by Jane Holland
‘Trop de monde, trop de circulation,’ the driver exclaims bitterly as he takes my money, complaining about the traffic, though we both know it will stay busy here even into the early hours of the morning.
I jump out and stand tidying my hair while the taxi driver pulls away. I see him pick up a fare a few yards on, one arm still hanging out of the window, gesticulating violently at another driver who has had the temerity to sound his horn impatiently at him.
The Pam Pam is buzzing with people as usual. Every table is taken, every seat and bar stool occupied. Drinkers are standing under the fringes of its famous yellow and brown striped canopy, and even beyond it, the bar’s night life spilling out onto the crowded pavement.
Loud Brazilian music blares out across the street, multi-coloured lights flashing constantly from the dance floor inside, several deeply tanned dancers performing enthusiastically in bikini tops with straw skirts, giving the place the air of a night club.
I study the crowded outside tables intently, but can’t immediately see Robin. Maybe he’s inside, nearer the dancers.
I came here before a few times with Robin and Emily, usually to meet up with some of the older teens who were part of the Cap beach set, their parents mostly millionaires and celebrities. The other kids seemed to like the bar chiefly for its Latin American rhythms of its music and its outrageously expensive cocktails, which I recall being served to us in half coconut shells, decorated with paper umbrellas, twizzlers and – occasionally – lit sparklers that fizzed as the waiters carried them across to us.
It was never really my kind of place though; too noisy, too crowded, and I never felt comfortable accepting drinks, in case they turned out to be alcoholic. Although I was fifteen at the time, I looked much older with my hair up, and Emily rarely had any trouble getting us served in bars. All the same, although my aunt permitted me to drink wine at dinner with the others, I was still unused to alcohol and hated the sensation of being drunk. Like swimming on dry land, I always thought.
It’s full dark now. All the bars down the street are lit up. It’s early yet for the hardened clubbers, but still rowdier than I remember and the drinkers seem younger. But I suppose I’m older now.
Perhaps it was always like this, but back then I was less aware of myself and my surroundings.
Tentatively, I wander into the noisy bar area, wondering if I have made a mistake by responding to Robin’s invitation.
Care to join me?
There was a touch of arrogance there. A suggestion of performance, maybe even bravado. I didn’t notice the arrogance before. Now I begin to question it. I don’t know Robin well enough to grasp the nuances behind his texts.
What kind of man has he become?
Several drinkers at the bar look me up and down with curiosity. One teenager in nothing but a yellow mankini wolf-whistles, and all his friends laugh, which makes me uncomfortable. I’m over-dressed in Converse trainers and three-quarter jeans, with a plain black vest top, but there are no other women here on their own. I worry they may think I’m here to pick someone up for the night.
Suddenly there’s a hand on my shoulder.
‘Caitlin.’
I turn and feel my eyes widen.
‘Robin?’
All my memories are of Robin as a healthy young Californian. A teenage boy, lithe and golden-skinned, and somehow immortal. But the years have passed and he’s no longer that boy. Far from it. He’s a man now, and it shows not only in his face, but his body. He’s leaner, darker, and infinitely more dangerous.
It’s a shock. I can’t hide my reaction.
I meet his eyes, worrying what he must see when he looks at me. The girl he used to know? Or the woman I’ve become, the bloom worn off, maybe a few wrinkles here and there?
Then Robin holds out his arms, and I forget all that shit.
We hug.
His smell is somehow different and strikingly familiar at the same time. Is that the same musky aftershave he used to wear? His warmth and scent combine to reassure me, like a wild animal. I allow myself to relax, my body less stiff as he releases me.
‘Here,’ he says, touching my shoulder, ‘come and sit down. I’ve found us a table in the corner.’
I follow him, still shaken, unable to say a word.
Robin gestures to a passing waiter and orders some drinks. I nod when he glances at me, barely able to register what he’s saying.
I have been thinking about this reunion for years, dreaming about him, imagining how we would kiss each other on the cheek, look into each other’s eyes. I had considered rather wildly how we might go back to his room after a few drinks, how I would give myself to him, and be happy at last, free of …
‘Have you eaten?’ he asks me.
‘I ate with Aunt Tamsin.’ The music is quite loud, and I have to raise my voice. ‘Back at the chateau.’
‘Ah, the chateau. Of course.’
Robin smiles wryly, as though he can see the struggle I’m still having with the way he’s changed over the years, and is amused by it. But amused in a sad way. As though I’ve failed some kind of test.
I’m embarrassed by my own shallowness.
I look away, try to occupy myself with other faces, other things around us: the flashing lights overhead, the passing cars hooting at each other, the match-thin woman at the next table who is singing drunkenly as she waves a lit sparkler above her head. But my gaze keeps on crawling back to his face, unable to stop staring.
Robin is studying me in his turn. The intensity of that stare makes me nervous. Though I don’t know why it should. If he didn’t find me attractive at fifteen, why the hell would he be interested in me now?
My nails dig into my palms.
He leans forward, breaking the odd silence between us. ‘So how is Aunt Tamsin?’
‘Distraught, as you’d expect. I tried to ask about you, but …’
‘She wouldn’t discuss me?’
I nod.
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ He shrugs one shoulder eloquently. ‘Hardly her young Adonis anymore, am I?’
With a shock, I recall how Aunt Tamsin used to call him that. An affectionate joke, I thought at the time. But with hindsight, I wonder if she had a little crush on her lover’s teenage son. Something tacit, of course, never to be acted upon.
‘Is that why she fell out with you? Because you got … what, older?’ I shake my head, thinking of Tamsin’s obsession with being loved. Like many celebrities, she’s always been needy. But this would go far beyond vanity. ‘No, I can’t believe that.’
‘My God, you think Tante Tamsin sees deeper than the surface? To the beauty within, no doubt?’
I can find nothing to say. His tone is cold. Perhaps I deserve it. Tante Tamsin. Him using the French word for ‘aunt’ surprises me. Like they were intimate, despite the difference in their ages. French is the language of love, they say. The thought upsets me.
‘I haven’t even been invited to Emily’s funeral,’ he adds, and there’s no disguising his hurt and bitterness now.
‘What?’ I lean forward, horrified for him. ‘That can’t be right. You and Emily, you were so close. Almost family. It must be a mistake.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Then come to the wake at least,’ I tell him firmly. ‘Come as my guest.’
‘Thank you, that’s very kind of you.’ He’s stiff now, with an oddly conscientious air all of a sudden, as though invited to a birthday party he wasn’t expecting to attend. ‘But I wouldn’t be welcome. I expect your aunt would have me thrown out if I dared show my face.’
‘Of course she wouldn’t. Why would Tamsin treat you like that?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Well, I’m not going anywhere.’
Robin considers me for a moment, then shrugs, though it’s clear he’s reluctant to discuss the situation. ‘Okay, if you insist.’ He draws a deep breath. ‘When my dad developed angina, I chose not to stay and look after him. Not a decision I’m
proud of, but we weren’t getting on too well. We argued; I stormed off to Paris, took a job there. Mom had gone to stay with relatives. I think she was considering a divorce. Pop died while we were both away.’ He frowns, staring out at the busy street. ‘If I’d been there with him, it’s possible he might have survived.’
I watch him silently.
‘I expect that’s why Tamsin is angry,’ he adds, still frowning, ‘why she doesn’t want to see me. And perhaps she’s right.’
‘How did he die?’ I think of his father, a little heavy-set in his middle-age, always worrying, always a big drinker. ‘Was it a heart attack?’
Robin nods.
‘I’m so sorry.’ I think of my own father, the lung cancer hanging over him, but do not say anything. I don’t want to belittle what Robin has suffered by comparing it with my own defeats. ‘But a heart attack is hardly your fault. Tamsin shouldn’t ban you from Emily’s funeral over that. Anymore than she can blame you for your father’s death.’
‘That’s good of you. Though I’m not sure Tamsin sees it like that.’
‘You know she has dementia?’
‘I saw that in the papers, but didn’t quite believe it. How bad is the dementia?’
‘Sometimes she seems fine. Other times …’ I look away, unable to finish.
‘Such a shame. She was a very talented actress.’
‘Not so talented with people though,’ I say softly. ‘Tamsin may blame you for leaving your dad when he was vulnerable. But she wasn’t there for him either.’
Robin grimaces. ‘That’s more complicated.’ He sees my face, and adds, ‘Honestly, Tamsin may have loved Pop. But he didn’t want anyone else in his life. Not really, not deep down.’
‘Creative people can be like that. Your father was a very talented man too. I caught one of his films again last year at a festival. It was still brilliant, even on the third time of watching.’
‘Which film?’
I tell him, and for a few minutes we discuss films and Hollywood instead of our family dynamics. Things begin to feel almost normal between us. The drinks arrive, unloaded from a crowded tray in a flurry of French patter, and I steal another quick, furtive look at him while he is paying the waiter.
It makes my heart burn with fury, knowing Tamsin has cut him out of her life now he’s lost that boyish charm she loved so much. I defended her before, but secretly I suspect he must be right. Aunt Tamsin has always put such a high premium on beauty, she can’t stand to contemplate what her ‘Adonis’ has become. Perhaps that really is why she won’t hear his name mentioned. I refuse to desert him though. It may not mean much, that tiny gesture of defiance, given what he must have been through. But I shall remain his friend, at least.
Abruptly, I remember when we were more than just friends, and cringe, my heart beating fast, my head thick with memories.
‘Do you ever think about the old days, Caitlin?’ Robin asks, locking his dark gaze with mine.
My skin tingles at the unexpected question, my body prickling with sexual awareness. Christ. It’s as though he can read my mind.
‘The old days?’
‘You must remember the summer you came to stay here with Emily. I was seventeen then. You must have been about, what, fifteen?’ I nod, and his eyes narrow on my face. ‘Do you ever still think about that time? About the kids we hung around with, all the things we did together? Do you ever go back there in your mind, relive those days?’
I consider lying to him, but it’s impossible. There’s something in his eyes that makes me want to tell the truth, however humiliating.
‘Constantly.’
He smiles as though with relief, tapping his fingers on the table top. ‘Me too, me too.’
‘Life was less complicated then.’
‘Exactly.’
I hesitate. ‘Do you remember that time we rented a boat from the old harbour in Vieil Antibes?’
‘The day Emily fell in while you were trying to steer us back to shore?’
‘She was furious.’
‘It served her right, she was making a fuss over nothing as usual. Behaving like a prima donna. What was it that day? Ah yes, you’d borrowed her skimpiest bikini,’ he says, with an abrupt laugh, ‘and looked rather better in it than Emily had ever done.’
Our eyes meet. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
‘I thought you two were …’ I hesitate, then plough on, daring myself to be frank for once. Maybe it’s the magic of the past working on me, but I want to look this man in the heart, let him see mine too. ‘I thought you loved Emily.’
‘So did I, at one point.' I don’t know how to respond to that, and he continues after a pause, ‘But life isn’t one straight line; it can take unexpected turns at times.’ He looks back at me steadily, and again I feel heat in my face. ‘Don’t you agree?’
I can’t seem to find my voice.
Robin has ordered us exotic cocktails, which arrived at the table exactly as I remembered them doing years before, presented in coconut half-shells wrapped in bright crepe paper frills and topped with lit sparklers. We smile at each other, waiting for the sparklers to stop fizzing. Robin throws aside his extinguished sparkler, then raises his coconut shell in a toast. I take mine up too, glancing at my drink; it’s a brilliant blue colour. Blue Curacao?
‘To absent friends,’ he says, and then adds softly, ‘To Emily, wherever she may be.’
‘To Emily.’
My voice chokes with emotion on her name, and I gulp at my drink instead, grimacing at the strong taste of the alcohol. Blue Curacao with oodles of rum and coconut, I guess. For a moment, we are quiet, both remembering the past.
Then I ask the question we’ve both been avoiding. ‘What I don’t understand is, how did a swimmer as strong as Emily manage to drown?’
CHAPTER SIX
A few days after my meeting with Robin at the Pam-Pam, a lengthy church service for Emily is followed by her interment at the cemetery above the Cap. He is not invited, and I dare not ask my aunt, given her extreme grief, if he can come. Besides, it’s an event for which I feel woefully unprepared myself, despite being a vicar’s daughter. Maybe it is the setting that has thrown me, nothing like the cool rugged Cornish landscape I am used to, all long grass and windswept headstones. But I feel not only out of place, but horribly stricken by this death, which was so cruel and unexpected.
The press are everywhere at the Cap cemetery, their faces obscured by cameras and microphones. A line of tape holds them back from the gates, but there’s no pretending this is a private ceremony, especially when a news corporation helicopter sweeps past, then returns to hover at a barely discreet distance. We arrive under police escort, each limousine flanked by motorcycle outriders, the progress of the whole cavalcade carefully timed beforehand, the line of cars clearing each intersection without needing to wait at any red lights.
The click of cameras is furious as we pull up and begin to climb out of the limos. I hear the shouts of the paparazzi clear across the road.
In the car in front, Aunt Tamsin emerges alone from her stretch black limousine, wearing a long white dress and Spanish-style headdress with a full-face white veil, for all the world like a vampire bride.
The paps go mad at the sight of her, screaming raucous questions in French, a constant maddening barrage of camera flashes capturing the moment.
‘Over here, Tamsin!’ ‘Was it suicide, Tamsin?’ ‘Are you going to make any more films, Tamsin?’
Bloody vultures.
She pauses by the open door of the limousine, then stumbles, seeming lost for a moment, unsure which way to go.
‘Here, Aunt Tamsin.’ I step forward, holding out a hand in case she needs it. ‘This way.’
But she has already recovered her poise. My aunt sweeps past me with a bare nod, heading towards the hearse where her daughter’s coffin is being lifted onto the shoulders of six pall-bearers. We wait there until the priests are ready, then set off together for the graveside. Her pale hands
only just show at the ends of her long, white sleeves, and she walks ahead of me with a jerky, robotic stance that makes me wonder how many pills she had to take in order to attend her daughter’s funeral. Her dress is ruined as it drags along behind her, disturbing gravel and raising a tiny puff of dust from the sun-bleached paths as she walks. But she does not seem to notice or care.
‘You certainly know how to put on a show, Tamsin,’ one of the press shouts.
Soon even their loud voices are left behind.
We walk in procession behind the coffin with almost Victorian pomp, in scorching Mediterranean heat, surrounded by the endless ticking of cicadas, the sun bright and high above the azure coast. The mourners around me whisper to each other, exchanging memories of Emily’s beauty or remarking on the tragic nature of her death. I say nothing, knowing none of them and feeling awkwardly out of place.
A mobile phone rings at one point, and a woman reaches into her bag to stifle it with a muffled apology.
Nobody smiles.
Eventually, we reach the gaping hole in the earth where my cousin will be laid to rest. To my relief, it’s a peaceful spot, near the shade of a young cypress, too far from the gathered press to be part of that circus, though I’m sure some of them will have telephoto lenses trained on us, my cousin’s chief mourners. The coffin is lowered from the shoulders of the pall-bearers, in preparation for final prayers. All the whispers die away, and a thick, respectful silence descends on the crowd of mourners.
I step away from the others, feeling like a bit of a fraud.
Many of those present must have known Emily far better than I ever did. After all, I never met my cousin as an adult, and still see her in my mind’s eye as a teenager, lithe and defiant, and seething with hormones. What can I possibly add to their grief?