Wish You Were Here (32 page)

‘Yes, and we could pop out for the odd weekend in term time. Pippa Foster does that, to her parents' in Guernsey. It's the same, really, isn't it?' said Tara.

‘Exactly. As much as you want,' I agreed.

‘And you'll pay?' said Amelia, naturally.

‘Within reason,' said James firmly, knowing how inclined I was to promise the earth.

‘Say a couple of times a term?' suggested Amelia, keen to firm things up.

‘Yes, perhaps about that.' James couldn't help smiling at his elder daughter, whose negotiating skills were akin to his own.

‘So, two weekends a term – perhaps with friends –'

‘Or perhaps without,' said James crisply.

‘Easter and the summer in the sun – and home for Christmas.'

‘So
we don't miss the parties,' agreed her sister.

They shrugged.

‘Cool.'

Their eyes were alight, though. Not so cool. I could see we'd sold it to them. But they had to be realistic.

‘Clapham will go, our home for twenty years, and that will be sad. But you'll have a bedroom each at Mum's.'

‘We could sell Granny's and keep Clapham?' suggested Tara, but Amelia frowned. Fulham appealed to her. I'd always suspected my daughter of being a closet Sloane.

‘We could,' I said, ‘but I want Mum to have her independence. In case …'

‘… it all goes wrong with JC?'

‘Yes. But I don't think it will,' I said quickly. ‘Even though they've just met.'

‘It won't,' Amelia agreed. ‘They've, like, found each other. After so long. I can sense it. It's amazing, isn't it? That it can actually take so long, a lifetime perhaps, to find the right person? Who you truly click with?'

‘Yes, Amelia.' Her eyes were on the pick-up truck appearing in the distance, a cloud of dust behind it. A slight cloud appeared in her own eyes, too. ‘It can take a very long time, my love.'

Important to get it right, though, I thought.

And so we were going home. Drummond, Sally and Rachel were leaving the same day, but Rachel was driving to Relais Saint Jacques, she thought, to break the journey, attempting it in one go being too much for her father. I'd sat looking at the map with her very early that morning in the
kitchen, a pot of strong coffee between us. She'd looked around wistfully.

‘It's so sad to leave. This has been such a – well, a cathartic place to be. Like a retreat, or something. It's as if we all needed it.'

She and I were alone, cases packed beside us.

‘I think we did need it. And, sometimes, you have to step right away from your life before you can see it properly. I think we all did that here.'

‘Toby! Will you stop arsing around and get out of bed!' floated down from the gallery upstairs. We smiled. A door slammed.

‘I know. I definitely needed to get out of the glen.'

‘For good?' I asked tentatively.

‘No, of course not. Daddy would never sell. But … well, I've persuaded him to sell a few of the cottages and buy a flat. In Edinburgh. In New Town. He's so enjoyed getting away, and he can see how remote we are now.'

‘Oh – so you and Sally can have a bit of city life?'

‘With him, too, yes. Or without. I'm going to employ a housekeeper. A sort of – carer,' she said bravely.

I leaned forward and hugged her. ‘Well done.'

‘I interviewed one before we left, actually. Didn't have that particular epiphany here. I've been thinking about it for a while. She's called Heather, and she's a tall, handsome Geordie of about fifty. Divorced. Daddy thought she was a friend of mine who'd come for tea. He liked her enormously. Flirted, even. But she can handle that. He asked me, casually, the other day, if my friend Heather would be back?'

‘Yes,
for ever!' I gave a snort of laughter.

‘Well, for three weeks at a time. And then a week to her mother in Durham. For a break. Which she'll need. Then either Sally or I will take over.'

‘Or he could come to Edinburgh?'

‘Yes, if we're working. Or studying.'

I paused. ‘Studying?'

Her cheekbones coloured slightly. ‘I've … applied to an art school there. Leith's.'

‘Oh, Rachel, that's brilliant!' Rachel spent so much of her time painting on the hill, and not just watercolours. Oils, these days. She was good.

She shrugged. ‘I haven't heard yet so, who knows, I may not get in.'

‘You will.'

‘But I thought – you know. Meeting people. And … I don't know. Something about your mother, Flora, has inspired me. Something about it never being too late.'

Through the window, we could see Mum and JC, packing their car.

‘It isn't. Ever.'

‘She is rather tremendous, isn't she? You're so lucky.'

‘She is. And I am.'

‘Always – in the words of Monty Python – looking on the bright side of life.'

I smiled. ‘Quite. And Sally?'

‘I'm persuading her to apply to the Jamie Oliver Italian in Edinburgh. Her agency work is a bit unpredictable – she'd be better with a stable job, where she gets to meet people for more than a week or so, don't you think?'

I agreed, but it was said with caution. I think Rachel and
I both knew it might end in tears, and that Sally would never be quite right: but she could be better. And stability would help. One thing was for sure, Rachel was too good and too special to devote her life to Sally and her aging father. I'd always thought the church would claim her one day, and maybe it would. But not yet. Not until her father had died. James would be pleased with her plans, I thought. I got up and busied myself, wiping down the draining board, knowing she didn't like too much attention. Now I knew the truth, I understood why James had felt such guilt about Rachel: why he always went so quiet at the mention of her name. So thoughtful. She'd been left holding the baby. Quite literally.

‘She's the eldest, darling, and unmarried, so why not?' I'd once said, to which he'd replied, ‘Yes, but I'm the man.'

I hadn't understood. I did now. We'd both help Rachel to get away. If not to Leith art school, then somewhere else. Out to France. Painting holidays. Sally, too, if she'd come, but maybe not together. Separately, to give Rachel a break.

‘When are you going to break it to your father about Heather? That she's not an old mate from school?'

‘Oh, I already have. Last night. When he'd had a couple of cognacs.'

‘What did he say?'

‘He said – you mean that rather fine-looking woman with the strapping thighs? Does it include a goodnight kiss?'

‘Oh, God! Poor Heather.'

‘Oh, don't worry.' Rachel grinned. ‘She'll cope. Comes from a long line of demanding Geordie men, she tells me.
She won't take any nonsense.' She gave me a long, clear look as I leaned against the draining board. ‘And you, Flora? You found some peace out here?'

Amelia came storming into the kitchen, dragging her case, fuming about the use of a sodding boyfriend who couldn't even pack his own
things.

‘Oh, yes.' I smiled. ‘I've found some peace. I've found a great deal, actually.'

‘Would you like some 'elp with that, Amélie?'

Étienne appeared in a pink T-shirt and putty-coloured shorts. Really rather tailored ones.

‘Oh, gosh, thanks so much, Étienne. That would be super,' simpered my daughter, in textbook Fulham, pausing to flick back her hair. She had lipstick on, something I hadn't seen her wear for ages, not since she'd embraced a more earthy way of life. Also, a pretty top of Tara's.

‘And Amelia? Has she found her more feminine side?' murmured Rachel as we watched her follow Étienne out to the car, swinging her handbag.

‘Perhaps.' I smiled again. ‘Perhaps.'

On the ferry, the long drive behind us, we sat up on deck in gloriously warm evening sunshine, gliding gently over the calmest sea I'd ever seen, skimming smoothly over a glittering English Channel. James and I were offered a
Daily Mail
by the couple beside us, who were getting up to go inside, and James took it with thanks. Behind us, in the second row of chairs, were Toby and Rory and, across the way, Amelia and Tara faced due south to get the last of the rays, both in shorts, both listening to the same iPod, an earpiece each.

Tara,
I noticed, was reading the magazine she'd found abandoned on her chair, the one in French. She was so quick. And her French wasn't bad anyway. She'd pick it up in no time. Amelia's, if anything, was better. I tried not to let my imagination run away with me, tried not to let it gallop off to a long trestle table in daisy-strewn grass under the trees, a gingham cloth covering it. Both girls were jabbering away in perfect French to a table full of friends and relations: good-looking twentysomething boys, middle-aged couples – new friends of ours – and Lizzie, too. JC was coming out of the stone farmhouse with a huge platter of seafood to tremendous applause, Mum beaming proudly. I shook my head, banishing the vision, knowing I couldn't get too far ahead of myself. James had yet to resign. Had yet to tell the hospital what they could do with their Monday-morning list of bunions. I sighed and narrowed my eyes to the sun. Earlier, Rory had popped his head over to ask if we'd like a drink, and he returned now, with a tray of gin and tonics. As I poured my tonic into the wobbly plastic glass, James harrumphed beside me.

‘What?' I asked.

‘Look at this.'

He held the paper out in front of me. Page three of the
Daily Mail
had a colour photo of Camille, in a full-length emerald gown, on the arm of a handsome blond man in a dinner jacket. It was clearly some sort of a gala opening. I read the headline: ‘
CAMILLE DE BOUVOIR ATTENDS THE PREMIERE OF DER
ROSENKAVALIER
WITH SASHA RAIMONDI
.'

‘Who is he?' I peered at the photo.

‘Some
famous Italian conductor, apparently. Never heard of him.'

‘Me neither.'

‘No doubt poised to inject a little spice into her life.'

‘Said with bitterness?'

‘No, not at all. Relief. I was a fool.'

‘No more than I was. And, actually, James, what we did discover was that our lives did indeed need an injection of spice. It was time. We were both just looking in the wrong places.'

He smiled. We toasted each other with our eyes and then our gins. And then we kissed briefly on the lips, before taking a sip each. As I swallowed happily, I caught the girls' eyes, their heads turned towards us. They rolled their eyes at one another before going back to their magazines. I smiled and lifted my face to the sun. A dazzling whelm of blue sky and sunshine made me squint, and I lowered the sunglasses perched on my head to my eyes, then regarded the glittering sea below. As the ship skimmed ever onwards on its stately bows, I had a feeling, as I gazed down at the water dividing two worlds, of having never been closer to the life I really wanted, with the people I most loved.