven one. It wasn't even the nervous one of this morning at breakfast, let alone the scared one. It was a furious one. Indeed, it was pale with anger. I blanched with shock as his eyes hit mine, glittering behind his spectacles.

‘Get in,' he said tersely. ‘We have a lot to talk about.'

We
shot off up the drive at speed. Shocked, I put my hand out on the door to steady myself. Gravel sprayed beneath the tyres. My husband did not drive like this; like something out of an American cop drama. And why was he driving at all?

‘So,' he said curtly. ‘You and Max.'

I inhaled sharply. Felt the blood drain from my head. Had he really said that?

‘What d'you mean, me and Max.' See? I can lie. Instinctively. Reflexively.

‘Don't try to fib your way out of it, Flora. You were seen. Grappling and panting in his arms the other night. Michel saw you.'

‘Michel?' I repeated faintly, my head spinning.

‘Yes, he was going back to his cottage. You weren't quite careful enough, you see. Away from the house, sure, but not from the staff.' James's face was dangerously pale as he whipped a glance across at me. ‘You disgust me. In so many ways.'

‘How did you? I mean –' I was horrified, and hot with shame at being caught. I was scared, too. More so than James would have been.

‘How did I find out? He told Camille, who's just rung me. Don't try and deny it, Flora, you know full well what happened. And who knows what else, too.'

I
recalled Michel's face just now. Vengeful. That was the look I'd been unable to place. And, of course, I'd accused him of something terrible earlier on in the week. Revenge was surely a dish best served cold.

‘Nothing else,' I whispered as we sped along the lanes much too fast, vineyards flashing by. The sun was beating down, hotter than ever, a furious heat, it seemed. Sunflowers glared and nodded accusingly at me, their enormous, round faces scarily nightmarish: not so pretty today. I somehow found my voice. ‘Honestly, James, just one kiss. I swear to God. Swear on the girls.'

He glanced at me at this.

‘I – don't know why it happened. A warm night, too much to drink – who knows. It was a nonsense. Just like … well.'

‘No, nothing like me and Camille. And no, we are not all square, not remotely, if that's what you were going to dare to suggest. In the first place, you haven't even had the grace to apologize and you made me crawl.'

‘I'm sorry, James.' I looked down at my hands.

‘Really crawl.' His lip curled.

‘I'm truly sorry. It meant nothing. I promise.'

‘And, in the second place, which is far more pertinent, I don't believe it meant nothing. There is a world of difference between a stolen kiss with a famous opera star with whom I am childishly infatuated, and falling into the arms of a man with whom you were once head over heels in love and engaged to.'

‘I disagree.'

‘Oh really? Don't be fatuous, Flora. Even I, who don't fit into the jealous-husband mould, can see that he still
adores you, which, up until now, has given me something of a perverse pleasure this holiday, I'll admit. Something of a gratuitous kick. Knowing you're mine and not his. But now I know the pleasure is all his.'

‘Of course it's not! I told you, it was a drunken one-off.'

‘And you felt absolutely nothing?'

‘I –' I tried to answer honestly, as he had last night: knowing James would demand nothing less. Would see through anything else.

‘I – yes. I felt something.'

A muscle went in his cheek. I lunged for the lie instead.

‘I felt transported back in time, that was all. A trip down memory lane.'

‘You wanted him.'

Why was it all about sex, for men?

I sighed. ‘No. That I can answer truthfully. If you mean – did I want to charge upstairs and take all my clothes off – no. It was more …'

James thumped his chest with his fist. ‘More in here?'

I felt panicky. He wanted me to be honest, and what was the result?

‘I was moved, OK? Touched. God, James, who wouldn't be?'

He nodded. ‘You got a glimpse of the life you could have had if you hadn't settled for second best.'

‘Oh, don't be absurd!' I turned to him in horror. This was very unlike him. James was famously self-assured. Not arrogant, but happy in his skin. ‘You're saying that out of anger – you've never felt that, I'd know it. You're saying it because you can, because it conveniently fits the argument.'

‘I don't
think you're in any position, Flora, to determine what I can or can't say.'

‘No. I realize that.'

‘You didn't even have the decency to let me off the hook last night, knowing you were in the same boat. That's disgraceful.'

‘I know.'

‘It makes me dislike you as a person.'

‘Don't say that, James,' I said quietly.

‘It's true.'

We drove on in silence. I sensed a clenched calmness sweep over him. Knew he was livid, which rarely happened.

‘I think we need some time apart.'

I swallowed hard. ‘You said last night we shouldn't say anything terrible. Words we'd regret. That's something terrible.'

‘I know, but it's what I feel. I don't know you at the moment, Flora. Can't bear to look at you.'

‘You mean a day or two? A week? I could go to Mum's when we go back.'

‘No, I mean one of us goes home now. I can't bear this situation. Won't be able to cope. I'll take you to Nice this afternoon. When we get back. There's a flight at six. We can tell the girls you've decided to fight for your job. Gone to see Maria.' He pulled sharply into a layby beside a field of lavender, jerking to a halt. ‘Something you should have done anyway, like Lizzie.' He turned in his seat behind the wheel to face me properly, his eyes furious. We were clearly not going to an art exhibition in Seillans. ‘You need to think about what you want, Flora. Do you want to
continue to support this family, to make it a joint effort, or d'you want to play the frivolous frustrated housewife instead? Chuck in your career and have an affair with an old boyfriend? Or even make a life with an old boyfriend? After all, he's single, and it's clearly why he's here, which is pretty elaborate when you think about it. He obviously has no feelings at all for my poor sister.'

It was my turn to flare up. ‘Well, that's not my fault! And I'm insulted you'd suggest for one moment that I'd disappear with him. You're being totally disingenuous. You know that's not true. I told you, it was a stupid indiscretion, and yes, I should have gone easy on you last night, under the circumstances, but human nature isn't always like that. I
was
incensed, still
am
incensed at the thought of you kissing another woman, because I love you, James.'

We were silent a moment, both inwardly fuming; both very hurt. Both having hurt each other and knowing it had changed our marriage in some way which felt irreparable at the moment, and terribly sad, but reason also telling us it was only the here and now, sitting in this car fighting, not the reality long term. So why did I have to go home? The thought appalled me. A kiss each. Stupid, but not a tragedy, surely? But I couldn't see into James's mind completely. He'd always kept a tiny bit back. Not his love, just a part of him, which made him special, I thought. Interesting. He was less heart on sleeve, warts and all, than I was. But what if that something was a slight meanness of spirit? He turned away from me now, to look out of the window across the fragrant mauve valley, his face a mask. There'd been a handful of times when I couldn't see into his soul and this was one of them.

‘Come
on, James.' I reached for his hand. ‘Let's sleep on it. You've just found me out, and you're incensed, as I was incensed last night, but I'm calmer now, after a night's sleep. Can see it for what it is. A silly mistake. Ruining everyone's holiday is not going to help.'

‘We wouldn't be ruining everyone's holiday, just yours.' He said this coldly. He really did despise me right now. ‘I can't help it, Flora. I can't stop seeing you in his arms. I want to kill him.'

And James was such a mild man.

‘And we can't ask Sally to leave, to take him away. Can't tell her what you've done. Which is pretty atrocious behaviour towards your sister-in-law, incidentally.' He started the engine again. ‘No. You'll have to go home.'

We drove on in silence.

In point of fact, we did go to Seillans, or at least we parked outside the gallery, up on a pavement in a tiny side street. James went inside to get a brochure to prove we'd been. I sat still, staring ahead. He was right, I wasn't a nice person. I'd betrayed him, and also betrayed Sally, and then been a total hypocrite last night. Home in disgrace was the best I could hope for. But I was still shocked by his decision.

I thought of the house in Clapham – musty and dark, north-facing, but I'd never really minded; had resolutely painted it creamy, light colours to compensate, but it seemed gloomier than ever somehow, these days, and always much darker, of course, after a sybaritic holiday in the sun. But Clapham was the truth, the reality. This was just a dream. I gazed around at the ebb and flow of beautiful, tanned people in holiday mode on the cobbled street
which led down to the main square, where pretty bunting stretched between the mottled plane trees beneath an azure sky, and where waiters were setting tables for lunch around the fountain. This wasn't real. Except, for some people, it was, I thought, singling out those who clearly weren't tourists: those with their basketfuls of groceries, with more purposeful looks on their faces as they dodged the ambling crowd, tiny dogs trotting beside them on leads. Of course, they had their dramas, their disappointments, their tragedies even, but didn't this glorious setting, this heavenly climate, make everything more bearable? Being tired and cross here wasn't the same as being tired and cross in the Southside Shopping Centre, or trudging up Lavender Hill in the rain with shopping, or sitting on the South Circular in a traffic jam. And I had to leave. James knew it was a punishment. Knew I'd feel it keenly. He was being deliberately harsh.

I watched as he came out of the gallery a few minutes later, shutting the door on the predictable blaze of sunny landscapes in the gallery window, his face set and angry. Of course, he was still in shock. He'd only just found out. He was bound to be upset. I felt nervous, though. James didn't make empty gestures. He didn't order his wife home from holiday without meaning it. And, however it might look to outsiders, he wore the trousers in this marriage. I might make all the noise as I flapped about with the smaller sails, rushing from side to side shrieking, as one boom after another swept over, threatening to decapitate us, narrowly missing us, but James's was the hand on the tiller.

We drove home in silence, my mouth inexplicably dry. James took a detour through a couple of unfamiliar
villages to give us time: to enable us to tell the folks back home we'd had a lovely time at the gallery. I knew it was giving us time, too, as we purred slowly past the old men playing boules in the main square, or sitting outside a bar with a café cognac, their wives gossiping on doorsteps or outside shops: I also knew from his taut, clenched face that, instead of calming down, if anything, James's quiet fury was gaining momentum.

‘You tell them I'm going,' I told him when we reached the chateau, pulling up at the open front door. ‘I might burst into tears and give the game away. You tell them I'm going back to see Maria.'

‘Sure,' he said, as if I'd asked him to tell them they were having pizza for lunch.

I knew he'd be fine, too. Knew he'd make it so casual and low key they wouldn't bat an eyelid:
Oh poor Mummy, what a bore, but she'll be back in a couple of days
, I could hear Amelia saying, before going back to her iPad, or her book, in the sun. And then, when I didn't come back, he'd say I was working things out with Maria, and they'd nod, knowing Mummy was being responsible, as adults had to be sometimes – not them, of course, not yet. They were the new fourteen. And James would wander off to read his book under the trees, mission accomplished: which made him quite a consummate liar, too, really, didn't it? Quite the deceiver. And why was my crime so much more atrocious than his, I thought defiantly as I climbed the stairs to my room. So much more heinous? Because we both knew it meant more, I reflected, packing a bag, wondering if I should take the lot: if I'd be back. Would James summon me, after a decent length of time? Probably not, I thought,
with rising terror, but still, I only took hand luggage. Let him sort the rest out. Odd that I wasn't fighting this, I pondered as I packed my sponge bag in the bathroom. Not putting my foot down, saying, Don't be ridiculous, I'm not a child, of
course
I'm not going home. Just going quietly.

As I was rooting around for my passport in the bedside drawer, zipping it into my bag on the bed, the door opened. Tara came in, pale-blue eyes wide.

‘Daddy says you're going home.'

‘I think I should, darling,' I said, forcing a smile. I might have known this one wouldn't go straight back to her iPod. ‘I've had that job for eighteen years. Can't just throw in the towel. If I was in London, I'd march round and have it out with her, so I think I'd better march home and do the same now.'