by Daisy Waugh
It was at about this point that Emma’s attention began to wander. She noticed her trusty housekeeper, Mathilde, had arranged the drawing-room sunflowers in the wrong-coloured vase, and felt a stab of great irritation, half with Mathilde, half with the drivelling idiot on her answer machine. She pressed delete without ever discovering what Daffy had been wondering about, and without the slightest interest in ever finding out.
DAFFY’S LITTLE PROJECT
It is Saturday morning, on the day that Daffy has assured Timothy that Lady Emma Rankin is expecting them to dinner. Daffy and Timothy are in France, at last. They’re in a hire car, on the wide, empty French motorway, speeding towards a new life. Her new life. What Timothy is still calling her ‘little project’. And she likes that. It makes the whole enterprise seem much less intimidating. Plus it makes Timothy sound affectionate, she thinks, and she always yearns for that.
She feels hungry and headachy and sick with nerves. She’s been so excited about this trip she’s been unable to eat properly all week. Now she’s map-reading, or struggling to map read, and she’s just missed their exit, again. Beside her, silently, both hands on the steering wheel, Timothy waits for her to correct her mistake.
His mouth is still neatly positioned for that raspberry, his back is nice and straight – and he’s not shouted at her. They’ve missed the exit three times now, and he’s not even raised his voice. He hasn’t needed to. His cold silence is making her panic quite efficiently enough. She’s beginning to pant. She’s on the point, he suspects, of bursting into tears.
‘Stop flapping, Daphne,’ he says now, in that low, clipped monotone he reserves for wives and other non-attractive underlings. ‘I said stop flapping. Now, please. And stop that silly breathing…Right. Fine. Now, look at the map.’
‘Please, Timothy. Please… Can’t we just stop and then you can look. I can’t – I just –’
‘Not on a motorway, Daphne, no. It’s against the law.’
‘I mean in a lay-by or something. Please. I just – We’re going so fast, and I’m not even sure – Which way are we going? Up or down?’
‘We’re heading north, Daphne. On the motorway. Towards Paris. Can you find Paris on the map?’
‘I think I’m looking on the wrong – Is that a motorway? Are the motorways blue or red?’
‘I can’t look at the map, Daphne. I’m driving. Now – No, don’t look at me. Calm down and look at the map.’
‘Oh God…’
‘It’s really not that difficult. We’re heading north, towards Nantes. Can you see Nantes?’
‘…No! No I can’t see bloody Nantes. If I could see bloody Nantes –’
‘There’s absolutely no need to swear, Daphne. I told you to calm down. Calm down and look at the map. Look at it.’ He glances at her. Her chin is trembling. One more time, he thinks. One more for luck. ‘Look at it,’ he orders.
‘But I…CAN’T.’ And sure enough, Daffy bursts into tears.
He takes the map from her lap and, with one eye on the road, leaves her to weep in soggy silence while he works out the route. It is very easy; only fifteen minutes off the motorway and then all in a single straight line. As they turn into the village square, Daffy at last opens her eyes and looks about her.
‘Oh!’ she says, ‘here we are! Here we are, Timothy! Stop! Look – there’s the bar, there! HOTEL MARRONNIER. See it? Next to the bouchanlerie –’
‘The what?’
She giggles. ‘Next to the bouchan—bougan—bouchanrie.’
‘Boulangerie, I think you mean. I thought you’d been teaching yourself French?’
Daphne went to Waterstones and bought some French-in-a-Fortnight tapes the very evening she flew back from Bordeaux. But what with one thing and another – passing over all those laundry bags – she hasn’t yet had a chance even to break open the plastic wrapping.
‘Oh Timothy,’ she says, eyes watering with excitement. ‘See – the teeny-weeny tables on the terrace? Those gorgeous trees – and the little shutters, and the church just there…And look! There’s even a little market. Emma Rankin said there was a little market. Twice a week. And on Sundays there’s a little stall selling oysters, can you believe it? In London we’d have to go all the way up to Conran’s, wouldn’t we? If you wanted fresh oysters. Oh, Timothy, love. Isn’t it just the most beautiful place in the world?’
‘Didn’t you say you’d bought some of those teach-yourself-French tapes?’
‘Hm? Oh yes, I did. Look, Timothy. Please look! There’s a Frenchman with a loaf of bread! See? And look! Look at the old church! Isn’t it gorgeous?’
‘Well, it’s no good simply having the tapes, Daphne. You’ve got to listen to them. How can you possibly expect me to buy you a place in France if you can’t even say boulangerie?’
She looks at him. Drags her eyes away from the church and the beautiful old bell tower above it, just now striking one o’clock. She looks at her husband, at his moist, pursed lips and the sour, hard face he pulls when he’s telling her off. ‘Boulangerie,’ she says simply, sweetly, and then smiles. She hadn’t meant it to sound rude.
Timothy looks away, his dislike for her at that small moment so intense he can’t trust himself to speak.
‘So?’ she asks breathlessly. ‘What do you think so far? Isn’t it beautiful, Timmie? Don’t you think it is?’
And of course it is. It’s lovely. ‘It looks very pleasant,’ he says.
‘Oh yes, doesn’t it! I’m so glad you think so! Do you think we can park in the Square? A couple of others have. Maybe we could park next to the Peugeot…’
But Timothy informs her they aren’t stopping in the Place Marronnier, or anywhere in Montmaur. Not today. His secretary (Lucy) has booked them into the five-star Relais des Champs, with gym, spa, swimming pool etc., about fifteen kilometres on the other side of the village. Timothy says he wants to go straight there. He has calls to make. ‘They have a beauty-salon thingummy, I understand. I’m sure it’ll keep you busy. We’ll look round the property tomorrow morning.’
‘Oh!’ All at once Daffy’s thin, overwrought body seems to subside with disappointment. ‘…Oh, but Timothy, we can’t. The owners are expecting us! I wrote a letter telling them we were arriving this afternoon…’
‘Is that right? And in which language, might I inquire?’
‘French, Timothy!’ she cries, half bursting with pride. ‘I got Mr Hawkins – James’s old French teacher – to translate it!’
His pink lips purse. ‘Well…My word,’ he says. ‘And did they happen to send a reply?’
‘N-no. Not exactly. But I know they got the letter because I – I sent it, you know, when it’s absolutely definitely guaranteed they’re going to get it. Expensive Delivery, or whatever it’s called. I paid extra. Actually, Timothy,’ she adds nervously, ‘I sort of told them we’d be staying there tonight. So we could sort of get a feel of the place. I had no idea –’
‘You had no idea.’ He smiles at her, in the way which Daffy has always encouraged herself to believe is tender. ‘You never do have much of an “idea”, do you, Daffy?’ An avuncular smile, hard at the edges. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course we’re not staying here!’
‘Timothy, we have to! Otherwise what am I going to tell them?’
He looks at the building he now owns, and which his wife has grown so curiously attached to; at the paint peeling off the pale grey, rotting shutters, the patches of damp showing through the stonework round the windows, the rusty, crooked sign above the front door, the plastic tables and chairs on the tiny terrace…HOTEL MARRONNIER indeed! The mere thought of its bedrooms makes him shudder. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says again, a little more sharply this time. ‘You can tell them whatever you like. Tomorrow. Though, frankly, Daphne, the place is very obviously deserted. And has been, by the look of things, for some time.’
‘But I wrote to them…They’ll be so disappointed…’
‘I sincerely doubt that.’
‘I’m sure they will
.’
‘In any case, if your imperceptible “friends” don’t like the way we arrange our schedule they’re quite free to go and find themselves an alternative buyer.’
‘NO TIMOTHY!’ She sounds hysterical. ‘PLEASE DON’T LET THEM DO THAT!’
‘Daphne.’ He sighs and smiles at her, enjoying her panic and his secret knowledge. He begins to move the car forward. ‘On this one occasion, Daphne, I must ask that you kindly do me the service of allowing me to know what’s best.’
‘Oh, Timothy, please –’
‘That’s enough.’ He moves the car forward, passing through the sunny square without a backward glance, leaving Daffy’s romantic dreams of a rustic night with her husband well behind them.
‘Right then,’ says Timothy, taking off his tie, throwing it on the five-star hotel bed and picking up his mobile. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack, shall I, Daphne?’ He’s always especially affable when he’s about to call Lucy. ‘I think I’ll go and stretch my legs. Have a little walk. Why don’t you telephone Emma Rankin? Check what time she wants us to arrive – and get the directions, could you?’
‘Mmm, yes.’ Daffy says, feeling sick. She’s going to have to come clean at some point. ‘Actually Timothy…’ She hesitates.
‘What? Don’t tell me you’ve left her telephone number behind?’
‘No! No, of course not.’
‘Because if you have I can call Rory at the bank. Rory will have the number.’
‘No, no. I’ve got it.’
‘Right then,’ he says, finger pads itching now, thinking only of Lucy. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
FEELING THE FEAR AND DOING IT ANYWAY
Alone in the room, Daffy stares at the hotel telephone as if it were a ticking bomb. Emma, of course, never replied to Daffy’s rambling message, and Daffy never quite dared to call again. Emma Rankin has about as much intention of giving them dinner tonight as – as Timothy has of ever allowing her to have another child. Which is another story. An open wound for Daffy, lonely all her life, torn from her only son, and who has always wanted nothing more than to have a large family of her own.
She takes a mini bottle of whisky from the bedroom fridge and drinks, without a glass. A small rebellion. She’s never done it before. She knocks the whole thing back in one and immediately delves inside her bag for some chewing gum to cover the smell. She feels a warm, reassuring burn as the whisky goes down to her flat, empty stomach, then she grasps the receiver and dials Emma’s number.
Daffy listens to it ringing, imagines the sound in Emma’s château, slicing through her expensive peace. She imagines Emma, barefoot on her beautiful terrace, floating across her vast drawing room to answer. Panic overwhelms her. She hangs up.
Starts again. Dials. Imagines the telephone in Emma’s château, and imagines Emma, barefoot on that beautiful terrace, floating…She hangs up.
The third time she dials and keeps the telephone away from her ear until it’s too late to panic. She hears Emma’s soft, clipped, upper-class voice at the other end, slightly irritable after two false alarms, and now this – no voice on the other end.
‘Hello? Hello? Who is that?’
‘Oooh, Emma! Hi!’ squeaks Daffy.
‘Hello? Are you all right? Who is that?’
‘Sorry – Emma. Sorry. It’s me. I mean it’s Daffy. Fielding. Daffy Fielding. I don’t know if you remember…’
Emma frowns. Daffy Fielding. Daffy Fielding. Who the hell – ‘Oh, gosh. Hi,’ she drawls, reaching for a cigarette. ‘You left a message, didn’t you? So lovely. I meant to call you. Especially when I heard the good news. Congratulations! How’s it all going? Are you coming back very soon?’
‘The – er. I – er. It’s Daffy. Duff Fielding. You probably don’t remember but I came and saw you a couple of months ago…’
Emma slowly exhales her cigarette. ‘I remember it terribly well…Sweetie, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. But I left a message…’
‘Yes, I know you did! Such a sweet message. I meant to call and everything, only the dog died and it was all so ghastly.’
‘Gosh. Look. I’m ever so sorry. About the dog. But the thing is – never mind all that. I left a message.’
‘Darling, are you sure you’re OK? You sound un peu distraite.’
‘What?’ Daffy snaps suddenly. ‘Actually I’m not OK. No!’ Silence, while she struggles for internal order. Fails. Wails: ‘You didn’t – Why didn’t you LISTEN to my message?’
‘Well but of course I did, darling!’ Emma laughs, slightly taken aback. ‘I was so happy to hear from you. In fact,’ she adds affably, ‘I was just this minute wondering what was keeping you away.’
‘Keeping me away?’
‘So…Anyway. How are you? Are you coming back to see us soon?’
‘Yes, of course we are,’ Daffy almost screams. ‘We’re here right now!…We’re staying at the Relais des Champs.’
‘Oh! Is it dreadful?’ Emma asks sympathetically. ‘I’ve heard mixed reports.’
‘Yes. I mean no. I mean it’s fine. I don’t care –’
‘In any case, félicitations, darling, on your exciting new acquisition.’
‘My exciting new what? Oh God. Please don’t talk French at me, Emma. I mean Lady Emma. I mean…Not now. I can’t – Anyway, the thing is –’
Emma has her husband David staying with her for the weekend. It occurs to her suddenly that this may be a good opportunity to dilute his company for a couple of hours. ‘I say,’ she interrupts. ‘You’re probably already doing something far more exciting. But if you’ve nothing better to do, why don’t you both come over for dinner tonight?’
‘…Dinner? DINNER? What did you say?’
‘You’ve probably got something much more glamorous –’
‘NO! No we haven’t. Yes please. That would be – Are you sure?’
‘I’m afraid I’ve got David with me,’ Emma continues blithely, with a little confiding laugh. ‘But that’s all right. Didn’t you say your husband was a banker? They can bore each other about money all night and we needn’t pay the slightest attention to them.’
‘They can bore each other to death, for all I care,’ croaks Daffy wildly – and immediately blames the whisky. She’s never made a joke against Tim before. Never said a word against her husband in ten years. Never. She feels a rush, suddenly, of the purest freedom, and it occurs to her that perhaps, just perhaps, it could be a taste of a life to come.
VERTICALLY CHALLENGED ERITREANS
The sun is shining and peace reigns supreme at La Grande Forge. For once, Maude Haunt has the house to herself. Jean Baptiste Mersaud has just left, having successfully fitted his sliding bookcase in front of the COOP’s now hidden door. The children are in the village visiting friends and Horatio has taken their only car to Bordeaux to stock up on wine, in preparation for the arrival of Rosie and family, due first thing tomorrow. She is on the brink of confronting her unpacked flat-pack kitchen blinds again when the telephone rings. She hurries to answer.
‘Oui, allô?’ she says. Full of gratitude.
‘Hello Maude,’ breathes a familiar voice, soft as a whisper, as always, but brimming with mischief. ‘Goodness. Do you actually answer the telephone in French? How extraordinary! How chic!’
‘Oh.’ Maude feels a thud of disappointment. A lurch of misery, in fact, which she fails to keep hidden. ‘Hello Emma.’
‘I must admit I used to. Answer in French. For ages I did it. But then I realised nobody French ever actually called me unless they were asking for money. And then I thought it served them right, rather, to have to listen to a bit of English first. Before they started demanding things. Don’t you think? Remind them where my ruddy euros are coming from…Or maybe not,’ she sighs, when Maude doesn’t immediately reply. ‘You’re always so incredibly nice, Maude. You probably just think I’m being horrid.’
‘You’re always being horrid, Emma. So far as I can see. What do you want?’
Lady
Emma Rankin gives one of her light, delightful chuckles. ‘Hello Maude. And how are you this afternoon? I’m very well, thank you. Thank you for asking…Actually I think I probably owe you an apology.’
‘I think you probably do.’
‘Oh God…Maude. I – am – so – sorry,’ Emma says, in her soft, sweet voice, and it sounds quite heartfelt. ‘Really…What can I say? It was a moment of –’ She pauses, notices a thread has come loose on her dress (silver-beaded white muslin; £989 inc. p&p; delivered, on spec as it happens, from a tiny shop on London’s Westbourne Grove, whose owner sends things out to Emma on an incredibly regular basis, always accompanied by monumental invoices and passionately flattering handwritten notes). Emma tugs at the loose thread, clicks her tongue. ‘Maude, it was a moment of total insanity. And I really am terribly – terribly – sorry. Maude, if there is any way I can make it up to you…’
Maude snorts impatiently. ‘Why are you calling me, anyway? Heck’s not here. If that’s who you want.’
‘Oh. Don’t be silly! What would I want with him? Actually, I want you both,’ Emma adds quickly. ‘Will you come to dinner tonight? I’ve got the woman who’s bought the Marronnier coming. She’s just called. Sounding slightly mad, I might add. I didn’t know what to do, so I invited her to dinner.’