The Heatwave

by Kate Riordan

  ‘No, no. Please tell them yes. And thank you. To Martine too.’

  We say our goodbyes and it’s strange because I feel like I haven’t seen him in weeks.

  I’m just about to hang up when a last question spills out. ‘Olivier, before you go, what are people saying in the village?’

  He sighs. ‘They’re saying that the Durand girl is back from the dead.’ An awkward silence falls between us for the first time.

  After that, I feel too unsettled to go back upstairs. I wander down to the pool to find that Luc has turned up and is apparently quite comfortable on a lounger, bottle of beer in hand. He and Greg are in conversation but Luc’s eyes don’t move from the water, where Élodie is swimming. As she gets out, she gifts him a smile, coquettish and knowing, and he gazes helplessly at her, eyes hungry.

  You’re watching them from under the oleander tree, your headphones on, gloss smeared on your lips again, and I realize you’re old enough now to understand that look between them: halfway to being a promise.

  1983

  After Élodie catches me and Laurent kissing, I expect her to tell Greg as soon as he gets back. I’m so sure she’ll do it that I’ve already been rehearsing excuses and explanations in my head. None are lies. It’s true that Laurent caught me at a vulnerable moment; that I’m missing my mother terribly; that Greg is away too often when I need his support.

  But even these reasons added up together aren’t the whole truth. There’s a part of me that acted quite deliberately. You aside, there are times when I simply want to eject out of my own life, and being caught cheating feels easier than sitting your father down to discuss divorce and custody. I think Laurent is a self-destruct button I’ve pushed so that Greg ends it for me.

  But if subconsciously I want Élodie to open that can of worms for me, then I’ll probably be out of luck. I should know that she never does what’s predictable, what’s expected of her. That has never been her style.

  Of course there’s also Laurent himself. He arrives the next day to talk about what happened; he, unlike your sister, has always done as I anticipate. We end up kissing a little again, though something in me has cooled off overnight, even as it’s apparently grown more intense in him. The day before, when I made the first move, there was always the chance that he would regretfully disentangle himself, reminding me gently that he’s a married man. Now that I know for sure he won’t object, I find the urge to do anything else melting away.

  He doesn’t seem to notice my hesitancy and, anyway, to my relief, he can only stay for a few minutes.

  ‘I’ll come back tonight,’ he says. ‘Early evening. Annette’s going out. We’ll have more time.’ He strokes my cheek tenderly and I think how lovely he is, and how much better suited the two of us might have been, but it still doesn’t make me want him.

  Élodie comes back that afternoon, the flared hems of her jeans carrying a tidemark of salt, like a pale wave. Maybe it was there yesterday, when we fought, or maybe she’s hitched to the coast again. I don’t ask this time. I’m too busy thinking that she’ll be here when Laurent comes back.

  Without meaning to, I drink three glasses of wine over a lunch that consists of little more than your leftovers and a handful of olives. When I put you down for your afternoon nap, benign spring sunlight slanting across the bed, I lie down beside you, intending only to absorb some of the peace of the room. But I must fall asleep because the next thing, I’m emerging from deep inside a dream of childhood, my father and I digging in the garden, and the sun has moved away. It’s almost evening.

  You’re sitting up in the bed next to me, a Richard Scarry book open on your lap. Greg brought it back for you the last time he went to London and it’s become a passion of yours.

  ‘Mummy, I’m hungry. You been asleep.’

  I stand up and use your soft little brush to flatten down my hair. My cheeks are flushed from sleep and I go and stand by the open window in the hope of catching a wisp of cooler air. Laurent will come soon.

  ‘Élodie’s with a man,’ you say, making me turn. You haven’t looked up from your book. ‘I heard them.’

  I feel a shiver of apprehension. I lean out of the window to see if she’s on the terrace but there’s nothing there, only the remnants of lunch, and two open wine bottles. There was only one when I came upstairs with you. I look again and see, from the shape of one of them, that she’s opened one of the expensive bottles we save for birthdays and Christmas.

  ‘You read a bit longer, sweetheart,’ I say, taking the key and closing the door behind me. I pause and then lock it. ‘Mum, I want to come downstairs too,’ you call.

  ‘I won’t be long, Em. Just a couple of minutes.’ You’re witness to enough fights between us.

  Élodie is nowhere to be found in the house and at first I think the garden is deserted too. A plane is going over, heading for Nice or Italy, and in the clear air the engine is surprisingly loud. It’s only as it fades to nothing that I hear a silken swish of water from the far end of the garden.

  She’s half in, half out of the pool when I get there, elbows propped on the ledge that runs round it. Her hair ripples down her back, making her skin look paler against the green of the water and the oleander that reaches over to dip its fingers into it. Then she pushes up and climbs out in one easy movement, lean muscles flexing in her shoulders and arms, the water running off her in shining streams. Oh, but she’s always so beautiful. That’s another reason I can never tear my eyes away from her. Few can.

  She raises her arms, points her fingers, then lies down on her back, stretching her legs, lifting one and then the other, wiggling her toes and adjusting her bikini top with a snap of elastic. She still hasn’t sensed me there, watching.

  Without looking, she reaches down for the glass next to her. It’s one of yours – an old Amora mustard jar covered with Disney characters you begged me to buy in the supermarket. Now it’s half full of red wine. Her hand knocks against it and wine splashes over the white dress she must’ve dropped there earlier.

  I’m about to approach when she speaks. I freeze, not even daring to breathe.

  ‘Why don’t you just sit down? I don’t bite, you know.’

  I know instantly that she’s not talking to me, that flirtatious tone so unlike anything she ever throws my way.

  There’s a figure standing in the deep shadow of the oleander, only visible through the dense foliage of the pines as he moves and then stops again.

  She sits up and pats the lounger. ‘Come on. We should talk about things, shouldn’t we? After yesterday. Have some of this.’ She holds aloft the glass, which still has some in it, and laughs. ‘It’s Papa’s good stuff. I won’t tell him if you don’t.’

  But the figure through the trees still hesitates. He’s probably only a couple of metres from me and I think I can hear his breathing, louder than it should be for someone so still.

  ‘Élodie,’ he says, in a low, warning tone, and I know that voice. It makes my insides plummet.

  Getting to her feet, she smiles. ‘It’s nice and warm today,’ she says. ‘The mistral’s gone, hasn’t it?’

  She begins to walk around the pool the long way, past the diving board at the deep end, taking her time, hips swinging slightly. Then she reaches a hand round and unties her bikini top, lifting it over her head and flinging it to the warm stones, where it lands with a small slap.

  I haven’t seen her naked in years. She’s recently blossomed and I’m glad to lose sight of her as she walks out of clear view, reduced to a slip of golden movement behind the trees.

  I move fast then, the spell broken now I can’t see her.

  She’s inches from him as I emerge, no hint of self-consciousness as she stands there smiling, head on one side.

  ‘Élodie!’ I bark, as she reaches up to loop her arms around his neck. ‘Get off him.’

  She doesn’t flinch but I make him jump so hard it’s almost comical. His face as he turns to me is desperate, cheeks and neck flushed, his eyes not
quite focused. He reaches up to pull apart her hands, stumbling slightly as he backs away.

  ‘Salut, Sylvie,’ Élodie singsongs at me. I stride over to the lounger and pick up the stained white dress, throwing it at her as soon as I’m close enough.

  ‘Put it on,’ I say coldly, because I either have to pretend total self-control or be sick all over the stones.

  She goes then, that smile on her face, and I’m glad she does because I want to slap her. I turn to Laurent, pushing at him again and again, until he’s right up against the trunk of the oleander. He doesn’t resist. He can’t even look at me.

  ‘What the fuck, Laurent? She’s fourteen. Has this happened before?’

  He finally meets my eye. ‘Of course not. How could you think …?’ He’s clearly horrified. ‘I came to see you.’

  ‘But you bumped into my daughter instead.’

  ‘Sylvie, I didn’t know she was going to do that. She was in the pool when I got here. She waved me over and I didn’t want to be rude. Not after what she saw. I didn’t want to antagonize her. Please, Sylvie, I had no idea.’

  ‘No idea of what?’

  ‘That she had … feelings. A crush.’

  I can’t help it: I laugh. The sound spills into the garden, high and hard. It reminds me of hers: completely devoid of warmth.

  ‘A crush, Laurent? You think Élodie has a thing for you? My God.’ I shake my head, wanting to keep going, be cruel to him, humiliate him. What stops me is the realization that, beyond his foolish egotism, this is not really his fault.

  I’m not furious because I want Laurent. I’m not jealous of Élodie’s potent youth and beauty either – and I interrogate myself about that pretty hard. I think it’s simply that with Laurent I’ve always been able to resurrect the old me. To him, I’m not just Élodie’s mother or Greg’s wife, I have remained Sylvie Durand from the house across the fields, no more or less. With Laurent, I am the me I’m always trying to get back to, who usually feels like someone else, these days.

  Élodie has understood this, somehow, and she has tried to ruin it. I sometimes forget that she is as observant of me as I am of her. Greg would shake his head in disbelief if I were to say it aloud, but in our own way, Élodie and I are closer to each other than anyone else. Everything we do in this house is with the other in mind, like lovers or deadly foes. I don’t think there’s much difference sometimes.

  1993

  The pizzeria is busier this time. The holiday season is in full swing now and I see that Olivier was right when he said things were changing. I hadn’t noticed before but the café that’s been there for ever has invested in new umbrellas, huge square things in tasteful cream, lit from underneath by white lights. I feel a small pang for the old parasols, sun-bleached red and emblazoned with beer logos.

  We get the last outside table, almost on the road, and as we sit down, all eyes are on us. I check but most belong to tourists and it occurs to me that they might be looking simply because Élodie is so arresting, dressed in a flared sea-green dress that brings out her tan and the golden lights in her hair, left loose and damp from the shower.

  The meal passes without incident. I find myself in the unfamiliar position of being grateful to Greg for maintaining ceaseless conversation about nothing in particular. I have no idea what he’s said to Élodie about the years she’s been gone. Despite all my misgivings, I’m glad you seem so happy. Élodie is making a fuss of you, which in turn makes your father, who always took his lead from her, indulge you too. You’re glowing prettily from all the attention, and from the subtle physical contact Élodie is constantly making with you: her hand on yours, the other smoothing your wildly crimped hair, now loosed from its many plaits. My own hands itch in my lap to stop her, oddly like a jealous partner, but I can see – anyone can see – that you’re basking in it. Unconsciously you’ve angled your body towards her, like a cat curling around its owner’s legs.

  There are stalls set up in the square again, most of them selling gifts: expensive linens, silver jewellery and wine. After the pizzas, all of us in need of a break before we can contemplate dessert, you ask if you can go and look at them.

  ‘Okay, but don’t go too far. We haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Will you come?’ she asks Élodie.

  An old reflex has me opening my mouth to object but she’s already pushing back her chair and holding out her hand to you.

  ‘We won’t be long, Maman,’ she says. ‘I’ll look after her.’

  ‘Don’t go far,’ I can’t help saying again. ‘Stay where we can see you.’

  I catch your tut but then you turn back to your sister, all smiles again.

  Greg turns to me with a raised eyebrow. ‘Surely even you can’t claim this hasn’t been a pleasant evening.’

  I gesture at a passing waitress for another bottle of wine.

  ‘What do you think, then?’ I’ve been waiting to ask him this all night.

  He gives me an uncomprehending look.

  ‘Of Élodie, I mean. Do you … Do you think she’s different?’

  Greg gets out his cigarettes with an exaggerated sigh. ‘I take it you don’t.’

  ‘I honestly don’t know. I keep changing my mind. I think she is and then I remember what Morel told me about the twenty per cent who don’t grow out of it. Remembering how she was, I don’t know if it’s possible for her to truly change. However much she might want to … However much we might want her to. Besides, if she’s grown out of it, why didn’t she come back sooner? We can’t afford to get this wrong, Greg. For everyone’s sake …’ I tail off.

  ‘Do you really think the way she’s being with Emma – the affection, the fuss, all of that – do you really suppose that’s for show? She was never like that before, was she? Emma barely existed for her. Apart from when …’ He doesn’t finish.

  I watch the two of you, further off now, Élodie a head taller, her arm slung around your narrow shoulders. I’m sitting forward in my chair, as though to stay closer to you, if only by a couple of inches.

  ‘I’m afraid that might be exactly what it is. A show. I know it sounds cold, but someone has to play devil’s advocate here. And don’t look at me like that. You can’t blame me for being so cautious.’

  He finishes his wine. ‘No, okay. But isn’t it possible that some of it might be genuine? She was at the Institut for three years without any incidents. She told me about the ashram.’

  ‘She told me about it, too, and you know what I think about those places. It’s not all peace and love. I mean, look at what was going on in Oregon with Osho.’

  He doesn’t say anything. Greg was always more of a natural hippie than me. I know he still hankers after that sixties idealism he found briefly in Paris, which died a slow death the decade after. The world was a cold and dangerous place, after all, and perhaps his daughter was too. It always made me feel sad for him. Angry with him, as well. Because for as long as he clung to his naivety, I was forced into being the cynical one.

  ‘Don’t you want her to have come out the other side?’ he says softly now. ‘Don’t you want her to be okay?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  He nods. He knows that, beneath all the fear, I do want that. Somewhere, a long way down, she’s still the baby we took home that day, the tiny girl we loved so much, the child who grew up to be such a painful mystery to us both.

  Of course I want her to be better. I want it very badly. I just don’t know if it’s too much to hope for. And I owe it to you as your mother to be careful, not to let my guard down yet.

  Around us people are talking about the fires. Les feux. I catch snippets. It makes me realize what I’ve been too preoccupied to notice – that the smell of smoke is still present, a dark bass note beneath the aromas of food and perfume.

  ‘By the way, we’ve had an offer on the house,’ I say to take my mind off it.

  He turns to me in surprise. ‘That was quick. God, La Rêverie being sold. I can’t quite believe it.’ He absently taps a
cigarette on the table before lighting it and I wonder how many hundreds of times I’ve seen that little tic. Unexpectedly, he holds it out to me and I take it gratefully.

  ‘Sylvie, what are we going to do about Élodie when you have to go back to London?’

  I sigh. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t a clue how to approach any of this. What about you?’

  He shakes his head. ‘When you were asleep this afternoon, I rang Nicole. I said I’d tell Élodie she would be welcome to stay at our place for a while, if she wanted to.’

  ‘Oh. What did she say?’

  He looks away. ‘She said she didn’t think it was a very good idea. Not with the boys so young.’

  I check you’re still in sight. For a second, I can’t see either of you but then I spot Élodie. She looks as though she’s staring right at us, though it’s hard to tell from a distance. I crane to see better but she moves out of sight.

  I can’t blame Nicole but I’m surprised too. I suppose I never thought he’d tell her everything. After all, he had never sat down with me and had a frank conversation about what had happened. I don’t know whether to be gratified, angry, or just sad.

  ‘So what, then?’ I say. ‘She said northern France didn’t feel like home so I don’t think she’d want to go to Paris anyway. Let alone London. I can’t imagine her somewhere without the sun. Perhaps she’ll want to go back to Spain.’

  He rubs his temples. ‘I never did know what was best when it came to her. I know I left you with it all, Sylvie. I do know that.’ He reaches out and briefly squeezes my hand. I nod, not quite able to speak. If he’d only done that more often back then. It would have made so much difference in those last years if he’d reached across the divide.

  We lapse into silence and I finish my cigarette before you can come back and catch me smoking.