Wish You Were Here (27 page)

I was shaking, my voice rising hysterically. James's arms were around me now, holding me close as he sat beside me. It was only now I'd even noticed.

‘He was charming, apparently. He'd worked his way into the old ladies' lives, their homes, by valuing their antiques. He was a dealer. In so many ways. It was mostly widows with death duties to pay. He'd sell their paintings and then keep most of the profits, giving them only a fraction. Then he'd sell more and more of their possessions, until this old lady – Cynthia Chambers, she was called – refused to part with her silver. So he beat her up. That's my father. That's my father, James.' I shook and sobbed as he held me.

‘Max asked me about it as I left, said, “Did you ever contact your father again?” I couldn't speak. Hadn't let myself think about it for twenty years. Just ignored him. But I did follow it up.'

‘And?'

I struggled.

‘Don't
say. Not if you don't want to.'

‘I
do
!' Vehemently. I licked my lips. ‘Max and I left the house in Brighton shocked and horrified. He asked if I wanted him to come to the prison with me. Meet him? I said no. But later, I went on my own and didn't tell him. I was so ashamed. So embarrassed. Max's parents were lovely. And, obviously, I didn't tell Mum.'

‘Not even that you knew?'

‘No. I decided she was so appalled and horrified she'd tried to protect me. Her one bad apple. All the others were so lovely, James. Philippe, Neville …'

‘I know.'

‘I didn't want to hurt her.'

‘No. But you went to see him?'

‘Yes.' I shuddered. ‘Horrible. Unbelievably horrible. Again – I blanked it. A queue of women outside, a sort I was so unfamiliar with. Scary-looking. Bleached blondes chewing gum, chain-smoking, although most of them looked scared, too. We were shown to a big room with small tables and a chair either side. A complete stranger came in and sat down opposite me. Tried to take my hand.' I shook my head. ‘I'm not sure I can even tell you about it, James.'

‘Then don't.'

‘But it hurt that Max knew and you didn't.'

‘Yes. But that was timing. Circumstances.'

‘Yes.'

‘And he doesn't know this. Don't rehash it. Don't pick that scab. It's not healthy. You've told me, and I know. That's all that matters.'

‘Don't you want to know where he is now?'

‘Only if you want to tell me. You don't have to.'

‘He
lives in Singapore. With his third wife. She's Thai. I have half-brothers and sisters. I have no idea how many.'

‘No.'

‘I don't have to, do I, James?'

‘No, you don't have to.'

‘I was so scared that if I told someone – you even – I'd have to find out. That those were the rules. Wasn't allowed to just – let it lie.'

‘Although your mother did. Sensibly.'

‘Yes.'

‘There are no rules, Flora.'

‘Amelia would disagree. Tara even, they'd –'

‘Be forensic, I know. Pore over it. And be aghast you hadn't looked into your new family, dug it all up. It's fine, Flora, leave it.'

‘He may even be dead now, for all I know.'

I felt calmer, suddenly. Shattered, but calmer. It was out. And it had been in there for so long: buried very deep. With a heavy boulder on top. Max had been sworn to secrecy years ago and I knew he'd never share it with anyone. Max was genuine. And I didn't blame him for bringing it up just now. I might easily have done the same. But he had no idea what reaction those few words would provoke: ‘Did you ever contact your father again?'

He'd unwittingly lit the blue touchpaper. And I'd quietly gone up in smoke. Imploded inside, in that easyJet queue, perhaps the combustion more tremendous for being buried for so long. And then I'd run to the one person in the world I knew I needed, come what may. James.

We sat on the bed together, side by side, and I knew exactly where we both were, in our heads. In Bistro Vino,
South Kensington, many years ago. Nineteen, to be precise, after I'd happily agreed to marry him. After he'd told me about his father and his mother, and after we'd agreed, holding hands in the candlelight, the wax dripping down the bottle, to so many things: mostly that we hated duplicity more than anything in the world; that we would never deceive one another. That his mother had hurt his father too badly for James ever to marry anyone who might eventually be capable of such a thing. That I had been a child of a one-parent family for too long not to want a forever marriage. And Max had deceived me and I never wanted to feel like that again. We didn't go into it deeply, we weren't heavy about it, but it could have been written in blood.

But there'd been another pact, too – an implicit, tacit one – that night. I'd been the one gingerly to broach it, wondering if two people, however much in love they were, needed to know absolutely everything about each other? Wondering if a person could still possibly have, not a secret, but something they felt they never wanted to share with anyone in the world? Meaning my father. Because, once shared, I'd gone on hesitantly, it was out there for real. Enormous. Uncontrollable. And before I'd even got to the end of the sentence, James had agreed. I remember the light in his eyes in the flickering candle flame: those eyes as they seized on something they recognized completely.

‘I agree,' he'd said quickly. ‘As long as it's not something that affects the other, why should anyone own the other completely?'

‘Yes,' I'd said, surprised at his alacrity, and the way he'd put it. But so, so relieved. Knowing I wasn't ever going to be probed but had at least admitted to owning something
he'd never know. And he'd never asked. As I had obviously never asked him.

But it was different now. I'd told him my secret. And, childishly, I wondered if he'd tell me his. I felt so much better having divulged, I realized. Exhausted. Shattered. Spent. As if I'd been sick, actually, which in a way I had, I'd spewed it out, but – it was all so long ago. It had felt huge then, in Bistro Vino – enormous. Had become more so because I'd hidden it, I realized. But now that it was out – why, it wasn't that momentous at all. My father. Just a sad old loser – a violent old loser – who'd procreated carelessly and produced quite a few children along the way, one of them being me. But I'd been lucky enough to have my mother. I breathed in deeply. Let it out slowly. I realized I felt almost evangelical about how much better I felt. I reached for James's hand. And maybe … just maybe.

But he was getting to his feet. Walking around to the window. Leaning over the bed to open the shutters. Then the window. Light poured in. He stood, staring out. Letting the air, the voices, the world, flood back in. No longer cocooned here in the dark, in our closed-off, womb-like world, everything changed. I licked my lips, knowing another opportunity might not come my way for years.

‘James …'

‘Come on, Flora. Have a shower, freshen up, or whatever, and then come down.'

He turned from the window to look at me, his eyes so guarded, so blank. I felt afraid.

‘Yes,' I whispered. ‘Yes, I will. And … thank you, James.'

He gave me the ghost of a smile, but didn't hesitate for a second. In another moment, he was gone.

I did as instructed and showered, changed and then went down. It was almost drinks time, almost six o'clock, and I needed one very badly. I felt exhausted and utterly drained, but so, so glad not to be back home in Clapham. I avoided the kitchen, where I could hear people talking, and instead walked down the corridor to access the terrace via the drawing room, deep in thought. Unfortunately, as I pushed through the door, I realized I'd chosen the same room my mother and Jean-Claude had elected for a quiet tête-à-tête. They were sitting on one of the long, creamy sofas, holding hands.

‘Darling, how lovely!' Mum jumped up and clasped her hands together prettily, eyes alight. Jean-Claude got to his feet, too. He clapped me on the back as Mum hugged me.

‘First of all, I couldn't believe you'd gone, and now, like a miracle, you're back!'

Particularly without saying goodbye, she meant, but was too nice to say it. Mum never emotionally blackmailed, or applied pressure, she was too generous for that: just focused on the good things, like me returning. Not for the first time, I hoped I'd mostly inherited my mother's genes and not Tom's. Obviously, this had preoccupied me at times. Was it why I was impatient? So volatile? The girls had often said, ‘You're so different to Granny!' And I'd cringe. Amelia would go on to say sagely, ‘You're probably
like your father.' It hadn't frightened them, this mythical grandfather, because, naturally, they'd glamorized him. A French count whose aristocratic family Mum had protected. A diplomat with a high-profile career. A film star, already married with a family. After all, Granny had been so beautiful, her men so exotic. They'd never thought of a low-down crook. How disappointed they'd be. And, naturally, I worried for their genes, too. Why did Amelia have a temper? Tara, so indecisive? Or was it all nonsense anyway and far more to do with nurture than nature? I hoped so. And, of course, there'd been Sonia, who'd done the right thing, reached out to Mum. Tried to help. Maybe they weren't all bad apples in that family. And maybe Tom – I could never, even in my head, call him my father – had just taken a wrong turn? Some of the children's friends took drugs, I knew that – Toby, probably – it was not unusual. And if Tom had become addicted, well, then the natural extension of that was … no. No, it was inexcusable. This was where Tom and I always parted company. When he hit the old lady.

I gasped as Mum held me now, not from the pressure, but at the thought of how she must have suffered, on her own. She held me at arm's length, eyes dancing. ‘I am
so
pleased,' she said.

‘And I'm glad to be back, Mum,' I said, with unusual warmth. She blinked, surprised.

I wasn't always very nice to her, I knew that. Was impatient; scornful. But what a brave decision she'd made not to share Tom with me. Not to burden me with that baggage. If only I hadn't gone looking. I could have luxuriated in the same blissful ignorance as Amelia and Tara.
Something in my make-up, though, meant I'd always have searched. Without Mum's bedside box, I'd have found him anyway. Tracked him down through Interpol or DNA. I have that relentless, probing nature.

‘And you're staying? Not dashing off again? Amelia said there was a baggage handlers' strike or something …'

‘Oh yes, I'm staying. This place is too gorgeous to leave, Mum.'

‘I know. Which is why …' she glanced at Jean-Claude, who nodded. ‘Why I need to tell you my news, too.'

All at once, I realized her eyes were shining for other reasons.

‘Oh?' I felt myself harden. Hated myself for it. But I knew what was coming.

She still had my arms. Made to sit down, but I remained standing. She hesitated.

‘Darling, I'm going to stay in France, with JC. Move back over here.'

‘We want to give it a try,' said JC, who'd seen my face.

‘What, for ever?' I said, not liking my voice. ‘I thought you said a few weeks?' What was wrong with me? Why was I like this? But I was upset. And this was always my knee-jerk reaction: to lash out.

‘I miss France,' she said sadly. She perched on the cream sofa. Instead of standing stonily above her, I made myself perch beside her. Jean-Claude went to sit opposite. ‘I realize that now. I had so many happy years in Paris, and down here I feel … well, I'm much more myself. I'm much more Mediterranean than English, Flora, this place speaks to me.'

‘It speaks to me, too,' I said, before I could stop myself.

‘Everything
about it. The way of life, the people, the accent on prettiness and charm – I love prettiness and charm. I'm possibly even twee – is that so terrible? In England, I feel I'm constantly saying sorry for the way I am, for being feminine, rather than feminist. I don't like feminists, they scare me.' She hesitated. ‘And I like men. I love the difference between men and women –
vive la différence!
– why not! I'm freer to think that sort of thing here. You'll scoff, Flora, but I know I'll be perfectly happy bagging up lavender bags and tying pretty ribbons on them on a sunny doorstep, cooking for Jean-Claude in the evening. It's my idea of paradise. And I wouldn't have to apologize all the time.'

To me, she meant. The apologizing bit. She'd phrased it as if she needed to apologize to the whole world, or at least the whole of England, but she meant me. Sorry for being scatty, for not having a tidy house, for feeding the birds in the park every day. For tie-dyeing all her T-shirts, chain-smoking, taking in stray cats, wearing ribbons in her hair, baseball caps, for always being in the pub with a man, playing canasta, roaring with laughter, at her age. I was a drudge. Always her brakes. And she wanted to get away. Or was I being paranoid? Was it absolutely nothing to do with me? I'd miss her so much, though. A huge lump filled my throat. So much, it hurt. She'd always been round the corner, always. Just there, for me.
Me
. So much, I'd taken for granted. I felt panicky. Thought I'd grown out of that feeling. The terror of Mum dying. When I was young, I'd awake bolt upright in bed, covered in sweat. I knew I had to be grown up now. Let her go. But if only it were Paris. Not so far. Deep in the south of France.

‘It's
a plane ride away,' she said gently, knowing.

‘Yes.'

Up to now, though, I'd see her three times a week. Four, sometimes, if I popped in on a Sunday. Didn't I mention that? And yes, I usually went there. Oh, she came to Clapham, but mostly it was me making the journey. Well, you know, a lot of my restaurants were in her neck of the woods: Chelsea, Belgravia; I'd pop in after lunch. No reason to shop in M&S in the King's Road, though: there was one much closer to home. I looked at Jean-Claude, who was watching me.

‘I'll look after her,' he said gently. And I knew he would. Knew she'd chosen another good egg, and that, even though they'd only known one another a short while, there'd been an instant rapport. They'd recognized each other. But Mum knew I wasn't worried about that.

‘If it doesn't work out, I'll be back,' she said, to keep my panic at bay.

‘It will work out,' said Jean-Claude, more realistically. The truth, which I needed. I looked across at him gratefully.

‘And will you carry on with the shop?'

‘Of course!' said Mum in surprise. ‘But I'm going to make the outside so much prettier. Paint all the window frames a dusty pink and have a little reopening party. Invite the locals, get to know them all. It'll be so much fun!'

‘Despite the crowded market?' I wasn't talking to her now. She sounded too much like a character in
Miranda
, or
Ab Fab
. ‘The other night, you said it was so seasonal?'

‘You're right, it is.' More truth from JC. ‘And sometimes, I think …'

‘What?'
I said quickly.

‘Nothing. Because that's a crowded market, too. And I don't want your mother to put money in. She can buy the pink paint,' his mouth twitched, ‘but that's it.'

‘Oh, but JC, that's how we're going to expand!' Mum exclaimed, lighting a cigarette, crossing her tiny knees and blowing smoke out excitedly. ‘Buy another shop, in the next village perhaps, or –'

‘If you touch your savings, it's off.
Fini
,' he said firmly. ‘I'm not interested.'

She pouted. He turned back to me.

‘And I don't think she should sell her house, either.'

‘But I'll go to Flora's when I'm in London, I won't need it. Why would I –'

‘Rent it out,' he told her, interrupting. ‘Rent the London house, don't sell. That way you'll have an income.' He turned to me. ‘You tell her, Flora. Never get rid of property, especially in a capital city. Lease it.'

I sighed, at a loss against his rational argument. How could I tell her she was being foolish, when she had someone more sensible than me at the helm? All I could do was nod, agree with JC, give them my blessing and hope my highly emotional state – I was now on the verge of tears – had more to do with the past twelve hours than with me, a happily married woman with two children, being unable to live within a ten-minute drive of her ditsy, impossible, highly irritating mother.

I should be delighted she's having another chance, I thought as I went out to the terrace. Too many people were gathered there, so I slipped through the French windows to the kitchen. A life in the sun with a gorgeous man
who loves her. I shouldn't be helping Thérèse lay the table for supper – I delved into the cutlery drawer – with stupid, shaking hands. I doggedly put the knives, forks and spoons around the table on the terrace, ignoring Thérèse, who sighed and clucked, following me out and replacing them with the spoons she wanted – pudding, not soup – and sharper knives for steak.

But, actually, I'd known this was coming. Had known the other day, when, although they'd talked in terms of a holiday, a few weeks, they'd meant a lot longer. I'd had a while to get used to it. Mum had carefully seen to that. I knew I couldn't trust myself to talk about it yet, though, and since I couldn't sit quietly in a corner on my own without drawing attention, activity was best. I began to clear up the terrace, plumping cushions, collecting stray glasses, retrieving clothes from the floor, books from under chairs. The girls caught my mood and, assuming it was a bad one rather than an upset one, quietly got up from their comfy chairs to help. They were slightly in the dog house anyway, since I'd caught them coming out of Camille's room in the tower earlier, having a snoop. They went to the kitchen to fill water jugs, find glasses for the table, giving each other ‘What's up with her?' looks.

James had bought a bottle of port from the vineyard he'd got the wine from and was showing the boys how to decant it properly, straining it through a piece of muslin he'd found in a drawer. Mum, pleased to have told me, to have got that over with, skipped off down the garden to pick some flowers for the table. JC sat on the terrace and watched her go with a fond smile. She was younger than me, in spirit, I thought as I paused in my clearing up to
watch her bend down and gently pluck nasturtiums from their base, gathering them in a bunch. Always had been. Lighter. Kinder. Nicer. I got Tom. Aware I was in trouble now, I hummed away to the music Rory had put on the iPod in the kitchen: Jack Johnson, or Mumford & Sons, chosen, diplomatically, to appeal to all ages.

Sally appeared in a wafting blue kaftan-style dress, more the sort of thing she used to wear in Scotland. I realized I hadn't given her a thought. She looked happy and relaxed, though, helping her father down the step to the terrace. Drummond, bathed, florid and fragrant with Trumper's aftershave, looked even more delighted than usual.

‘My dear!' He raised his stick exuberantly. ‘So glad you're back. Excellent decision. Wretched magazine. Their loss, not yours.'

‘I'm glad, too,' Sally said warmly. ‘And I gather you had lunch with Max,' she went on, and boy, was I pleased I'd told James. Imagine how that little revelation could have ricocheted around the terrace.

‘Yes,' I said breathlessly, as James continued instructing the boys, not turning a hair.

‘He rang earlier,' she went on. ‘He's got so much on at the moment, I don't honestly think he'll be back.'

‘No, he – sort of said.' I was nervous of knowing more than she did. Of being better informed. But she was so nonchalant. Happy, almost. I believed Max now – not that I hadn't at the time – but I was glad of this clarification. Their liaison had meant possibly less to Sally than it had to him. Just because I, Flora Murray-Brown, took every relationship seriously, whether it be a blood tie, a best friend, an ex-lover, my neighbour, my cleaning lady even, it didn't
mean everyone did. Some were happy alone. Better alone. Stronger, perhaps.

Rachel appeared. It occurred to me that, for once, she didn't look so composed, so serene, but she wouldn't meet my eye, so I distracted myself by listening to the general chatter as we sat down to fillet steak, hollandaise sauce and salad. Camille had gone for good, it seemed, back to Paris, according to Thérèse, so when Mum shared her news, it was with family and friends. With people who knew and loved her. The girls were surprised and delighted.