by Isabel Wolff
‘Did you tell Guy this?’
I had another sip of wine. ‘Not at first. I was still in shock, trying to take it all in. But on the morning of Emma’s funeral …’ I paused as I remembered her coffin, on top of it her favourite green hat in a sea of pink roses. ‘… I took off my engagement ring. When Guy drove me home afterwards he asked me where it was, so I said that I’d felt unable to wear it in front of Emma’s parents. Then there was this awful scene. Guy insisted that I had nothing to feel guilty about. He said that it was Emma’s own fault that she’d died, and that her neglect of her health had not only cost her her life, it had brought misery to her parents and friends. I told Guy that I did feel guilty and always would. I told him that I was tormented by the thought that while he and I were sitting in the Bluebird, eating and drinking, Emma was dying. Then I said what I’d been burning to say for two weeks – that if he hadn’t intervened she might be alive.
‘Guy looked at me as though I’d hit him. He was outraged at the accusation, but I said it was true. Then I went upstairs, got the ring and gave it back to him – and that was the last time I saw him. So that’s why I didn’t get married today,’ I concluded quietly.
I heaved a sigh. ‘You said you didn’t know anything personal about me – and now you do. But that was probably more personal than you would have liked.’
‘Well …’ Miles reached for my hand. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve been through something so… harrowing. But I’m glad you told me.’
‘I’m surprised I have. I hardly know you.’
‘No – you don’t know me. At least not yet,’ he added gently. He stroked my fingers and I felt a sudden charge go through me, like static.
‘Miles …’ I looked at him, ‘I think I would like that third glass of wine.’
We didn’t stay at the restaurant very much longer, not least because Roxy began phoning again. Miles told her he’d be back by ten. Then as our desserts arrived she called once more. I had to bite my tongue. Roxy had refused to come out with her father but seemed determined that he shouldn’t enjoy himself.
‘Couldn’t she read a book?’ I suggested. Or perhaps a few more copies of Heat I thought dismissively.
Miles fiddled with his wine glass. ‘Roxy’s an intelligent girl, but she’s not as … resourceful as I’d like,’ he added carefully. ‘No doubt because I’ve danced too much attendance on her over the years.’ He put up his hands as if to say, It’s a fair cop. ‘But when you’re a lone parent to an only child, it’s almost inevitable – plus I’m trying to compensate her for what happened, I’m aware of that.’
‘But ten years is a long time. You’re a very attractive man, Miles.’ He fiddled with his fork. ‘I’m amazed you’ve never found anyone to be a mother figure to Roxy, as well as to fulfil your own needs and emotions.’
Miles sighed. ‘Nothing would have made me happier – would make me happier. There was someone a few years ago who I was very fond of, but it didn’t work out. But maybe, now, things will come right …’ He smiled briefly and the delta of lines beneath his eyes deepened. ‘Anyway …’ He pushed back his chair. ‘We’d better get back.’
At the house Pascal told Miles that Roxy had just gone to bed. Having made her father come back from the restaurant early, I reflected. Miles explained that I needed to stay the night.
‘Mais bien sûr,’ said Pascal, clasping his hands together. He smiled at me. ‘Vous êtes bienvenue.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’ll make up the spare bed,’ said Miles. ‘Will you give me a hand, Phoebe?’
‘Sure.’ I followed him, a little unsteady from the wine, up the stairs. At the top he opened a huge airing cupboard that smelt deliciously of warm cotton, then he took some bedding off the slatted shelves.
‘My room’s at the end,’ he explained as I followed him down the long landing. ‘Roxy’s is opposite. You’ll be in here.’ He pushed on the door and we went into the large bedroom, the walls of which were hung with dark pink Toile de Jouy depicting a pastoral scene of boys and girls apple-picking.
It felt strange to be making up the bed with Miles; I found the intimacy of it both discomfiting and exciting as we wrestled with the plump duvet. As we smoothed the sheet our fingertips collided and I felt a sudden voltage go through me. Miles dragged the linen sleeve over the bolster. ‘There …’ He gave me a diffident smile. ‘Can I lend you a shirt to sleep in?’ I nodded. ‘Stripey or plain?’
‘Tee please.’
He headed for the door. ‘Tee for one, coming up.’
Miles quickly returned with a grey Calvin Klein tee-shirt and handed it to me. ‘Well … I suppose I ought to get to bed.’ He kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’ve got another long day in the vines tomorrow.’ He kissed me on the other cheek, then held me for a few seconds. ‘Goodnight, sweet Phoebe,’ he murmured. I closed my eyes, enjoying the feeling of being encircled by his arms. ‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ he whispered. His breath was warm in my ear. ‘But how strange to think that this would have been your wedding night.’
‘It is strange.’
‘And now here you are, in a bedroom in Provence with a virtual stranger. But … I’ve got a problem.’ I looked at Miles – his face was suddenly filled with anxiety.
‘What?’
‘I want to kiss you.’
‘Oh.’
‘I mean, really kiss you.’
‘I see.’ He ran his finger down my cheek. ‘Well …’ I murmured. ‘You can.’
‘Kiss you?’ he whispered.
‘Kiss me,’ I whispered back.
Miles cupped my face in his hands, then he leaned down and touched his upper lip to mine – it felt cool and dry – and we stood like that for a few moments. Now we were kissing more intensely, then with a gathering urgency, and now I felt Miles reach to the back of my dress to unzip it; but he couldn’t.
‘Sorry,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I haven’t done this for a while.’ He fumbled with it a bit more. ‘Ah … there.’ Now he was pushing the straps down over my shoulders and the dress was falling to the floor and I was stepping out of it, and Miles was leading me towards the bed. As he unbuttoned his shirt I unzipped his jeans, releasing his erection, then I lay back on the bed and looked at him as he undressed. He might be nearly fifty, but his body was slim and hard, and he was indeed, like the vines planted in the year of his birth, still ‘vigorous’.
‘Do you want this, Phoebe?’ he whispered as he lay next to me, stroking my face. ‘Because that trunk I told you about is just over there.’ He kissed me. ‘You just have to push it against the door.’
‘To keep you out?’
‘Yes.’ He kissed me again. ‘To keep me out.’
‘But I don’t want to.’ I kissed him back, more urgently now, and then, with a shudder of desire I pulled him to me. ‘I want you in.’
NINE
Mann und Weib, und Weib und Mann …
I awoke to the sound of the Polish girl singing in the vineyards below me.
Reichen an die Gottheit an …
Miles had gone, leaving only an indentation on the bolster and his masculine scent on the sheets. I sat up then hooped my arms round my knees, pondering the turn my life had taken. The room was still in darkness except for some slivers of light on the floor where the sun had sliced through the shutters. From outside I could hear the cooing of doves, and from further off the rumble and whirr of the pressing machine.
I opened the windows and looked out at the pale red landscape with its viridian cypresses and billowy pines. In the distance I could see Miles loading some pails on to a trailer. I stood there for a few moments, watching him, thinking of the intense, almost reverential way he’d made love to me, the delight he’d taken in my body. Below my window was the fig tree, in which two white doves were pecking at the over-ripe purple-brown fruit.
I washed and dressed, stripped the bed, and went downstairs. In the morning light the stuffed bear seemed to be grinning, not growling.
I cr
ossed the hall to the kitchen. At one end of an enormously long table Roxy was having breakfast with Cecile.
‘Bonjour, Phoebe,’ Cecile said warmly.
‘Bonjour, Cecile. Hi, Roxanne.’
Roxy raised a salon-plucked eyebrow. ‘You’re still here?’
‘Yes,’ I replied evenly. ‘I didn’t want to drive back to Avignon in the dark.’
‘Et vous avez bien dormi?’ Cecile asked with the faintest hint of a knowing smile.
‘Très bien. Merci.’
She indicated the pile of croissants and biscottes then passed me a plate. ‘And you would like a cup of coffee?’
‘Please.’ As Cecile poured me a cup from the percolator gasping away on the range I glanced round the huge kitchen with its terracotta floor tiles, its garlands of garlic and chillies, and its old copper pans aglow on their racks. ‘This is lovely – it’s a wonderful house, Cecile.’
‘Thank you.’ She offered me a piece of brioche. ‘I hope that you visit us again.’
‘So are you going now?’ Roxanne asked as she spread butter thickly on her bread. Her tone of voice had been neutral, but her hostility was clear.
‘I’ll be leaving after breakfast.’ I turned to Cecile. ‘I have to go to Île sur la Sorgue.’
‘C’est pas trop loin,’ she said as I sipped my coffee. ‘Perhaps one hour only.’
I nodded. I’d been to Île sur la Sorgue before, but not from this direction. I’d need to work out the route.
As Cecile and I chatted in ‘Franglais’ a pretty little black cat sauntered in, its tail at ninety degrees. I made kissing noises at it, and to my surprise it jumped up and curled itself into my lap, purring happily.
‘That is Minou,’ said Cecile as I stroked its head. ‘I think she like you.’ I noticed that Cecile was peering at my right hand. ‘Quelle jolie bague,’ she said admiringly. ‘Your ring – it is beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ I glanced at it. ‘It was my grandmother’s.’
Suddenly Roxanne pushed back her chair and stood up. Then she took a peach from the bowl of fruit and threw it up with her right hand then deftly caught it.
‘Have you had enough petit déjeuner, Roxanne?’ Cecile asked her.
‘Yes,’ Roxy replied casually. ‘I’ll see you later.’
‘You won’t see me,’ I said. ‘But I hope to meet you again, Roxy.’
She didn’t answer, and as she left the room an awkward silence descended as Cecile registered the slight.
‘Roxanne est tres,’ she said as she cleared away Roxy’s breakfast things.
‘She is beautiful, yes.’
‘Miles l’adore.’
‘Of course,’ I agreed. I shrugged. ‘Elle est sa fille.’
‘Oui.’ Cecile sighed. ‘Mais elle est aussi … comment dire? Son tendon d’Achille.’
I feigned a renewed interest in the cat, which had suddenly twisted itself on to its back to have its tummy stroked. I drank my coffee then glanced at my watch. ‘I ought to get going now, Cecile. Mais merci bien pour votre hospitalité.’ I tipped the cat off my lap then made to put my breakfast plate and cup in the dishwasher, but Cecile took them from me, tut-tutting. She walked with me to the front door.
‘Au revoir, Phoebe,’ she said as we stepped outside into the sunshine. ‘I wish you a nice stay in Provence.’ She kissed me on each cheek. ‘And I wish you …’ she glanced at Roxanne sitting in the sunshine ‘… good luck.’
As I walked to the car I wished Cecile hadn’t said what she had done. Roxy might be bolshie, selfish and demanding, but weren’t lots of teenagers like that? In any case I’d only just met Miles so good luck didn’t come into it. But I did like him, I realised … I liked him very much.
Shielding my eyes against the sunlight, I now scanned the vineyard for Miles and saw him walking towards me with that slightly anxious air he always has, as though he’s worried that I’m going to run off. I found his blend of polish and vulnerability endearing.
‘You’re not going, are you?’ he said as he drew close.
‘I am, yes. But, well … thank you for … everything.’
Miles smiled then lifted my hand to his lips in a way that made my heart turn over. He nodded at my map, lying on the bonnet. ‘Have you worked out how to get to Isle sur la Sorgue?’
‘I have. It’s quite straightforward. So …’
I got behind the wheel. As I did so I heard the silvery arpeggios of a blackbird. ‘Chante le Merle,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’ Miles bent down and kissed me through the open window. ‘I’ll see you in London. At least, I hope I will.’
I laid my hand on his, then kissed him again. ‘You’ll see me in London,’ I said …
I enjoyed the drive to Île sur la Sorgue, along pristine roads in the bright sunshine, past neat cherry orchards and newly harvested vineyards, the golden verges splashed crimson with poppies. I thought about Miles and about how attractive I found him. My lips still felt bruised from his mouth.
I parked at one end of the pretty riverside town then strolled among the milling crowds through the first part of the market. Here were stalls selling lavender soap, flagons of olive oil, piles of pungent salamis, Provençal quilts, and straw baskets in earthy shades of terracotta, yellow and green. The atmosphere in this part of the market was commercial and noisy.
– ‘Vingt euros!’
– ‘Merci, monsieur.’
– ‘Les prix sont bas, non?’
– ‘Je vous empris.’
Then I walked over the little wooden bridge that spanned the narrow river. Here, in the upper part of the town the atmosphere was calm as shoppers quietly contemplated the antiquités and bric-à-brac stalls. I paused at one on which was an old saddle, a pair of red boxing gloves, a large ship in a bottle, several stamp albums and a pile of L’illustration news magazines from the 1940s. I glanced through them: there were covers variously featuring Magnum photos of the Normandy Landings, Resistance fighters alongside Allied troops, and the celebrations in Provence when the Occupation ended. L’ENTRÉE DES TROUPES ALLIÉES, the cover was captioned. LA PROVENCE LIBÉRÉE DU JOUG ALLEMAND.
Now I did what I’d come to do and looked through the vintage clothing, selecting white percale shirts and printed dresses and shifts and broderie anglaise vests, all in pristine condition. Then I heard the church clock strike three. It was time to head back. I imagined Miles, still toiling in the vineyard, helping to gather in the last of the harvest, then this evening there’d be the party for the grape-pickers.
I put the bags in the boot and got into the car, opening all the windows to let out the heat. The route to Avignon seemed straightforward, but as I got closer to it I realised that I’d lost the sign: I wasn’t heading south as I should have been but due north. The frustration of knowing that I was going 180 degrees in the wrong direction was compounded by the fact that there was nowhere to turn. Worse, a long queue of cars had built up behind me. Now I was driving into a place called Rochemare.
I glanced in my mirror. The car behind was so close that I could practically see the driver’s eyeballs. I flinched at his irritable beeps. Desperate to rid myself of him, I suddenly turned right up a narrow street, as I did so breathing a sigh of relief. I followed it for about half a mile until it suddenly came out on to a large, pleasant square. On one side were a few small shops and a bar with tables outside, shaded by gnarled plane trees, where an old man was having a beer. On the opposite side of the square was an impressive-looking church. As I drove by it I glanced at the door and a jolt ran through me.
From somewhere I could hear Mrs Bell’s voice.
I grew up in a large village about three miles from the city centre. It was a sleepy sort of place, with a few narrow little streets leading on to a large square which was shaded by plane trees with a few shops and a pleasant bar …
I pulled into the nearest space, outside a boulangerie, then I got out and walked back to the church, Mrs Bell’s voice still sounding in my ears.
&nbs
p; On the north side of the square was the church, over the door of which was carved, in huge letters, Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité …
My heart pounding, I studied the famous inscription, cut into the stone in emphatic Roman letters, then I turned round and looked at the square. This was where Mrs Bell had grown up. There could be no doubt. This was the church. There was the bar, Bar Mistral – I could see the name now – where she’d sat that night. It suddenly occurred to me that that old man sitting there now could even be Jean-Luc Aumage. The man was probably in his mid eighties, so it was possible. As I stood there he drained his glass, got up, pulled down his beret and walked slowly through the square, leaning heavily on a stick.
I went back to the car and drove on again. Already the houses were thinning out, and I could see pockety vineyards and little orchards and, in the middle distance, a railway crossing.
The village bordered open countryside and was skirted by a railway line. My father had a small vineyard not far from the house …
I pulled into a lay-by, and as I sat in the car I imagined Thérèse and Monique walking across these fields, through these vineyards and orchards. I imagined Monique hiding to survive, in the barn. Now the dark cypress trees seemed to me like accusing fingers, pointing skywards. I reached for the ignition and drove on again. Here, at the furthest edge of the village were a number of newish houses; but there was a row of four that were much older. I drew up just beyond the last of these and got out.
In front was a pretty garden, with pots of pink-and-white pelargoniums. There was also an old well and, above the door, an oval plaque on which was carved the head of a lion. As I stood there I imagined the house seven decades earlier, being abandoned to the sound of protesting, frightened voices.