by Andrea Darby
Then he calls to say he’s landed another audition next week, not too far from Cherlsbury, and perhaps we could meet there again; a proposition that sends my stomach spinning ahead of me down every aisle of the local supermarché as Eleanor and I pack a trolley with far too much French food, bickering along the way.
It’s only after it sinks in that I start to fret, both about meeting, and why he’s being so uncharacteristically decisive, concerns I share with Imogen over the phone. ‘Perhaps he wants to tell me face-to-face the kiss was a huge, impulsive mistake – the intense heat had seared his sanity, combusted his common sense – or that he’s trying to make it work with his wife and she’s threatened to staple my nipples to Class 4’s wall display on UK landmarks,’ I said.
‘Perhaps he’s just really keen to see you, and found a way.’ Imogen’s words send my stomach whirling again.
It’s on our third glorious morning in the French Riviera that courage comes. I decide to say ‘yes’ to Ashley, even if it means pulling a sickie. I send the text, then brace myself for more bravery.
I’m sitting opposite Eleanor at the ornate iron table on the upper terrace of Villa Mas Thiel – our haven for the week – sniffing in the sweet-scented jasmine and staring out over a gorgeously glistening bay framed by the majestic Esterel Mountains.
I watch with a smile as Eleanor dabs chocolate spread on to a croissant, taking a gigantic bite before it melts in the scorching sun. I’m relieved to see her eating well as she’d clearly been on a picky, pre-holiday diet, despite denying it vehemently.
‘You know the boy who was Joseph, in my school nativity …’ I wait for Eleanor to look up, ‘… well, we’re back in touch.’
‘How?’ She forces the word through a mouthful of flaky pastry.
‘Duh! Faceook. We’re going to meet.’ I don’t mention the previous two encounters.
‘Really?’ She sneers.
‘Yep.’
‘Like a date?’
‘No, not really, not like that.’ I flick at the dry flecks of croissant stuck to my lips in the heat. ‘We used to go out when we were students. He’s married.’ Well, he still was legally.
Eleanor eyes me suspiciously. ‘Were you … together … for, like, a long time?’
‘Not really.’ I shift in my seat. ‘He’s an actor,’ I add breezily, glancing down to admire my new jewel toe sandals.
Her eyes light up. ‘On TV?’
‘Theatres.’
‘Oh.’ She looks unimpressed, twitching her nose and turning her attention back to the croissant.
It isn’t spoken of again, but I spend far too much time during the rest of the week watching the whole world turn soft and soppy in the sun and wishing my holiday had come with that bonus. There are loved-up couples on the beach, on benches, in restaurants and bars, even in the queue at the boulangerie. Then my daughter joins in. She befriends two sisters from a family in a nearby villa and, before long, several fidgety, hair-obsessed, metrosexual boys with co-ordinating floral shorts and backpacks tag along. Eleanor spends her time ‘hanging’ with the new gang – leaving me to solo sightseeing and sunbathing – or daydreaming, moodily, about Charlie, who’s ‘so not a boyfriend, just a friend’ but whose hand she’s clearly holding before dropping it in a flash when I turn up, unexpectedly, at the shared pool one afternoon.
I lie on my sunbed for hours, moving in and out of the shade, fantasising about meeting a French film star who’d declare love at first sight over a steak hache, insisting that Eleanor and I leave England behind and move into his eighteen-bedroomed chateau where I’d pen a magazine column about my glamorous life.
One lunchtime, as I dine alone outside a café in a cobbled street, wearing a creased sundress and no bra, I’m convinced a swarthy stranger in aviator shades is giving me the eye – shooting me several huge smiles in-between spells of expressionless gazing. But minutes later he’s joined by a big-lipped, pencil-thin woman so glam I expect a style team and film crew to descend. That afternoon I buy a whole collection of exquisitely tailored summer clothes I suspect I’ll never wear.
I also suffer my worst attacks of body insecurity, probably due to spending far too much time stretched out in the sun, reading about the lives of D-list celebrities existing on fresh air and coffee enemas, and staring down at the sides of my exposed thighs. I’m seriously troubled by the unsightly patches of orange peel – which have turned from ripe mandarins to dehydrated Jaffas since I last wore a swimsuit. So much so that I find myself reaching for my tie-dyed sarong every time Monsieur Maintenance – a middle-aged man with close-cropped, grey hair and pointy ears who fishes insects and other debris out of the pool each morning – is in the vicinity.
Ironically, it’s while I’m lying by the pool rubbing on some new cellulite cream (I’ve succumbed to the French ‘superieur’ marketing) – scared that I may get dragged down a lotion- and serum-covered slippery slope to collagen city, where I’d join the millions of women on a relentless, painful and costly anti-ageing crusade – that Mrs Lilo, the rotund mum of one of Eleanor’s holiday friends – asks if I diet because I’m ‘nice and slim’.
‘Not really. I try,’ I say, embarrassed, ‘but I like food too much.’ I look round to see her flat out on her inflatable, downing another mini pain au chocolat in two bites and chasing it down her fat neck with a glug from the family-sized fizzy pop bottle she keeps by her side.
I spy Monsieur Maintenance on his morning pool patrol and wrap up my thighs.
‘I think he’s got the hots for you,’ Mrs Lilo whispers. ‘Look – he’s using the net to cover his boner!’
I roar, but her comment prompts him to crop up in several of my daily daydreams.
In the end, I come back from our break without any romantic anecdotes of my own, but with a great tan, some miracle cosmetics, a whole new wardrobe and some sassy lingerie.
And I return with a clearer mind and a strong sense that it’s time to take control. A fresh start. As I weave my way around a slouching, lovesick daughter with post-holiday blues, I mull over my job options, deciding to be proactive about moving on.
Then, I get a call from Mark. He’s seeing a local landlord about arranging a charity comedy night. I agree to meet for a drink, an excuse to escape the dirty laundry and filthy looks from Eleanor. Mark looks different, arms more shapely in a fitted polo shirt, the soft contours of his face tighter. He has one of those faces you’d instantly recognize in a baby photo line-up, that make you want to grab his cheeks and say ‘choo-chi’.
Mark returns from the bar, placing a large glass of red on the table. ‘Here, get some proper cheap plonk down your neck; give yourself a break from all that expensive French stuff.’
‘Great. And nuts, too. You spoil me.’ I watch Mark drain a third of his pint in one swig. ‘You’ve lost weight. Looking good.’
‘Tash has been strict with me. While you’ve been enjoying all those croque monsieurs and crepes, I’ve been living on low-calorie wraps and rice cakes. Still, I’m treating myself to a super saver away day to Weston-Super-Mare next week. Might even buy a sandwich and crisps on the train.’
‘Pensioner special, is it?’
‘The cheek – there’s only four years between us, remember. No, I’m taking Jack, and a few of his collection of plastic dinosaurs apparently.’
Mark’s smile fades far too fast, a faraway look creeping across his face. I’ve considered telling him about Ashley, but I sense something’s troubling him and think better of it. I find myself studying his expressions and gestures, hunting for a subtext in his words and silences.
I decide to ask, and he tells me. His wife’s planning a move to Somerset with her new partner.
‘It’s not definite, though,’ I say, trying to bring comfort. But Mark thinks it’s highly likely.
‘The hardest thing’s knowing that another man will see more of Jack than I do,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure how I’m going to deal with that.’
‘Things will work out.’ It see
ms such an inadequate thing to say.
‘By the way. I know it’s short notice but I have a couple of spare tickets for the auction if you know anyone who wants them.’ Mark drums his fingers on his glass. ‘One of my friends has just had a colostomy bag fitted and doesn’t think he’ll be up to the five courses. Wimp!’
I throw a peanut into his pint.
***
‘You’ve obviously packed Freya’s clothes in here, too,’ I say, dragging a stuffed suitcase to the front door. Eleanor’s tying the laces of her new multi-coloured pumps.
‘You’re funny.’
I’d barely pulled the last load of holiday washing from the machine and rid my nose of the reek of French flip-flops when Eleanor received the invite to join Freya’s family in Madeira. It’s the first time she’s been away for longer than a night without me.
At first, I was reluctant to let her go. It over-runs the break, so she’ll miss two days of school. Freya’s mum had popped round to discuss it, assuring me the girls would be kept on a tight rein. I felt I could hardly refuse. It was only for five days. Eleanor was almost fourteen and I dreaded how sullen she’d be if I said ‘no’. She’d been raging with hormones since her French frisson.
‘Now, are you sure you’ve got the suncream? And don’t forget your money should be in your hand luggage, and—’
‘God, Mum. Stop stressing me out.’ Eleanor visibly clenches her muscles, sighing so heavily into the mirror it creates a large patch of mist. ‘You’ve asked me that like a hundred times!’
With Freya and her mum at the door, I squeeze Eleanor in a tight hug, taking a noseful of her sweet scent I hope will last the week. She releases herself from my grip with an air of hurried excitement, not a trace of trepidation in her body language.
I call Reims to seek Imogen’s reassurance, whilst attempting to down a bowl of reheated lazy mash balanced on my lap. She thanks me for the bouquet of her favourite pink tulips I sent in a bid to lift her spirits.
‘Eleanor’ll be fine,’ she says. ‘I’d pack my two off in a heartbeat, if only anyone was brave enough to take them for that long.’ Imogen’s baking. Her roulade had held its own against the upturned nose of her French neighbour and competitor in a dessert duel. Pernickety-tongued tasters had declared them both ‘magnifique’, so it was to be profiteroles at dawn for the decider. I chuckle through a mouthful of mash. Few things get Imogen more enthused than food. She sounds more upbeat, her bubbles resurfacing. I’m hugely relieved.
Then she tells me Ben’s meeting with his mum went well. They’d connected immediately. ‘He said she was so scared that he wouldn’t be able to forgive her for giving him away. But, like he said, she was really young. Her parents were threatening to throw her out if she kept him. She didn’t have a lot of choice.’ His mum was planning to visit France to meet Imogen and the girls.
‘I’m so glad it’s working out for him. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling.’
‘Yes.’ Imogen stays silent for several seconds. ‘So, are you all set for your date with Ashley?’
‘Yes, though I’m still in two minds.’
‘Look, lovely, you were full of it after meeting him last time. You can’t leave things dangling – again. You’ll regret it.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. But it’s all a bit scary. We had a great day in Cherlsbury – maybe we should leave it there; too much water under the bridge and all that,’ I say. ‘Aww. One minute I dread him telling me we can’t see each other again, the next I hope he does – to make things easier. I’m still angry about the past, I still think about Dan, about betrayal, and … sometimes I feel I’m beginning to get to grips – moving on – and then something happens, like the news stories and that awful letter, and I feel I’m back where I started. It’s starting to feel like a curse.’
‘That’s stupid talk!’ Imogen reprimands rather tersely. ‘You have to go with your gut. There will always be reasons not to do things. You may not be able to forgive Ashley; you two may not have a future as friends, or anything else, but remember what evasion did twenty-two years ago. You probably need to chat some more, either way. I’m discovering how important talking is in these sessions with Ben.’
‘So, how are things?’
She lets out a sigh so long she sounds like a phone perv. ‘Oh, I don’t know – thanks for sending that article, by the way. You’re so thoughtful. It helps to read about others in the same boat.’
‘Imogen,’ I urge.
‘The sex therapy sessions are going OK, I guess. We’ve talked, Ben’s made lots of declarations of love, and I’ve squirmed a bit – and cried a lot.’ I’m braced for the ‘but’. ‘But it’s not really helped things in the bedroom yet. Ben’s feeling so neglected. I’ve tried, we’ve, you know, dabbled, had a few starters, but … I’ve still got no … urge … I just think there’s something really wrong with me ... us ...’
‘Oh Imogen, there isn’t. It’s so common. You just need time.’
‘Yeah – and a lorry load of female Viagra!’
I laugh, and picture the wrinkled nose I miss so much.
CHAPTER 16
I struggle to adjust to the new sense of prolonged loneliness in the house. I make lots of noise – leaving the radio on, banging doors, clanging crockery – to block out the eerie silence. I even resort to inane humming and chatting to Pepsi each time I pop into Eleanor’s empty room, feeling her absence so acutely it’s like another bereavement.
My erratic emotions are disconcerting. The second day after Eleanor leaves for Madeira is the worst. I have a hectic-headed night, chasing sleep but only catching it for brief intervals – then wake up feeling flat, as if my copy of the world has turned a faded black and white again. Life’s lost its texture.
The following day isn’t much better. I watch a heart-wrenching programme about a severely disabled boy without shedding a tear, laugh like a lunatic at a mildly amusing advert, then sob when I drop a plate of mash. It scares me. My emotional dial’s malfunctioning – swinging wildly between high and low settings, while the medium’s defunct.
I recall reading an article that warned against racing to leave grief behind because it could catch up with you all over again. Perhaps it’s that. Had I tried to hurry the healing? Yet mine was turning into a marathon, with hideously high hurdles and other obstacles. Would I ever reach the finish, I pondered, while there was a chance I could look back and see Dan at the starting line, breaking into a sprint to catch up with me?
I wonder whether the depression could be descending again. Yet I manage to get out of bed with the alarm and don’t sob into my bran flakes. I crack the odd joke. I function fairly well at work.
Imogen dismisses my worries. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. Of course, you’re still going to have highs and lows,’ she says. ‘I wonder if I need mood stabilisers. I came back from holiday so positive,’ I say. ‘Grief is complex. And you’re dealing with so much. You just need time. Your daughter’s just gone abroad without you for the first time. That’s a tough one for any mum.’
I’m pretty sure Imogen’s right – it’s a wobble, not a tumble, and I can stabilise myself. I just need to hear it from Mrs Sensible.
I feel heaps better the next day. I go for a long walk. I see things, and feel them – the sunshine flickering on my face, bursts of light that shine on candy-coloured summer blooms. I have a rush of maternal compassion when I see a toddler knocked off his feet by an exuberant dog, fighting the urge to rush over, push mum aside, and scoop him up in my arms. I tidy the living room, even throw a few things away, and have several long sessions on the computer searching for jobs. I find a few with potential, and one that really grabs my attention. I feel quite excited.
It’s when I’m putting out some bottles for recycling that I notice a long, thin scratch along the passenger side of my car. I wonder if it may have happened in the airport car park and I’d failed to spot it previously. Surely not. I definitely haven’t scraped it whilst driving.
&nb
sp; I decide to go into the garage to see if there’s anything I can use on it. Dan used to talk about polishing out surface scratches with something called T-cut, although, up close, the damage doesn’t look superficial.
It’s strange to see the electric door slowly rise to reveal Dan’s man den, where he worked on mechanics and, occasionally, his muscles. I rarely ventured in there.
It looks so vast and empty without the cars, the bitter smell of oil out of place with no engines to linger beside. I’d dreaded going in there so much after Dan died that Mark had stepped in to clear it. He’d sold Dan’s two remaining cars – the Audi he used for work and his ‘fun’ car, the old MG – and sorted through the paperwork neatly filed in cabinets and trays along one length of the bare bricks. I’d invited Mark to help himself to Dan’s exercise equipment – feeling guilty that he’d jarred his back moving it from the spare bedroom for me. Mark took some weights, declaring the rest a bit ‘hard core’.
He was right, I think, glancing up at the heavy metal pull-up bar suspended from one of the rafters that Dan used to hang from, building his latissimus dorsi (‘It’s the largest back muscle, Carrie’); before he dislocated his shoulder – twice.
The old purple aerobic step Dan bought when I started classes was tucked in the corner, used only by a few spiders caught up in cobwebs. I’d been a fitness tart before finally settling on the step sessions. I’d tried everything – aerobics, aqua fit, tums & bums, pilates – but rarely lasted long. It didn’t take much for me to quit. I loathed exercise. But I’d finally come to the sad realisation that I’d have to make a token effort if I wanted to eat chocolate and spuds and not become Carrie Chubby-Chuff.
Dan was deluded, believing that as I’d finally found an activity to stick at, I’d be keen to exercise at home, too. He did it most nights, usually in the spare bedroom, where he also waded through work he brought home from the office. It was his favourite space, a wide, picture window overlooking the garden and distant, patchwork fields beyond. He loved to stare at the tranquil scene as he huffed and puffed on electronic equipment that banged, bleeped, whirred and whizzed. But I lacked the discipline, and willpower. I’d even tried putting my exercise step by the kitchen door as a prompt, but it didn’t work, even when I tripped over it. However, I did discover how handy it was for reaching the cake tin in the highest cupboard without straining any muscles. No, I was too lazy for daily exercise, and too lazy for garages. I’d never once put my Toyota in there.