‘I’m not “sucked in”, and the whole lackey thing was a joke. Joke? And to be honest, you’re really starting to annoy the crap out of me. I came here for you —’
‘I knew we’d get to this at some point.’
‘Yeah, well, I think we’re at that point now.’
Mia stares back at him, meeting his hostility with her own. ‘So what comes after that point?’
Ben turns away from her. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t have a clue what comes after that point.
Chapter Thirty
I know this is temporary. I know that Ben and I will find our way out somehow, but right now it feels like we’re strangers trapped in this alternate universe. Everything we shared three months ago seems to have dissolved. He’s like another person. Someone shut off to me. I imagine him opening up that spreadsheet, his finger hovering over the delete button, scrolling down the list of all those things he loves about me. He goes out nearly every day without inviting me or even telling me where he’s going. That’s so not like him.
This morning Chloe and Madame Bellamy are visiting. I’m not really in the mood after the conversation with Ben yesterday but it’s a good distraction. I’ve baked a quatrequarts, otherwise known as a pound cake, with swirls of chocolate through it.
I lay out our morning tea with some of Madame Levant’s cups and plates on the big table in the summer room, and we sit down together at one end. Gentle rain drizzles down the windows. The room is filled with silver light.
Madame Bellamy looks over the boxes I have opened and notices the books on the shelves. ‘You like books?’ she asks. ‘French books?’
‘I’ve read some Colette and Flaubert, and plan to read all these.’
‘Your French is very good,’ she says with a smile. ‘And your baking is excellent too.’ She tilts her cup in tribute. ‘It was me who put these boxes away upstairs; everything had to be cleared for the sale. Madame had many lovely things, so I put some aside for the new owners. I’m pleased you will keep them.’
‘Mia’s an artist too, Maman,’ adds Chloe, as though this is a job interview.
I show her some of the drawings I’ve been working on. Mainly sketches of furnishings and features of the house: the staircase, the French doors in this room, the front gates and the goats. Madame Bellamy looks them over carefully, one by one. She looks closely at the drawing of Esmée’s little bed with the canopy draped over it.
‘You have a special interest in Esmée,’ she says, looking up at me. ‘Why?’
I don’t understand myself, so decide to be honest. ‘I have a sense of her being here in the house. I went to the cemetery to find out about her … I have dreams about her …’
She looks around the room and out into the rainy afternoon, saying nothing.
‘Perhaps this is not the right time,’ says Chloe, touching her mother’s arm.
‘I’m interested in the family and the history too,’ I say, hoping to encourage her.
‘I can tell you about the family; we can start there,’ she says. ‘Madame Levant and my mother grew up together, our families were friends. To me she was always tante Mathilde. As a young woman, Mathilde would design and make beautiful clothes, both for herself and for my mother. She was very talented but also ambitious. After the liberation of France, Mathilde went to live in Paris, against her parents’ will. Her only brother was killed late in the war, so they wanted their daughter at home. It was unusual then for a young woman of only twenty to leave this village to work in Paris, which many people here, even today, believe … Let’s just say that we don’t regard the city with the same romantic sentimentality that foreigners do!’ She smiles.
‘Mathilde lived with an aunt who helped her find work with a couturier. The time after the liberation was exciting; French haute couture blossomed out of the ruins of Paris. Even in her last years, when she was not well, tante Mathilde often talked about this time when the eyes of the world were on France and the style of French women, and our nation could lift its head high again.
‘In 1946 she was approached by a couturier who was opening his own salon and looking for staff. He had seen her work and offered her a position in his workroom as a première – a very prestigious appointment, especially for such a young woman. She liked this couturier, he was shy and polite, and extremely talented.
‘In spring of the next year the salon showed their first collection – it was an immediate success and everything took off at great speed. Mathilde became engaged to be married to a young man called Hugo, but she kept delaying the wedding because of the demands of her work.
‘Perhaps she didn’t really want to be married, although she never said this, but I think if you are madly in love, you can’t wait to share your life with your lover, no? They eventually married sometime in 1949 and Esmée was born one year later, the same year that I was born. Our mothers were still close and overjoyed to have daughters the same age.
‘At that time it was more difficult for women to work once they were married, especially if they had children, but the couturier, whom they called le patron, was sympathetic towards women and he didn’t want to lose Mathilde. The couture business was growing rapidly and she was under a lot of pressure, but she loved the work and didn’t want to leave.
‘The Levants came here often to stay with Esmée’s grandparents. She was like a cousin to me and, when they visited, we would play together every day.
‘At the time I was to start cours préparatoire, at age six, there was a problem between the Levants and they separated. Mathilde brought Esmée here to live with her grandparents for a while, perhaps while she decided what to do. So, then Esmée and I went to the school just up the road together, and we became like sisters.’
Madame Bellamy pauses. She gets up from the table and walks over to the windows. She stands looking out into the gloomy afternoon, gathering her thoughts.
‘You don’t have to talk about it, Maman,’ Chloe tells her. ‘Mia will understand.’
‘Of course, you don’t need to explain anything to me,’ I assure her.
‘It’s a long time ago,’ she says, turning towards us, her expression troubled. ‘But I feel you have an affinity, and you deserve to hear this story. I know you will take care of it.’
She sits down at the table again and begins. ‘We would walk home together every day. It wasn’t far and in those days children wandered everywhere without supervision. It had been raining for days. People said Le Cérou would flood soon and we decided to go to Pont Saint-Pierre to see for ourselves. The sides of the bridge are low and the water was higher than we had ever seen it and beginning to flood over the banks. We gathered sticks and played a game of throwing them over one side then rushing to the other side to see whose stick had won – all children love this game.
‘I was waiting for my stick to appear and I turned back but Esmée had gone. I looked around … then I saw her … it was terrible … terrible … her yellow raincoat, hair flowing as she was swept along, twisting and turning in the water as though she had become part of the river.’
Chloe’s eyes are bright with tears, but Madame Bellamy seems determined to push on with her story. ‘I ran to the nearest house and told Monsieur Martin and he ran straight down to the river. I was crying and frightened but I had no experience of death and I didn’t understand how serious it was. Someone came to help me. I remember so many people coming out in the rain to search. My mother was there, holding me; we were crying together. I was so ashamed we had caused all this trouble. They looked for Esmée for hours. It was night when they found her.’
Madame Bellamy is silent for a moment, her eyes darkened by memories. I feel as though my heart is breaking for little Esmée and for her friend, still hurting all these years later, whose life could never be the same.
‘As you know, Le Cérou is not a big river, it’s small and gentle,’ continues Madame Bellamy quietly. ‘We would often play there or have picnics in the summer. We didn’t understand that it had change
d that day and become dangerous. We were just little children.’
‘Tante Mathilde came home that night. I remember everyone crying and distraught. It was a terrible time. After that, Mathilde left her job and the life she had built in Paris and she came home to Cordes. She told me in her last years that she had lost heart; it didn’t mean anything to her any more. But I think she was also punishing herself. For not being a better mother, for not being here to take care of Esmée.’
‘But even if she had been here, you would have walked home from school just the same, it wouldn’t have made a difference,’ says Chloe. ‘I pick Alain and Felix up sometimes but most days they walk home, just as all the other children do.’
‘Of course, this is logical but grief is not logical. She couldn’t forgive herself. It’s natural to think that you could have done something different and changed history. But how can we ever know that tragedy is about to strike? I have forgiven myself, I think. I was only six years old. There was nothing I could do. But it was a terrible tragedy and it broke my mother’s heart too. It has made me very cautious in my life, knowing what can happen.
‘So this is why I looked after tante Mathilde in the last few years since she became unwell. I cared for her as a daughter and that has helped me bring our history together to a close.’
I thank her for telling me her story – it means more to me than she could know.
‘I wanted you to know because I sense some tragedy in your own life,’ she says. ‘And I want to tell you that, in her last years, Mathilde regretted her course of action. She didn’t have the strength to go on but she felt that, had she continued the work she loved, it would have offered her a solace. She regretted that she wasn’t able to accept this was the blow that life had dealt her. She gave up her dreams. It was only later she realised that this sacrifice was pointless.’
‘Perhaps you should explain about the house too, Maman,’ says Chloe.
‘Of course. This is not known in the village because I don’t want people to think the wrong thing. So this is our secret. I was the only beneficiary of Madame Levant’s will. The house was left to me on the condition that it was sold. It was she who stipulated a young couple, not me. I can see you have respect for the house and the history and there are many stories – happier ones – that I will share with you in time. But this was the important one.’
Later, as we say goodbye at the front door, she says, ‘You probably know that locals call this house la villa jonquille – this is not because of its colour, as you will discover in the spring – if you find a new home for the goats. Every winter since Esmée’s death, Mathilde planted a basketful of daffodils in her memory. I put the goats in here to frighten away vandals, but they eat the flowers, and so there have not been any daffodils these last years.’
I assure her that we will make sure the daffodils have a chance to flower and she must come and see the blooms. It’s only when they’ve gone that I realise it’s unlikely we’ll still be here when spring comes.
Two days before Christmas, I arrive home from my afternoon walk to find Susannah sitting in her car parked outside our house. When I reach the car, she doesn’t get out but leans over and opens the passenger door. I slide into the seat and close the door.
‘Sorry to do this, I’m not meaning to act like some sort of secret agent … it’s just …’
‘Would you like to come inside for a cup of tea, Susannah?’
‘Thank you, but I wanted to make sure we weren’t overheard. I’m sorry, I know you didn’t ever want to be involved with this. I have four more bottles to sell, then that’s it, I won’t ever bother you again.’
‘Susannah, I do want to help you, I can see it’s difficult for you … but …’
‘I’m leaving him.’ She stares out the windscreen, her eyes wide with shock, as if someone else just made this statement. She turns to me, her eyes bright with tears. ‘I’m so frightened.’ She grabs my hand and squeezes it. ‘You can’t imagine how frightening it is.’
‘Oh, Susannah, I can imagine. I have been through it. Ben and I split up six months ago and then got back together.’
She stares at me in disbelief. ‘How is that possible? You two are made for each other.’
‘My fault completely. I didn’t deal with the fact that we couldn’t have children.’
‘It can never be completely the fault of one person. Now you’re the one being hard on yourself. I would have liked children too. My first husband Max would have liked them, but I wasn’t ready. Then when I was ready, Dominic wouldn’t hear of it.’ She releases my hand. ‘I’m not sure I should confess this, it seems so weak … but I had three terminations. I could say Dominic made me but you can’t make someone do that. I was afraid that I couldn’t do it on my own. People say you shouldn’t look back, no regrets and all that … I have nothing but regrets. That’s why I have to leave now … even though I’m so terrified.’
‘You will be fine. It’s obviously going to be hard at first …’
‘My husband, my first husband, Max, was going to help me …’ She collapses in tears. ‘He died. He just died last week. I can’t believe it. I didn’t have a chance to see him or tell him the things I should have … I never told him how wretched I feel for what I did to him!’ She leans her forehead on the steering wheel. ‘I feel like a rickety old boat covered with these … barnacles … of regret … weighing me down, dragging me deeper and deeper …’ She lifts her head and stares at me. ‘If I don’t do something soon, I’ll disappear below the surface forever.’
There’s nothing I can say that will make this any easier for Susannah. I offer the usual reassurances and my support. She just nods her head numbly and hands me the bag with the last bottles to sell. As I get out of the car, she clutches my arm. ‘Mia, I probably won’t have a chance to say a proper goodbye to you, so I’ll say it now. I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t be able to leave if you hadn’t helped me, you know. I’ll never forget.’
As I walk through the gates, across the gravel entry and up the front steps, I’m gripped with the most terrible sense of foreboding that this will not go well.
Christmas Eve, and Ben’s disappeared again this evening. As usual, he didn’t tell me where he was going, which probably means he’s over at Dominic’s and doesn’t think I would approve. He’s right, I don’t approve. But I’m not his mother, so have no jurisdiction over him. I thought when his work closed down over Christmas, we’d start on one of the projects in our book, but he’s not keen. He said he needs a break.
I would have liked to go up to the village this evening, maybe even to Mass, although we’re not Catholics. Tonight is the French Christmas but in our house, it’s just like every other night and here I am sitting at the kitchen table eating eggs on toast for dinner.
The meringue base for tomorrow’s pavlova is baking slowly in the oven. I message Ollie to find out if she can video chat; she comes straight back saying she’s available in ten minutes. I get out my pad and start to doodle, drawing shapes and patterns and letting them build and change and evolve and they start to turn into the familiar faces of the pugs. My mind wanders, hearing only the sound of the soft pencil on paper, my hand engaged, my brain effortlessly following and building lines and curves as they come to life on the page. Lost in the moment, I leap at the sound of the call coming through and hit the button.
‘Bonjour! Ça va?’ Ollie grins. ‘How’s it going, mon amie?’
The sight of her face puts a smile on mine. ‘Fine, all good —’
‘I’ll get the kids, they’ve been up since dawn. Santa’s done a great job. Where’s Ben?’
‘He’s not here. I don’t know where he is.’
Her smile fades. ‘What’s going on, Madame Tinker?’
‘We’ve made the most horrible mistake coming here,’ I hear myself say. ‘I don’t even know what we were thinking. How it could possibly work …’
‘Hang on, hang on – even a month ago
it was all happy days, you were having a wonderful time. This is probably just a blip, you can’t expect everything to go perfectly the whole time. It’s going to be hard at some point, it’s not like the movies.’
‘Are you saying there’s no happy ending?’ I ask. ‘That’s depressing.’
‘Nothing’s guaranteed. I haven’t heard from Ben in ages. What’s happening with him?’
‘Right now, he’s always either on his computer or he’s out with his friends.’
‘Ben has friends? That’s surprising, and they’re not your friends?’
I give her a background briefing on Dominic and Susannah, and the situation with the wine, and finally Roxy and where she fits in, although that’s still something of a mystery to me.
‘So have you done a search on any of these people to find out more?’
‘I don’t really have enough details. I don’t know the Harringtons’ real name. I don’t actually know Roxy’s surname. Ben probably does but you know what he’s like, he’s not going to be poking around online spying on people.’
‘Plus, I guess, the more you find out, the more you have to keep from Ben.’
‘Exactly, otherwise it looks like I’m building a case against them. I don’t know what to do. I feel as though we need to get away, just the two of us, but there’s so much to be done here, he won’t agree to that. And, the worst part? We’re having Christmas with them.’
‘Jesus, it’s like the plot of one of those terrible American movies where everything goes wrong on Christmas Day. Maybe Dominic will get zapped by the fairy lights, although sounds as though he’d need something more high voltage to kill him. Okay, here’s a plan —’
‘Yeah, thanks, Ol. I don’t want to end up in a French prison for the rest of my natural life.’
‘Not an assassination plan, you nutcase. I’m going to suggest to Ben that you guys take some time and have a few days in Paris, and regroup, romantically speaking. What do you reckon?’
‘It’s worth a try. Anything is worth a try. I really just want to come home. I never should have agreed to this,’ I say in a wobbly voice. ‘I want to be warm. And be with my friends. And never have to see the Harringtons or that creepy Roxy ever again. I can’t even tell you how much I dislike her. She’s such a … frigging … skank …’
The Yellow Villa Page 15