We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  Eventually, when they’ve finished chatting, Katie hands the phone to me.

  ‘Hi . . . Mum. Thanks for everything, I don’t know what I’d have done without you tonight.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ I say with a smile, appreciating her thanks. ‘Now you go and get some sleep and we’ll see you tomorrow. The girls are safe and happy, James is fine, so you need to look after yourself now.’

  I’m about to put the phone down when I hear her say something.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, sweetie?’

  ‘Did Peter really video the dancing?’

  ‘Yes, he knew you wouldn’t want to miss it.’

  ‘I didn’t . . . I . . . Will you say thank you to him?’

  ‘Yes, of course, he was happy to do it.’

  This isn’t praise, it isn’t acceptance, that will take time – but for Anna this is huge.

  I put down the phone, glowing with something like happiness. For once all is right in our world, James is well, Anna’s okay and Isobel is oblivious and enjoying a much-needed holiday with Richard. But best of all my granddaughters are happy and here . . . and so is Peter.

  I wander into the living room where he is now setting up the video so we can watch the performance again. I’m just about to go back into the kitchen when I see Emma playing with his expensive new camera and for a moment I feel rather on the spot. If she messes up his settings he’ll be upset, but I don’t want him to be put in the position of having to ask her to put it down – that will embarrass them both.

  ‘It’s Peter’s new one, very special,’ I say lightly, hoping she’ll get the hint and perhaps put it down before he realises. But she doesn’t flinch, so I laughingly add, ‘I was told off when I picked it up. I’m not allowed to play with that camera.’

  ‘No, you’re not allowed anywhere near it,’ he says from behind the TV set. ‘But Emma is because she knows what she’s doing.’ I am so relieved, I stick my tongue out at him and Emma laughs and continues to twiddle with all the buttons.

  I go into the kitchen, make sandwiches and hot chocolate and bring it all back out on a tray.

  ‘Come on, Rosie, we are about to have the Royal Command Performance in here,’ Peter’s saying.

  ‘I’m just the usherette serving refreshments,’ I laugh, settling the tray down on the coffee table.

  ‘Shall we have some wine too?’ he asks.

  ‘The expensive one, for special occasions?’

  ‘Yes, this is a special occasion,’ he agrees, smiling. ‘It’s Katie’s film debut, so bring four glasses.’ The girls, particularly Katie, are delighted at this (I expect Emma prefers something stronger) and I pour two small glasses for them and hand them over. Peter is talking light metres with Emma as she sips her wine and I realise he doesn’t know how to be around children – so he simply treats them like adults. And they love it.

  After we’ve watched Peter’s film, the girls are tired and head off to bed hugging both of us goodnight, which clearly touches him.

  ‘Thank you for tonight,’ I say, snuggling up to him on the sofa, finally alone. ‘The wine that probably cost a month’s salary has been quaffed, and I know it hasn’t been the most romantic evening.’

  ‘No, romance was definitely off the cards tonight,’ he says, pouring the last dregs of the wine into our glasses. ‘I’ll admit I brought this wine along with romance in mind. But . . . ’ he turns to look at me, ‘tonight has been one of the best nights of my life.’

  I laugh. I think he’s joking until I look up to see his eyes are red-rimmed.

  ‘Peter . . . really? One of the best?’ I put my arm around him.

  He nods. ‘All the stuff kids do, the way they are – joking and being kids and Katie being thrilled with the film and Emma wanting to know about photography. It probably happens all the time for you, but I’ve never known it. I felt appreciated, like I was needed, I’m helping Emma with her project and Katie says she’s put a photo of the flowers I gave her on Facebook. They are just so kind and funny and bright. I love the energy kids have and tonight I realised children don’t have to be your blood for you to pass on your ideas, your photos . . . your immortality.’

  I look into his eyes and know if I want this I could have it all – he is not only accepting, but embracing, and will, in time, be accepted in turn. We kiss and I’m just about to suggest we go to bed when Emma appears in her dressing gown.

  ‘Hey, I’ve just been looking through these, Peter,’ she says, holding her iPhone. ‘I was wondering what you thought about them. Are they strong enough for my project?’

  Peter looks tired and I wouldn’t blame him if he suggests they look at the photos tomorrow, but he puts down his glass and taking the phone from her says, ‘Talk me through them.’

  ‘Budge up, Nan,’ she says, and plonks herself between us, scrolling through the photos which I have to say are brilliant (I know, I know I’m biased). Peter seems genuinely impressed and as they talk about the light and the composition and the structure I join in and Emma seems quite surprised at my contribution.

  ‘Your nana was the best artist at college,’ Peter says. ‘That’s where you get it from.’

  ‘I know, she’s almost as cool as you,’ she says, and winks at me. She then takes my glass of wine with the few precious dregs left and knocks it back.

  ‘Hey, Peter, that’s some good shit,’ she says.

  ‘It sure is.’ He smiles.

  Later, in bed, we talk about Emma’s photos and Peter says he thinks she has a real talent.

  ‘Is that why you let her play with your camera?’ I say, giggling.

  ‘I nearly died when she picked it up,’ he sighs. ‘I was worried she’d change the settings or drop it, but as it happens she discovered a few things about it that I didn’t know. So it just shows you.’

  I’m amazed, he must have really struggled with that yet never gave anything away.

  ‘That was kind of you, to hold your breath and let a sixteen-year-old mess with your favourite, profanely expensive camera.’

  ‘Yes, but you made me think about the way I am when you came to stay in Oxford the first time. You said that I wasn’t used to people messing with my things and if I had a family I wouldn’t be able to be so precious. And I thought if I’m going to be with Rosie and be part of her family life I’d better damn well get used to people messing with my stuff.’

  The following morning I wake later than usual to the smell of something cooking downstairs and at first I’m alarmed. Who the hell is in my kitchen? Then I remember that Peter’s here and so are the girls, which fills me with joy and I leap out of bed, put on my dressing gown and rush downstairs. I walk in the kitchen to be greeted by Peter at the stove wearing my pink apron.

  ‘Good morning, darling, we’re having pancakes,’ he says. ‘The girls requested it.’

  I go into the living room where both girls are lying across a sofa each on their phone and I return to the kitchen smiling.

  ‘The great Peter Moreton, famous photographer, world traveller, light-chaser, is in the kitchen cooking breakfast for my grandchildren,’ I say, going up to him and putting my arms around him, my cheek resting on his back.

  ‘And I’d rather be here than anywhere else on earth,’ he sighs.

  I set the table as he makes pancake after pancake, piling them on a plate, and I think about how much he always wanted children and how he’d told me he even envied his friends taking their children to the dentist. And as I pour the orange juice I realise that it’s not having children that changed Peter. When he was married he wanted children, but they were one of the few things he couldn’t have in life, and that’s why he appreciates what he might have had – and what he lost. But it’s only now that he’s ready – he has the time, the commitment and a new-found selflessness for kids in his life.

  ‘A tower of pancakes awaits,’ he calls, and the girls squeal and come running into the kitchen.

  We all sit round the table and Peter tells the girls abou
t his time selling doughnuts on the beaches of St-Tropez, working on yachts at Cannes, and his dream to paint in Paris.

  The girls sit transfixed, listening to his stories and tucking into their food.

  ‘Nan told me that you guys used to talk about going to Paris together. So why don’t you go now?’

  ‘That’s an idea.’ Peter smiles and looks at me.

  I smile back. ‘Yeah, that’s not a bad idea, Em.’

  Chapter Thirty-One

  When Anna arrives late on Sunday evening the girls are permanently glued to their phones in the living room, so I make a pot of tea and we sit at the kitchen table together.

  Peter drove back to Oxford late afternoon, offering email support to Emma for her project and promising to come back soon to work with her on it. Meanwhile, Anna had returned to her house with James to find his parents waiting anxiously on the doorstep. They are apparently now fussing round him which has irritated Anna.

  ‘I was glad of an excuse to get out of the house and come for the girls. I hate people in my house,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, Anna, you’re terrible, they’re his parents. Just think how you’d feel if it were Emma or Katie, you’d want to be with them,’ I say. ‘I’ve told you before, you need to try and put yourself in other people’s shoes . . . it will make you a more tolerant, and dare I say more pleasant person?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ she says, self-mocking. Anna’s always been able to laugh at herself – it’s her redeeming feature.

  Everyone’s relieved that James is going to be okay and Anna has a little weep – she’s tired and I just sit and listen while she tells me all about it.

  ‘Well, you’ll be glad to know everything’s been fine here,’ I say as I pour the tea into two cups. ‘The girls are great and we had a lovely evening watching Katie dance . . . Peter enjoyed it too,’ I add, looking at her. I am determined to mention him, he was wonderful with me and the girls and turned a potentially awful, worrying time into a fun one.

  She looks back at me and I can see she’s uncomfortable. ‘I was really scared yesterday,’ she says. ‘I just thought how awful it would be to lose James. I love him, you see?’

  I nod, reaching out to touch her hand across the table.

  ‘I’ve been confused. I wanted James to come and live with us because I was scared of losing him and then yesterday I just thought, Oh God I could lose him anyway. And I couldn’t bear to think about it, but the thing that upset me after the prospect of his death was the idea that I’d be alone. And I thought about you and how lonely you must have been when Dad died.’

  I nod. ‘Yes, but I had you and Isobel and the rest of the family.’

  ‘I know, and I’d have the girls, but could I really spend the rest of my life with no one for myself? I thought a lot about it while I was waiting in the hospital and I kept thinking about you . . . and Peter. I don’t want you to be lonely, Mum.’

  ‘I was prepared to be alone for ever, you know. I didn’t go out and look for someone when your dad died, Anna . . . Peter just kind of turned up in my life and it feels like fate.’

  ‘I know, I just think it’s worried me because I always felt that you and Dad were soulmates, you two were so good together. It scared me to think that you found the one for you and now you’re with someone else. And if even you can love someone else, then I have to question true love. Does “the right one” even exist?’

  ‘No, there’s no such thing as “the one”. There are probably lots of “the ones” for everybody. I loved your dad, but he wasn’t the only love of my life.’

  I think back to Mike, in our sitting room, who’d turned out to be as solid and reliable as my mother had predicted: If I was with you and we found out we were having a baby the first thing I’d do is ask you to marry me, he’d said. And it was at that moment I began to feel something for Mike. He was saying what I’d wanted Peter to say. The right words, the right time, the wrong man. And the autumn sunshine sank lower into a crisp blue sky as my summer with Peter faded, and lovely Mike with his kind eyes, steady job and reliable love offered me everything I needed.

  ‘So do you love Peter?’ Anna is saying, bringing me back to the present with a jolt.

  ‘Yes, I do. And he feels like “the one” now, at this time in my life, in the same way your dad was “the one” back then. I’ve told you before, I still love your dad, being with Peter doesn’t change that, but I’m not ready yet to give up on the idea of another love in my life.’

  ‘Mum, I’m sorry. I know I can be a bit full on . . . I just blurt out stuff I think without really considering it from someone else’s point of view. It breaks my heart when you talk about “second chances”, and I want you to love again. No one wants to think their life’s over or their legs are going to give up any minute.’

  ‘Because they are not,’ I say in a mock stern voice.

  She laughs. ‘And I think Peter’s good for you . . . ’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. I think he genuinely cares, and he makes you happy, what else is there?’

  ‘You’re right, it’s no more complicated than that . . . and thank you, darling, that means a lot.’

  I am so happy; dare I say it seems that Anna is finally beginning to accept my relationship? I know there will be dark and shade along the way, but I’m positive and it feels good. I hope that seeing me move forward and living for today will help her to move on with her own life, and ultimately feel more independent and at peace within her own relationships, too.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I’ve decided to take the bull by the horns and for Christmas I’m planning a Boxing Day gathering with all the family, including Peter.

  I told Anna she can like it or lump it but Peter’s here to stay and she said ‘good,’ which both stunned and delighted me. We’re in her kitchen – I’ve just dropped Katie and Emma off from school and we are sorting out our plans for the festive season. James is on the mend now – his injuries weren’t as bad as initially feared. He had some broken bones and was shaken up, as was Anna.

  ‘James’s injuries scared me to death, Mum, and I still feel like everything’s falling from my grasp. I can’t keep all my plates spinning,’ she says.

  ‘I know, sweetie, it’s called being a mum. You’re trying to keep everyone and everything safe – even your own mother! But there are times when those plates just have to fall, don’t beat yourself up about it.’

  She smiles. ‘I saw Peter’s picture, the one he did of you. Emma got it up on screen for me to see.’

  I almost died. ‘Oh no, not the one of me on the bed . . . he hasn’t put that on the internet, has he?’

  ‘What? No, the one when you were seventeen in the slums in Hulme. God, Mum, what do you mean the one of you on the bed? What the bloody hell have you been doing with him now?’

  ‘Nothing . . . I was going to say, if there are any pictures of me on a bed on the internet – it’s not . . . me.’

  At this point Emma walks in. ‘Nan, WTF? You’re not posting bedroom pics of yourself on the net?’

  ‘No, I’m not. Honestly, your mum misunderstood what I was saying.’ I smile at Emma, ignoring Anna’s look that says Oh no I didn’t.

  ‘Anyway, I just wanted to ask if you’ll come over on Boxing Day?’

  Anna nods. ‘Lovely, yes.’

  ‘I’m also inviting Peter and I want you to play nice,’ I say, looking straight at her.

  ‘Okay, okay, I’ll be lovely and kind and make everyone feel at home.’

  ‘Don’t, that would be weird, just be yourself,’ I say, and she giggles.

  ‘Peter’s cool,’ Emma’s saying. ‘I told our photography teacher about the photo of you, Nan, and he was well impressed. He says Peter’s a really famous photographer and he’s asked if he might come and do a talk. You can come too, Nan.’

  ‘Looks like Nan might be famous too with her bedroom pics. I’d get her to check her showbiz diary, Hugh Hefner’s booked her for January,’ An
na says under her breath.

  Emma pulls a horrified face and leaves the room and as Anna puts the kettle on Isobel arrives.

  ‘You look good, Mum,’ she says, giving me a hug. ‘I haven’t seen you for a few days, are you enjoying your time off? Do you want to come back to work yet?’

  ‘Oh no, I’ll come in if you need me, but I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Oh, exploring possibilities . . . new ideas.’

  ‘Really? Ooh, get her exploring her possibilities,’ Anna laughs, putting tea bags into three mugs.

  ‘Yes, get me! I’m not too old for possibilities. One day you’ll be my age and you will wonder what might have been . . . and if you’re lucky, you’ll be excited about what’s going to be.’

  She puts the mugs on the counter top.

  ‘Yeah . . . I like that. Let’s drink to what’s going to be.’ We all clink our mugs and sip our tea and I reach out my hands and hold theirs across the kitchen counter.

  ‘For the first time I’m actually thinking about next year and the one after that in a positive way . . . I’m happy, and that’s okay. I don’t feel guilty about feeling happy. Your dad would want that for all of us.’

  They both nod and Isobel squeezes my arm. ‘It’s all good, Mum.’

  ‘So you and Richard will come over on Boxing Day too?’

  ‘Of course, if only to keep an eye on Anna and make sure she behaves. But don’t worry, she’s got nothing against Peter, she told me she’d have been just as vile, bitter and resentful about anyone you went out with.’

  ‘Ah, that’s sweet,’ I say sarcastically, my head on one side, smiling at Anna.

  They both laugh as we finish our tea and make final arrangements for Boxing Day.

  ‘So I want you all to come at two p.m. prompt,’ I say as I leave. ‘Oh, and I’ll have an announcement to make.’

  ‘What?’ Isobel calls after me.

  ‘You’ll have to wait until everyone’s together and I can tell you all at once,’ I say, taking my coat from the hook in the hall. I wander back towards the kitchen where they are both still at the counter and pop my head round the door. ‘And FYI, as Emma would say, if you don’t approve of what I have to tell you – then LFOL!’