by T. M. Logan
I went to the front window and looked out onto the drive. All three cars were there, so they must have walked into the village. Ten minutes there, ten minutes in the boulangerie – assuming there was a queue – and ten minutes walking back. About half an hour, all told, which meant they should be on their way back. Strolling back hand in hand, perhaps? Sitting in the little café in the village square, sharing a coffee? Enjoying the privacy of a few quiet moments together, somewhere they wouldn’t be seen?
Maybe. Maybe not. But I could catch them out if I was quick.
I went to the bedroom and quickly put on my running gear.
‘Stay here with Izzy,’ I said to Daniel. ‘I’m going for a run.’
My son nodded without taking his eyes from the TV screen.
‘Get some proper milk if you see any.’
I grabbed a key and headed out.
*
Running had been Sean’s idea, in the beginning.
It was part of his midlife crisis, he said. He’d greeted the arrival of his thirty-ninth birthday with a rash of new hobbies, new goals and plans for life-changing self-improvement.
It had come along with joining a gym, buying a new road bike, trying to lose weight and cutting out midweek drinking. Along with taking bin bags full of old shirts and jeans to the charity shop and buying new clothes, ditching the stubble, getting his hair cut shorter and generally making more of an effort with his appearance.
Along with having an affair.
They were all signs, I supposed. Big, flashing neon that said something was going on in his life, his head, his heart. A change was happening. The indications were there, but I had misread them. I’d seen them as positives, when they were anything but. Although he’d already ditched the running, a few weeks ago. Just stopped. Needed all of his energy for other things, presumably.
At the end of the villa’s tree-lined gravel drive I turned right and headed along the narrow road towards Autignac. It was still early, but the sun was already high in the cloudless sky, beating down with a relentless heat that half-blinded me as I ran. In my rush, I’d forgotten to bring my sunglasses and had to squint as I jogged along the road that ran along the boundary of the estate, trying to get a rhythm going in limbs still stiff and heavy with sleep. The air was thick with humidity and I’d barely made it past the end of the tall white stone wall when I felt the first sweat under my arms and at the back of my neck.
Sometimes Sean and I ran together – in the beginning, anyway – after we had caught the running bug and had opportunities when the kids wouldn’t be home alone. But then he’d started training for half-marathons, running late into the evening after Daniel had gone to bed, when all I wanted to do was put my dressing gown on and wind down with a bit of TV. In any case, he was too quick for me, and I usually felt like I was holding him back.
Was that what I was doing now? Holding him back? And what was I supposed to do if I ran around a bend in the road here and found them strolling arm in arm, hip to hip? Or sitting on a bench, sharing a stolen kiss? I knew what I had to do – force it out of them right there by the roadside, get them to admit what was going on, confess.
I ran on.
By the time I reached the village, my T-shirt was stuck to my back with sweat and I was breathing hard in the clammy heat. The square was quiet, just a couple of elderly women gossiping outside the boulangerie, a handful of others enjoying an early coffee in the shade of the town hall. No sign of Sean and Jennifer. I looped around the far side of the village, beyond the main square, coming back around and rejoining the little road that led up to the villa.
Halfway up the little hill at the back of the house, my legs got so heavy I had to stop for a minute, standing at the side of the road, hands on my hips. The trees were thick here, oak and pine and olive trees, with the white of the villa walls just visible above me at the prow of the hill. I walked the rest of the way.
Sean was in the kitchen when I got back, unloading bags of baguettes, croissants, macaroons and pastries from three bulging shopping bags. Jennifer stood next to him, busying herself with the coffee machine. She looked cool and composed in white culottes and a pale-pink vest top, straw hat still on her head.
I was acutely aware that I was soaked in sweat and red-faced from the heat.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You’re here. How did you get back?’
They were the first words I’d spoken to him since our confrontation at the gorge yesterday afternoon. It seemed like an age ago.
Sean shrugged.
‘We walked back from the village.’
I shook my head.
‘I just ran that way. Didn’t see you.’
‘There’s a little path up the hill, a short cut. Quite steep, though.’
‘I tried calling your mobile.’
‘Left it here. Sorry.’
‘You were gone a long time.’
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in direction of the village.
‘There was a street market and Jen wanted to have a look. They had some lovely arts-and-crafty stuff.’
‘I ran through the square. There was no market.’
He wouldn’t meet my eye, using the excuse of unloading the shopping to keep his back to me.
‘It was on the far side of the church, by the recreation ground.’
Rowan had mentioned something about a market when we first arrived. I couldn’t remember for sure what day it was held, but I didn’t think it was today.
‘And they were doing little samples of the local wine,’ Sean said, ‘so we had to give them a try.’
I opened a paper bag of pastries, the smell of freshly baked croissants filling my nose. It should have made me hungry, but my appetite had almost completely disappeared these last few days.
‘I’ll heat some croissants up for the kids. Do you want one?’
‘In a bit. Just going to grab a quick shower.’
‘Oh.’
A shower, I thought. To wash her smell off him.
‘Didn’t have one earlier in case I woke you up,’ he said. ‘Absolutely scorching out there already, though.’
Daniel wandered into the kitchen and looked me up and down.
‘Did you find any proper milk, Mummy?’
38
Izzy
Izzy followed the sound of the grand piano, the notes swelling and sweeping in perfect rhythm through the villa’s ground floor and out onto the balcony. The music rose and fell, heavy with emotion, a flawless rendition of a complicated sonata. She climbed the staircase up from the pool, crossed the balcony into the lounge, and perched on the arm of a sofa to watch Lucy as she played.
Perhaps when she settled down, bought a place of her own, she’d have a piano again. She had played as a girl, though not to Lucy’s level, but a decent standard nonetheless. It was one of the things she missed the most about not having a home to come back to. While her three friends had spent the past couple of decades accumulating more and more belongings, Izzy had gone in the opposite direction and probably had fewer possessions now – fewer clothes, fewer books, fewer gadgets, less stuff, full stop – than she had when she was twenty-one. The furniture from her late parents’ house had mostly been sold off or given to charity, apart from a few items put into storage for their sentimental value. Most of what she owned she could carry on her back, in the same tattered 70-litre rucksack she’d had since leaving Ireland fifteen years before. But maybe the time had come now to retire her beloved Berghaus.
It was only supposed to have been for a year or two in the beginning. But the longer she was away, the weaker the ties became. She’d honestly thought the opposite would be the case, that the desire for home would grow with each month, homesickness accumulating like interest on a debt as the years passed. But in fact, the longer she was away, the easier it became. A year became two, and then five, then ten. And now here she was.
She had always come back for the annual get-together with Rowan, Jennifer and Kate, and she went home to Ireland,
too, from time to time, but mostly when she was home she spent the time thinking about when she would be able to leave again. And gradually, over the years, the visits home had been less and less frequent. The ties that bound to her homeland, her home town, the streets where she’d grown up, became weaker as each 2nd November came and went.
Each time the anniversary of Mark’s death approached, she dreaded it, hoping that the pain would retreat a little, at the same time hating herself for wanting to forget.
Because that felt like selfishness: it was up to her to keep the memory alive, to keep his memory alive. It was the right thing to do, simple as that. But the memory meant pain – and she’d been carrying the pain for so long now that perhaps it was finally time to ease it off her shoulders and set it down by the side of the road. It didn’t mean she would forget – she would never forget – just that it was time to move on.
She’d not wanted to come back before, because there’d been no reason to. Both her parents were gone and her brother had moved to Canada. Was it strange that they had both moved so far away from home, left Ireland behind them? That they had wanted to get away from Limerick in search of something better? Maybe it was a natural instinct.
But now she had a reason to come back.
Izzy took her phone from her pocket, looking at the string of messages again, scrolling down to the most recent. It made her smile when she thought of their time together – and then she’d catch herself and look around quickly to see if anyone was watching, wondering why she was grinning like a fool. She typed a quick reply and pressed send.
She was glad that her travelling days were over. It was time to return to the fold. Not quite home, but close enough to it. Because now she had a reason, the best one of all. The only reason that ever made sense, when all was said and done.
It was time to settle down. For good.
She would swap her rucksack for a piano, in her new place. She would learn to play again, as part of her new start, and maybe one day she might be as good as Lucy.
She moved nearer to watch the teenager’s delicate hands flying over the keys.
Lucy turned, startled, brushing tears from her cheeks.
‘Sorry, don’t stop,’ Izzy said. ‘Didn’t mean to interrupt. I could listen to you play all day.’
‘No, it’s fine, I was almost finished anyway. Really.’
Izzy smiled, but she knew straightaway that something was off. One of the many lovely things about Lucy was that she didn’t lie well. She didn’t hide her emotions well, either.
Just like her father.
Izzy lowered her voice.
‘Are you all right, Lucy?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Lucy took a deep, shuddering breath, using the sleeve of her top to wipe hastily at her cheeks until all traces of the tears were gone. ‘I just get a bit emotional sometimes, playing that piece.’
‘You have a wonderful talent.’
‘Thanks. I’m supposed to practise every day.’
‘It sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it.’
‘Kinderszenen, by Schumann. It means—’
‘Scenes from Childhood.’
Lucy smiled. ‘How many languages do you speak, exactly?’
‘My fiancé used to play. He wasn’t quite as good as you, mind.’
Izzy thought she saw a shadow flit momentarily across Lucy’s face, then it was gone.
‘I did this piece for my grade eight exam,’ the teenager said. ‘Some of it, anyway.’
‘So what’s next for you? A-levels, right?’
Lucy nodded.
‘Assuming I get the GCSE grades I need.’
‘Don’t think that’s in any doubt, is it? What are your A-level choices?’
‘Maths, physics, chemistry and biology.’
‘Wow.’ She smiled. ‘Going for the easy options, then?’
‘They’re what I need to do medicine at uni.’
‘Still got your heart set on medical school?’
‘Yes.’
‘If anyone can do it, you can. You’ll make a brilliant doctor.’
Lucy smiled, shyly.
‘Long way to go, yet.’
Izzy pulled a chair over and sat down next to Lucy at the grand piano, leaning in close. She had known this child since she was born, first held her when she was a week old, a perfect tiny new person with a full head of startlingly white-blonde hair. She had seen her grow up and every time she had returned from working abroad Lucy had been a little bit smarter, a little bit taller. She had reached Izzy’s height – five feet two in her bare feet – at the age of twelve and had grown much taller since then. She’d known this girl all her life, and she felt a strong urge to reconnect with her properly now she was back. To re-establish their relationship.
She wanted to be close to her and Daniel again, to be part of their inner circle.
‘Are you really all right, Lucy?’
‘Hmm.’
‘You know you can talk to me about anything, right? I’m a neutral.’ Izzy smiled. ‘I’m like Switzerland, not on anyone’s side. If you can’t talk to your mum or dad about it, you can talk to me instead. I can just listen and it doesn’t have to go any further.’
Lucy tucked a strand of her long blonde hair behind her ear.
‘It’s just . . . I don’t know, it’s probably nothing.’
‘If it’s getting you down, it’s not nothing. Not if it’s ruining your holiday, bothering you that much. Don’t you think?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I don’t like seeing you unhappy, Lucy.’
She let this hang there for a moment, knowing that the teenager would fill the silence. And a moment later, she did.
‘Mum and Dad are . . . Something weird is going on between them.’
Izzy sat up straighter, frowning.
‘Weird how, exactly?’
It was a disturbing echo of Kate’s comments at the Gorges D’Héric the day before, her concerns about Sean. There were messages.
‘I don’t know,’ Lucy said quietly. ‘They’re being strange around each other. I’ve never seen them like this before. Dad reckons I don’t notice anything, but I do, I pick up on a lot of stuff. You must have noticed it too?’
‘Yes.’ Izzy nodded. ‘I have.’
‘So what do you think’s going on?’
Izzy considered her options, searching for the one that was least painful. Tell Lucy about her father messaging another woman? About her mother’s suspicions? Her doubts about Sean? Tell her the truth?
But is it really my place to do that?
‘Honestly? I’ve no idea, Lucy.’ She patted the teenager’s arm. ‘But whatever it is, I’m sure they’ll work it out soon. One way or another.’
39
Sean and I spent a wordless morning, circling each other like wounded animals, the memory of yesterday’s confrontation still raw.
It wasn’t long before Lucy picked up on it. I was in our en suite, trying to conceal the bags under my eyes, when I heard our daughter’s voice from behind the half-closed door. I stopped what I was doing and stood quietly, just listening.
‘Dad?’
‘Hey, Lucy.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Today? Just a chill-out day by the pool, I think.’
‘No,’ she lowered her voice, ‘I mean what’s going on with you two.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘I know you think I’m totally oblivious and self-absorbed, but—’
‘I don’t think that, sweetheart.’
‘I’ve heard you say it.’
‘When?’
‘You said all teenagers are wrapped up in themselves and their own business.’
‘That wasn’t about you! I was remembering how I was at your age.’
‘Whatever. Anyway, I still notice things, sometimes.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you and Mum not talking.’
A pause.
‘Since when, lo
ve?’
‘Since we’ve been here. What’s going on between you two?’
‘Nothing. Nothing’s going on.’
‘Are you pissed off at her, or what?’
‘No, Lucy.’
‘Is she cross? About something you’ve done?’
‘Nope.’
Another pause.
‘You know what, Dad?’
‘What’s that, sweetheart?’
‘You’re a crap liar.’
‘Lucy—’
But she was gone, her footsteps receding as she walked away down the corridor. I came out from my hiding place and looked at Sean, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. The silence between us stretched out, broken by Izzy shouting up the stairs that lunch was ready.
Outside on the balcony, the long table was laid with enough to feed a small army, every inch of the checked tablecloth covered with food and drink. A wooden board filled with a dozen cheeses took pride of place in the centre of the table, next to bowls of tomatoes and olives, apples and grapes, and the cutting board was piled high with sliced baguette and fresh pastries. There was honey and dark jam from the village market, a slab of golden butter, thick cuts of pink ham and roasted chicken breast. Jugs of apple juice, stubby green bottles of beer and two bottles of white wine were out, too.
‘Twelve of us,’ said Alistair, standing at the head of the table looking pleased with himself. ‘We’ve got the wine and the bread: all we need is a bag with thirty pieces of silver.’
‘And a Judas,’ Russ added, uncorking a bottle of St Chinian with a soft pop.
‘How’s that?’ Jennifer said.
‘You know,’ Alistair said, spreading his hands expansively, ‘Da Vinci’s Last Supper.’
Daniel took a slice of baguette.
‘What’s the Last Supper, Dad?’
Sean clapped his hands together with exaggerated cheerfulness.
‘Aha! At last you express an interest in the good book, my boy. Your Grandma Colleen would be so proud of you. The Last Supper was the meal that Jesus had with his disciples, just before he was betrayed by Judas and the Romans dragged him up the hill to Golgotha where they—’
‘We probably don’t need to go into all the gory details in front of the little ones,’ Jennifer said, nodding towards Odette. ‘Do we, Sean?’