‘I thought you had a girlfriend?’
‘No. I said that to get the parents off my back. I’ve never had a girlfriend. Never – you know –‘
‘Had sex?’
He shook his head. ‘Not properly. I mean, at uni there was messing around at parties, stoned, and then in the morning you didn’t know if you’d done it or not, or who with.’
Helene thought back to Robbie. ‘At school, didn’t you have a special girl, someone you had a crush on?’
He mopped his face. ‘All right. What happened was that I went to school in Chantilly. It was great. The girls were sweet. Then when I was sixteen my parents bought an apartment in the Marais and of course I went to a Parisian school.’
‘Did you like it?’
‘Oh, I was chuffed at first. The girls were glamorous, and I was very interested in girls. All that. I just didn’t realise how fucking cruel they can be.’
‘What happened?’ Helene topped up his drink.
It all came out in a rush. ‘I was coming out of the shower. Girls weren’t allowed in the boys’ locker room but these four, they burst in. I didn’t even have time to grab a towel. And they looked at me, and they started howling with laughter, on and on, completely hysterical. And they said things…’
Helene could see it all. A herd of hyenas ganging up on a sensitive boy. The whispering in corners. The helpless giggling every time Marc came into the classroom.
‘That’s why I asked my father if I could go to an English university. I thought English girls might be more polite.’
‘Well, some are and some aren’t.’ Helene recalled Hogarthian scenes involving legless girls outside her flat in Covent Garden.
‘You must think I’m a complete wimp.’
‘I think you’ve had one hell of a hard day.’
He looked done in.
Helene went to the bedroom and came back with a pillow, and the Missoni robe she had bought for Jean-Paul. She tipped the robe onto Marc’s knees. ‘Here. Go tuck yourself up in bed.’
‘Oh, I can’t –‘
‘I’ll be okay on the sofa. It’s quite comfortable, and you’re too long for it .’
‘But why…?’
‘Because, Marc Cordier, it’s what your father would have wanted me to do.’
*
Helene woke up at eleven. She’d slipped on the nightshirt Hilly had sent her. The one with the frieze of spring flowers, the one Jean-Paul had said he could never imagine her wearing.
Softly, she pushed open the bedroom door. Marc was still asleep, lying on his back, naked under the Missoni. It had fallen open. She looked down at him, and she saw what had provoked those spiteful girls to crack up.
It wasn’t what she’d imagined. Marc was as well-made as his father. No problem there. But what the son had that the father hadn’t, was fur. He was covered in thick, dark auburn fur.
She could hear those girls. Hear the taunts. Gorilla, zoo, shag-pile, all the obvious, but no less hurtful. A woman’s greatest fear is that the man will be violent. A man’s greatest fear is that the woman will laugh at him. Where had she read that?
Gently, she covered Marc up, had a shower, and took him a mug of tea. He was just waking up, blinking against the shaft of sunlight chinking through the curtains. Last night, she had assumed he had brown eyes behind the small horn-rimmed spectacles. But they’re not brown, she realised. Not brown, not hazel, they’re green. A wonderful true green, the colour of moss under running water.
She stood transfixed. Get out, she told herself. Get out now.
But she lingered, watching him putting on his spectacles.
Sitting up, Marc said, ‘Is everything all right? You look – I mean – are you annoyed with me for staying?’
‘No! I – I didn’t know if you took sugar.’
‘No thanks.’
‘There’s fresh towels in the shower room. Help yourself.’
‘Okay.’
‘And – I was thinking of making a bacon butty …’
An hour later they were at the table, tucking in.
‘This bacon’s fantastic.’
‘Have some more. My sister gets it from the Queen’s butcher.’
‘Oh, I must tell my mother. She thinks the Queen is wonder –‘
Oops, thought Helene. Of course you can’t tell Madame that her husband’s totty shares a butcher with Queen Elizabeth II.
She said smoothly, ‘It’s in Peaslake. Suffolk. Do you know Suffolk?’
‘No, never been.’
‘Well Southwold, where my sister lives, is famous for three things. The Adnams brewery is there, so at certain times of day the whole place reeks of hops and malt. And then, hundreds of years ago, there was a terrible fire. Nearly gutted everything. So to try and stop it happening again, they left greenswards on top of the cliffs, as firebrakes. Gives the town a very charming look.’
‘Sounds pretty.’
‘And I mustn’t forget the beach huts. They have names like The Great Escape, Dog Watch and Stargazer. And to buy one would set you back – get this – around £100,000.’
‘Nice people?’
‘Well, it’s East Anglia and a lot of the natives have a bloody-minded attitude that says, I know something you don’t, and I’m not telling you.’
‘Like they’ve got a hundred thousand quid tucked away in a sock.’
‘No, the locals can’t afford the beach huts.’
‘They sound like our Normans. They can’t give you a straight answer. It’s Maybe yes, maybe no.’
‘Go on, ‘ laughed Helene.
‘People from the Loire,’ Marc told her, ‘regard themselves as aristos. Corsicans are hot-tempered, and in Marseilles people exaggerate – probably because a lot of them are more Arab than French.’
He was smiling. He was getting up. He was leaving.
Hastily, she slid Jean-Paul’s door keys into Marc’s jacket pocket. ‘Why don’t you hang on to these? Then you can come back when it suits you. I, I’d like that. I’d be glad of the company.’
I can’t let him go, Helene thought. I might never see him again. He’s Jean-Paul’s son. I want to look after him.
She hurried on, ‘You could bring a toothbrush. A few things.’
He was staring at her. There was still the enticing aroma of fried bacon.
‘Helene, I can’t take your space.’
‘Yes, look, it’s fine. The sofa’s big enough for me. And it’s just for the time being. Until we both calm down.’
Chapter Twelve
Marc came back at 6.30, wearing a dark blue suit.
‘I popped into the office.’
‘I thought they’d given you the week off.’
‘Yeah, but I thought I should look in.’
He was carrying a sports bag, which he put down near the front door, and a bunch of white freisias for Helene. ‘Would you mind if I had a shower? I want to take you out to dinner.’
He unzipped the canvas bag, took out his wash things, a pair of white jeans and a polo shirt in bleue marine. When he had disappeared into the shower room, Helene hurriedly took the bag to the bedroom and unpacked it. She’d already cleared a cupboard. Into it now went his phone charger, three shirts,some polo shirts, cargo shorts, cashmere sweater, underwear and a pair of pyjamas, pale blue cotton, with a high-buttoned long top, and shorts.
Helene put on an apple-green dress, square-necked, with a white cotton bolero and sat on the sofa to wait for him. She hadn’t a clue, really, what was going on. How much she could admit to. What she told herself, as she waited, was that he was her lover’s son, and she had to look after him.
When Marc appeared he came and handed her a photograph. ‘I didn’t know if you had one of my father?’
It was a picture of Marc and Jean-Paul, taken in a sunlit garden, and her heart lurched at the way they both had exactly the same smile. Touched, she put the photograph carefully in her drawer. ‘That was very kind of you. Tomorrow I’ll get a frame.’
Marc took her to an I
talian place near the Sorbonne. When they had ordered, and he had chosen the wine, he said, ‘It’s funny. You know how the French make great sport out of deriding the English as rosbifs? Well the other day, guess what I saw, on a stall just near here. Chip butties! Well, chip baguettes of course, but what they didn’t get was that the chips are supposed to be hot!’
Patiently, Helene waited.
Marc lit a cigarette. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the financial side. I don’t want to be embarrassing about this, but I didn’t know what the – arrangements – were with my father.’
There were times when Helene wished she smoked. This was very awkward. I lived rent free. Every month he gave me a whopping cheque and then there was the Hermes scarf, the pearls and all the jewellery sitting in the bank.
She said quietly, ‘Your father was extremely generous. He made sure I’d be all right. Of course, I’ll have to get a proper job.’
‘What do you do now?’
She told him, and he gulped down a good half of his wine. ‘Cleaning? Did my father know?’
‘Yes. He didn’t approve.’
She explained a bit about Angeline, the distant nature of their relationship. And was it even a relationship when they’d only ever met once?
‘It’s not a messy job. No pets, no kids, no Chinese take-aways glopping up the sink. Angeline keeps the place tidy and has made it clear she relies on me to keep it immaculate.’
‘And what would you rather do?’
‘Good question. I don’t know.’
Supper was served. Spaghetti carbonara for Helene, veal Milanaise for Marc.
‘Right, well if I’m going to be staying with you for a bit, I want to pay you rent.’
‘But it’s your apartment! I assume your father left it to you.’
Napoleonic Law. Elodie had explained about this. It meant a parent could not legally disinherit a child, however disastrous that offspring turned out to be.
Marc was adamant about the rent. And, he said, in terms of the household, he’d like to supply all the wine. ‘There’s masses at the Marais apartment and my mother won’t need it. The cellar at Chantilly’s heaving with hooch.’
‘What have you got to do at the apartment?’
‘Tomorrow, clear out my stuff. I can stick it in a stock-room at the office. Then Monday, the valuer’s coming from the estate agent.’
Later that night, when Helene had said goodnight to him and she was tucked up on her sofa bed, demure in her nightshirt, she thought, six months. It would take that to complete on the Marais apartment, and then it was logical for Marc to want this one back. Where would she go?
She was reluctant to raid the jewellery assets to buy herself a flat. That was capital, all she had, and you never knew what was going to loom up. No, she’d have to get a job. Proper hours, proper money. And in Paris. This was her home now. London was, as Noel would say, ‘so over.’
Meanwhile, here she was shacked up with Marc. Sort of.
Helene had wrapped herself in the gold silk throw she’d bought in London, along with the pink cashmere one. Close on a thousand pounds she’d thrown at Peter Jones department store, and it was all possible because of Jean-Paul.
Now she had to give the living with a man issue considerable thought. It was something that, as an adult, she had simply never done. Her father had left when she was fourteen. Robbie had lived with his parents, and then in Hall at university. After that had come the Life of Crime, leaving those men lying dopily in bed while she ran into the night to hail a taxi. Weekends she went to the gym, saw her friends or visited her family. All that ended with Jean-Paul of course, but he and she had never had a domestic life. She’d never cooked a meal for him. He’d never wanted her to. And she’d never woken up and kissed him goodmorning.
And now she had his son, sleeping in the next room, in his blue pyjamas. Interesting, Helene told herself. It was going to be very interesting.
*
‘Dear Sis, No, Alexis is off the scene. And I have a lodger! Marc. I gave him my room as he seems quite house-trained and it is his apartment – inherited from his father. Don’t start getting any ideas. He’s only twenty three!’
From Hilly.
‘It was fantastic! I whizzed the Tooth Fairy up to the school. Not as easy as it sounds, even with the electric wheelchair. Why don’t they invent portable ramps to get you up and down pavements? Anyway, I just hogged the middle of the road and the dragon shouted at all the oncoming cars. Got her into the school hall and parked her and wheelchair right in front of the stage. The whole place was semi-dark. All the window curtains drawn, and the stage curtains, the only light by Miss Elwyn-Jones at the CD player. No one knew what was going on, Megan was still refusing to tell us.
‘Next thing, this incredible music started, the stage curtains parted and Megan as Wonderwitch leapt right down into the audience! Then the other girls were suddenly jumping down from behind the window curtains and wall bars, scaring everyone except the dragon who adored it.
‘Afterwards, Miss Elwyn-Jones told us – when the applause had died down – that the music was Mussorski. Pictures at an Exhibition. It really is spooky. And Megan was the star! None of the other witches had velvet capes and I was really glad I’d made the effort. Evidently next week it’s the boys’ turn and they are doing something as Cossaks.
‘Of course, there’s always someone isn’t there and this was Mrs Bossy Mother demanding to know what Health and Safety would say about girls jumping off windowsills and had Miss E-J procured a Risk Assessment?
‘Miss E-J told her, in effect, to bog off.
‘Meanwhile, Sis dear, this Marc. Where did you meet him? Lots of love H.
‘Oh and guess what? Megan had wheedled Rory into coming with his camera so we’re all going to be in the local rag. Dragon said sniffily was it really done for Our Family to have our pictures and names in the paper? Honestly!’
‘Dear Megan, News of your starring role has already reached Paris. Congrats. Next stop the West End?
‘Could you tell your mother that I met Marc when he came round to check the fire precautions. I think our Health and Safety police might be worse than yours. Anyway, he’s just a lodger. I’ve never had one before, so heaven knows how we’ll get on. Lots of love, Helen.’
*
It worked because Marc had his own agenda, and she had carefully assessed hers. He left early, in his dark blue suit and, always, polished shoes. He took breakfast en route to work. Helene rotated his shirts with a clearly intrigued Valerie Laverie.
Marc was rarely home for supper – clients – the boss – huge lunch – but she noticed that if she prepared a smoked salmon snack, he ate all of it, usually while they watched an old movie on TV.
Helene observed closely which female stars arrested him. He wasn’t easy to figure, because there was no favourite physical type. Katharine Hepburn and Barbara Stanwyck didn’t look at all alike, although they both played feisty females. Ava Gardner did smouldering passion. Yet the star who surprised Helene with Marc’s reaction was the young Barbara Windsor, falling out of her dress in a Carry On film with Sid James.
‘It’s Molière!’ Marc exclaimed. ‘An absolute rip-off. Brilliant. And that guy’s laugh!’
‘I know. If I was doing the Desert Island Discs thing I’d take Sid James’s laugh. Then I’d never feel lonely.’
‘Do you often feel lonely?’
‘No. Solitary, yes. And isolated, in the sense of not being like other people.’
It was too late in the evening, and she was too tired for a philosophical discussion. Besides, Barbara Windsor had fallen out of her top again.
‘I heard a story about her and Sid James,’ Helene said. ‘They were in the studio canteen and he said, You know, Babs, I just don’t get it. Sitting here, your boobs look, well, pretty ordinary. Yet when you’re up there on screen, they’re bloody enormous. How do you do it?’
‘Simple, Sid,’ she said. ‘It’s called acting.’
> Talking to Marc, Helene was careful to censor anything indiscreet about Jean-Paul, and of course she made no direct allusion to their lovelife. Offspring were, she knew, not just uninterested in parental sex life, they were often horrified just to think of it.
So she mentioned, casually, ‘When you had dinner with your father before the Ripping Velcro concert – oh he did enjoy that!’
‘What, the gig!’
‘No, being with you. Having time together. But what I wondered …what exactly did he say about me?’
Helene would have staked her life that Jean-Paul would never have said, Christ! What a little raver. On the other hand, men tended to be boastful and Jean-Paul was at an age when he was conscious that he, as the rutting stag, must make way for a younger beast. If he’d had a lot to drink to anaesthetise himself against the threatening dementia of Ripping Velcro…
Mark lit a cigarette. ‘Well, first he told me about his heart condition. He was calm about it. Obviously didn’t want to alarm me. And then he said that in London he’d met someone very special. How he’d borrowed your Evening Standard and the next day he took you to lunch. I was curious, naturally, to know what you were like and he said charming and very – you know the French word sympa?’
‘Empathetic?’ Helene hazarded.
‘Exact. Anyway, he was looking for a new tenant and he sensed you were ready for a change. You were from one of those loose-knit Brit families who are quite close, but don’t live close. So he put the idea of Paris to you and, well, here you are.’
Must have been a black ski run for Jean-Paul, Helene surmised, but he’d pulled it off, with a finesse that was coming through in his son, even though the 23-year old was now chain-smoking.
‘The only problem was, Helene, the letter. I’d promised I’d bring it to you, but when he gave it to me I wasn’t wearing a jacket, so I stuffed it into the back pocket of my jeans and the envelope got all creased.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I ironed it.’
Helene was incredibly touched. She had to stop herself from touching him, giving him, at the very least, a loving hug.
The Price of Love Page 14