Monique Fox.
She was born in France to a French mother and English father although they had moved to the northwest of England when she was just a few months old. It was so annoying that her parents had not persisted with teaching her to be bi-lingual, her mother deciding that if she was to be married to an Englishman and live in England then she would more or less abandon her own language. Once she started to dream in English her mother said then that was the time to give in. So, Monique could speak French no better or worse than any other student in this country.
There was a Christmas card – a large, expensive one with a Victorian snow-scene – from her father and his second wife. Her father now lived in Kent and she had not seen him for some considerable time. The card was not even written by him but was signed ‘With best wishes from Trevor & Jill Fox’, so obviously Jill had taken charge of the business of writing the cards. ‘From Dad and Jill’ would have been more appropriate and she wondered if it was a deliberate slight on Jill’s part, who had never forgiven her for refusing to attend their wedding.
The letter from her aunt, her mother’s sister, informing her of her mother’s death had arrived last month and she had not discussed that with anybody other than Mike. She had been tempted to tell Christine and, in fact, invented an excuse for disappearing for a couple of days when, alone, she attended the funeral down in Sussex. She did not want the bucket-loads of sympathy Christine would offer and Mike understood that. She and her mother Isabelle had been estranged for years and so she could not bring herself to feel very much. Her Aunt Sylvie was there but even her relationship with her sister had been on cool terms and so it had been a dry-eyed affair at the local crematorium, the conveyor-belt effect painfully and rather amusingly obvious and afterwards the two of them, the sole mourners, had a meal in the hotel. Sylvie spoke English very well so at least that made things easier. Monique did not know her aunt at all and whenever her mother spoke of her it was with a sneer in her voice, ‘posh tart’ being the kindest thing she ever said about her.
‘Does Trevor know?’ Sylvie asked. Her aunt was very like her mother and as there was only a year’s difference in age they might well have been twins. It was disconcerting to say the least although Sylvie had a softer look to her face and that subtle elegance of the Parisian lady.
‘I think he must,’ Monique said. ‘I left a message on the machine.’
‘You left a message?’ Sylvie smiled thinly. ‘If he had a shred of decency he would have turned up today for your sake if nothing else. It was the least he could do although I don’t suppose he would have wanted that woman of his to be here. I certainly would not.’
‘It wasn’t Jill’s fault.’ Monique felt she ought to try to explain. ‘It was over long before then so I don’t suppose we can blame him for finding somebody else.’
‘And where is your husband?’ Sylvie said, immaculate in black, a pillar box hat completing her outfit. Like Monique, she was a tiny blonde lady although unlike her niece she chose to wear very high, spiky-heeled shoes.
‘I didn’t want Mike here today.’ Monique twisted the rings on her finger.
‘Why ever not? You need a husband’s support at a time like this. He should have insisted on being here.’
‘Mike’s not like that.’
‘Isn’t he? Oh dear.’ Sylvie glanced at her own hands, a large diamond and sapphire ring sparkling as it caught a sunbeam. ‘Are you happy living up there?’
She talked as if Monique had a house on the moon.
‘I have a lovely home. My husband and his mother are kind to me. I admit I don’t like my father-in-law or my sister-in-law but that can’t be helped.’
‘You haven’t answered my question. Are you happy?’
‘I suppose I am.’
‘You suppose? You made a mistake in marrying him.’ It was a statement from a woman who knew what she was talking about. ‘You married for clever reasons, I grant you that, because a little financial security is essential to life’s happiness but you chose badly. I married for the wrong reasons, too, my dear, and I am not ashamed to admit that but at least I came out of both my marriages with a little pot of gold. If you left your husband where is your pot of gold? He is not rich enough. If you are going to go down that route then you must do it with flair. A man of modest means is simply not worth the bother.’
‘I love Mike,’ she protested, surprised that Sylvie could read her so well.
‘You love yourself more, my angel. Like me, you are selfish and like me, your heart belongs to France. You should have married a Frenchman. They know how to treat a woman.’
‘Really?’ It seemed an odd thing to say coming from a woman who had married and divorced two of them.
‘The English are cold. They have no passion in their souls. Look, Monique, I am at the end of the telephone if you need to discuss things. Why don’t you come to stay with me for a while?’
‘In Paris?’
She smiled briefly. ‘That’s where I live and you needn’t make it sound such an unpleasant idea. We must stay in touch anyway so that we can sort out the finances and so on. You are aware of the terms of your mother’s will?’
‘Only that she left it all to you. Any money she had and the house she had here and the one in France. What is there to sort out?’
Sylvie shrugged, one of those wonderful Gallic shrugs. ‘Did you ever see the cottage in Normandy?’
‘No. I knew she inherited it years ago but I don’t think she ever stayed there. Did she?’
‘Once or twice. And I’ve been there too. But your mother was not interested in property and so I’ve been taking care of it for the last few years. A local couple look after it for me. Here.’ she rummaged in her handbag. ‘This is a photograph.’
Monique glanced briefly at it, not really interested. ‘It looks lovely,’ she said grudgingly, attempting to hand it back.
‘No, keep it.’ She sighed. ‘I feel very cross with Isabelle. There was no reason to cut you out of her will. She should have left you something. She was such a vindictive woman and I have no idea why. What was your quarrel about?’
It was Monique’s turn to shrug. ‘I can’t remember. I know she was opposed to my marriage even though she never met Mike and she thought I was stubborn just like my father.’
‘That’s no reason to disown you. What was she thinking of? Perhaps her mind was a little unbalanced. She was always far too sensitive a creature.’
‘We shall never know,’ Monique said flatly, for it was true. There was no point in having regrets and she was not going to twist herself into becoming a bitter woman by trying to unravel the reasons why her mother had disowned her. She had to live with the fact that she was born late in life to a couple who wished they had never had a child and that was one of the reasons why she had decided long ago that she was never going to inflict that emotional neglect on a child of her own. She thought fleetingly of the child she might have had. What a blessing losing it had been. ‘Nevertheless I feel badly about it.’ Sylvie sighed and patted her hand.
‘Don’t.’ For once she was unconcerned about the money. She didn’t feel very much emotion, was incapable of that where her late mother was concerned.
‘I mean it, Monique. You are most welcome to come and stay with me.’
‘I can’t leave Mike for any length of time.’
‘Why not? It will do him good, make him appreciate you that bit more. Believe me, a little time spent apart from him will be time well spent and you might get somewhere with your paintings in Paris. It’s always been the place to be for the budding artist and I have connections, my dear. You would, however, have to stop painting those dreadful bleak scenes of yours.’
‘They sell.’ Monique smiled a little. ‘But I know what you mean. I want to get back to portrait painting. I think I have a talent for that.’
‘You could paint me. How wonderful. I would love to have my lovely niece stay with me for a while. I’ve never had a daughter of my own, you see, so y
ou are the next best thing.’
For a fleeting moment a shadow passed over her face and Monique saw that, underneath the glossy exterior, lurked a lonely middle-aged woman. It begged the question, though, of why women, particularly older ones, always wanted to mother her when her own mother had never cared a fig?
‘Take care, my dear,’ Sylvie had said, embracing her as they parted. ‘And take my advice. Life, as we can see, is short and you owe it to yourself to be happy. So if all else fails, take a lover. It will spice things up. Believe me it can only be good for your marriage as long as your husband does not find out. That was the mistake I made. Henri was stupidly jealous although it was rather divine having two men fight over me.’ She laughed but a rueful grimace accompanied it.
‘A lover?’ Monique felt her heart thud, knew her cheeks were blazing, knew also with a jolt that Sylvie was aware she had already found one.
So much for keeping a secret.
Chapter Four
For Christmas Daniel had bought them each a bottle of the newest, hottest perfume ‘Bella-Sophia’. It was extravagant to say the least, particularly as she and Janet had agonized about whether or not it would be appropriate to buy him anything at all before settling for a joint present; a silk tie, chosen with the help of Marcus in Menswear. They despaired of Mr Coleridge in that department for he chose not to take up the offer of help with his attire insisting on going his own sweet way and in their opinion letting the side down big time. They were men of smart suits in that department and Mr Coleridge’s ubiquitous jeans teamed with a casual jacket and open-necked shirt did not cut the mustard.
The handing over of gifts in the office had been a touch awkward, his little speech unexpected but sweet for all that.
‘This is just a small thank you to you ladies for all you’ve had to put up with these last few months,’ he said, reaching for the gifts, which they instantly saw had been professionally wrapped. ‘I hope you like this. It had better be good because it’s cripplingly expensive,’ he went on, saying the wrong thing, his nervousness odd but strangely endearing. ‘But Beatrice Galloway recommended it and what she doesn’t know about perfume isn’t worth knowing.’
Beatrice?
She and Janet exchanged a knowing glance.
Brian was not a good front-seat passenger but then she knew few men who were. With the seat pushed back as far as it would go, he stretched out his long legs in a vain attempt to look as if he was relaxed. He had complained already about the size of the car, the colour – yellow – the bumpy ride, the lack of acceleration and just generally been Mr Grump. Finally his ‘Are you sure we’re going the right way?’ had really got up her nose because she had done this particular journey so many times that the car very nearly knew the way itself.
‘It’s Christmas. Lighten up,’ she told him, perversely almost wishing now that she had taken him up on his offer to use his much bigger and far more luxurious vehicle but she had invited him and it seemed important that she should provide the transport.
Despite his annoying sharp intakes of breath whenever she overtook, she accomplished the task of getting them there without mishap. It was a long drive and she intended to use it as an opportunity to chat; it was time she knew more about him. All the passion and lovey-dovey stuff was all very well but it did not give you much chance to actually talk as a couple and to dig a little deeper into his background. Having things in common was important, like it or not, and just now she was struggling to find anything that they might share or do together aside from the obvious.
The pre-holiday traffic was predictably busy, though, and it took all her concentration to drive safely so their conversation on this trip was of a general nature and she found out nothing more about his childhood, his earlier life or the women he had maybe loved and lost. He was older than her so there must be an interesting back story but other than saying he used to live in the southeast he was giving nothing away.
She was curious, not excessively so, but she had talked a lot at the beginning and given away a fair number of her own worries and concerns and perhaps with hindsight she had been a little indiscreet about her work. She saw what they meant by pillow talk because it was so tempting to talk about things to the man in your life, things that ought to be kept quiet. He was a good listener and it beat talking to herself, which, being on her own in her flat, happened a lot.
She wanted Brian to open up a little so that she knew more about what made him tick because his unwillingness to talk about his life was beginning to make her think that all was not as it appeared. In the meantime, she thought it necessary to warn him that, even though they were just friends, her parents might think they were serious about each other.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she told him once they were on a quieter road. ‘They are looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Me too. Christmas is all about families,’ he said.
She did not take her eyes off the road but she detected in his voice a strange wistfulness and waited a moment for him to elaborate but he did not.
‘My dad will want to know all about your prospects,’ she went on, keeping cheerful. ‘I hope you don’t mind but he thinks I’m still about sixteen. Just humour him, will you?’ She laughed at his muttered grumble. ‘I hope you’ve brought your tax return form. He might want to check it.’
Her attempt at humour was lost on him. ‘I have no intention of spoiling things by talking about work,’ he said stiffly.
‘It wouldn’t spoil things for me. I am willing to do anything to stop them from bringing out the family photographs. Incidentally …’ this time she stole the quickest of glances at him, ‘where are yours? You don’t have any at your place.’
‘Any what?’
She stopped a sigh. Was he being deliberately obtuse? ‘Family photographs,’ she said. ‘There are no photographs anywhere in your house.’
‘So? Is that a problem?’ He sounded irritated and that irritated her in turn. This relationship was all about highs and lows with no middle ground. Honestly, it was patently obvious that it was going nowhere if, three months in, they were already on the edge of serious bickering. ‘I’ve told you, I don’t have any family and that’s the end of it. Just leave it. I don’t want to talk about it.’
She waited for him to say more, to mellow his tone at least, in short to bloody apologize, but he did not and even though she could feel her own anger rising, now was not the time for an argument as they were at last on the narrow road leading to Downill which was all twists and turns, ups and downs and she needed all her concentration as the weather had turned nasty and the rain that had accompanied them for most of the journey was turning to sleet as they climbed. Visibility was poor now and she was conscious that a lot of accidents occurred near home when you were starting to relax and beginning to think of the end of the journey at last, looking forward to welcoming warmth and a cup of tea. She took the decision to slow down as she felt her car’s grip on the road lessen and the tyres began to throw up slush and on cue, Brian urged her to be careful as there was a lot of standing water on the side of the road.
‘Who’s driving this car?’ she said tetchily. ‘Me or you?’
And at that he subsided into miffed silence.
‘You didn’t tell me it was quite so grand,’ Brian broke what had started to be an uncomfortable silence as she swung the car through the gates. She decided magnanimously to forgive him as sulking was not the best way to start the Christmas break and her mother would notice at once if the atmosphere between them seemed strained.
‘It’s not that grand.’ But she supposed through his eyes it might be. It was only a small-scale country house but the gardens were impressive and in summer were truly spectacular.
She drew the car to a halt on the gravel, pulled on the handbrake and sighed, in no immediate hurry to get out. She needed to take a moment before she faced her mother and the inquisition that would follow.
‘How many staff do they employ?’ Brian clicked open his seat
belt and turned a little to face her.
‘Just two,’ she said defensively. ‘A gardener and Jean who helps Mum in the house a couple of mornings a week.’
‘I see. What does your mother do again?’
‘She’s good with figures and she’s always helped Dad in the business,’ she told him. It was a labour of love, always had been and she knew that her mother did not receive a proper salary for her contribution but until recently she seemed to enjoy just being there once or twice a week.
‘She’s retired then?’
‘Don’t say that. She’s not sixty yet but I think she just got tired of it.’
She was regretting her impulsive decision to invite Brian for Christmas for, to be honest, they didn’t know each other that well, had jumped into bed far too soon and a relationship based purely on sex was on a hiding to nothing. There had to be more to it than that. She suspected her parents were delighted that she had asked somebody along at last, her mother already acting as if this was it and that a wedding would be in the offing before long.
‘They’ll like you,’ she went on quickly. ‘And don’t take any notice if my mother starts to quiz you. It’s just her way.’
‘I thought you said it was your father who would be quizzing me?’
‘Both of them, I’m afraid. I don’t see them very often and they want to know everything that’s been going on since the last time. As you are something new I’m afraid you’re for it. My mother’s interrogation technique is second to none. She’ll know more about you in half an hour than I’ve found out in three months.’
It was a gentle dig but for once he did not respond negatively.
‘I can handle that,’ he said displaying that confidence that she liked about him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting everybody, Amy. I have nobody to call family so it’s interesting to know how these things operate.’
‘Oh no, that sounds ominous.’ She kept her voice light although something was niggling at her. ‘I hope it won’t be too much of an ordeal. My brother and I usually come to blows.’
Best Laid Plans Page 5