The French House

by Nick Alexander

  I laugh. ‘If only that were true.’

  Victor smiles at me. ‘You’re right, of course,’ he says. ‘I suppose when these things come up, we just have to try to remember what’s important and what isn’t.’

  ‘You and me,’ I say.

  ‘And . . .’ he says, nodding in the direction of my tummy.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my vision suddenly becoming watery again.

  ‘You’re crying,’ Victor says. ‘I know.’

  ‘When I met you, you said you wanted to live on a farm, that you hated beards, and you never ever cried.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘See what you did to me?’

  LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER

  I see Mum’s battered Volvo the second I step out of the train station. I wave, but she toots me anyway.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she says as I climb in. ‘How was the trip? I suppose you’re all annoyed because the train was late? Still, never mind, it’s nothing a slice of cake and a cup of tea won’t fix.’

  ‘Actually, I’m fine, Mum,’ I say as I fasten my seatbelt.

  ‘Well, you’ll feel better once you’ve had a cuppa,’ she says, characteristically discounting what I just said. ‘Anyway, I’m so glad you could come at short notice,’ she continues, pulling away from the pick-up point. ‘Because I need to talk to you about the wedding arrangements. The thing is . . .’

  She lurches out onto the main road, right in front of a Smart car, which blares its horn at us angrily.

  ‘Beep away!’ she mutters. ‘Honestly, everyone’s in such a hurry these days. What is it they call it? Road rage?’

  ‘It was his right of way,’ I point out.

  ‘Well, there’s still no reason he couldn’t let me out,’ she says, now waving in her rear-view mirror at the poor guy. ‘It’s not like he’s going anywhere fast; he’s only heading for another traffic jam farther up. Anyway, the thing is that poor Adam has been having a horrible time with his family.’

  ‘Ever since that bust up you had with them all?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, ever since the “bust up”, as you call it.’ She lets go of the steering wheel in order to do the speech marks for ‘bust up’, so I make a grab for it myself.

  ‘You always were a nervous passenger,’ she says as she seizes the wheel and brushes my hand away. ‘It started when you did your driving test.’

  ‘I’d just rather you held the wheel, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m old-fashioned that way.’

  ‘So he has a trip booked for the twentieth, and I found a registry office in Weybridge that can fit us in on the twenty-fourth.’

  ‘The twenty-fourth of April?!’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit soon, Mum? That’s in two weeks!’

  ‘Well, that’s what I need to talk to you about. Because I don’t even know where to start, and you’ve always been so good at organising things, haven’t you?’

  ‘But why so soon, Mum? Why rush it?’

  ‘I told you, dear. Adam’s family are being horrid, and he’s lost his job at the hotel. I think it’s all linked, but he insists that it isn’t. But anyway, the best thing is if we can just get everything sorted out so that the poor little soldier doesn’t have to go back to it all unless he wants to.’

  ‘God, Mum, the twenty-fourth of April?’

  ‘Even though it’s only going to be a small affair, I’m worried there won’t be time. Which is where your famed organisational skills come into play. Your father was good at that planning lark, too. Not that I could have asked him to help with this one, but anyway, if we could sit down together and work it all out on one of your computer-sheet thingies . . .’

  As we negotiate the route home, she continues to blather on in a random manner about Saddam and Morocco, and the wedding, and her friend Poppy who she had hoped would help, but who seems to have gone unexpectedly cold on her, which may or may not be because she’s having an affair, but more likely is because she doesn’t approve.

  When I’m on my way to meet someone, I often imagine the conversation that we will have, and today I had imagined that we would be celebrating my pregnancy by now. But as Mum waffles on and on, and as it all washes over me, I come to realise that getting this wedding even postponed is going to be challenge enough, let alone getting her to reconsider the whole thing.

  Still talking nine to the dozen, she parks the car and leads me into the house, where she hangs up her coat and puts the kettle on.

  ‘So my feeling is, that if Poppy doesn’t want to get involved, well, she can go hang herself. I don’t think that I even want to invite her any more, though I probably will, because, well, you just don’t undo thirty years of friendship.’ She turns from the kettle to face me, and pauses. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asks.

  ‘Nothing, Mum. I’m just listening.’

  ‘Your arms are folded,’ she says.

  ‘And?’ I ask, uncrossing them self-consciously.

  ‘You never cross your arms unless you’re angry. You used to stamp your little feet, too, but that stopped when you were about thirteen. But you look just the same right now.’

  ‘I’m not angry, Mum,’ I insist. ‘I’m just listening.’

  ‘Hum,’ she says. ‘Am I going on too much? Is that it?’

  I shrug.

  ‘So that is it. OK, what’s been going on with you, then? Anything much?’

  I snort and raise one eyebrow. ‘Oh, this and that,’ I say.

  She squints at me, staring right into my eyes and furrows her brow.

  ‘Come here,’ she says. ‘You look like you need a hug.’

  Feigning reluctance, I cross the kitchen and she wraps her arms around me. But the truth is that it feels nice. We never were a tactile family, and this kind of physical contact has always felt like stolen treasure.

  ‘So what’s been happening?’ she asks again.

  ‘As I say, nothing much. Victor’s aunt tried to kill me. We split up. I was homeless. We got back together. I’m pregnant.’

  ‘You’re pregnant?’ she says.

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  ‘And are you happy about that?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Then that’s a good thing,’ she says, squeezing me, and then pulling back. ‘Let me finish the tea and you can have a slice of Battenberg and tell me all about it.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘And I don’t want to sound like a one track record here, but that’s another reason to get this wedding sorted out as soon as possible.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, people are being difficult enough about our age difference, without waiting until I’m a grandmother to boot!’

  Over tea and multicoloured slices of cake – Battenberg was my favourite when I was about five, a preference lodged, in stasis, in my mother’s mind ever since – I recount the last two months, and amazingly, for once, she listens.

  At one point, she even interjects, ‘And that’s when you phoned me and I didn’t believe you. Gosh, I’m terrible, aren’t I? Am I a terrible mother, do you think?’

  When I have finished my tale of woe and reached the happy ending, she says, ‘Well, you have had a rough time of it, haven’t you?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s not been fabulous, frankly. It’s certainly not how I imagined being in love was going to be.’

  ‘Is it ever?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But we’re OK now, and that’s the main thing.’

  ‘And Victor’s already back in France, you say?’

  ‘He’s travelling back today. He stayed to come to the doctor’s with me. I wanted to check everything was OK. With the pregnancy and stuff.’

  ‘I would have thought he could have done that himself,’ Mum says.

  ‘Yes, I know. But he thought it was better this way.’

  ‘It’s a shame he’s gone. I was so looking forward to meeting him.’

  ‘I know, but there’s plenty of time for all that, Mum. Thirty or forty years, hopefully.’

/>   ‘You always were ambitious.’

  ‘Well, I waited a long time for Victor to come along.’

  ‘I know,’ Mum says. ‘And I know how that feels.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say vaguely.

  ‘Anyway, everything’s OK with Victor and everything’s OK with the baby?’

  ‘It is,’ I tell her. ‘I’m about seven weeks gone, apparently. They did some blood tests and stuff, so I’ll have to wait for those, but everything seems OK.’

  ‘Did they tell you if it’s a boy or a girl?’

  ‘It’s too early to tell.’

  ‘Of course. And names?’

  ‘We’re nowhere near that yet,’ I tell her.

  ‘Gosh, I’m so excited,’ Mum says.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’m dreading being called Granny, but it is exciting. It’s the best wedding present you could give me, really. And Saddam loves kids too. I saw him with his nieces and nephews.’

  I must sigh or something, because Mum says, ‘What? I’m happy for you and Victor. Why can’t you be happy for me?’

  ‘I’m trying, Mum,’ I say. ‘I’m doing my best. But you have to admit, it’s unconventional to say the least.’

  ‘And since when did you give a damn about being unconventional?’

  ‘You’re right. Really, I’m trying, Mum. And if you’re still sure about this, then I promise I’ll try harder, OK?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. It’s not complicated. He makes me happy.’

  ‘But you don’t have to marry him in a rush in two weeks, do you?

  ‘I don’t have to do anything. I want to. And I know you don’t approve. Giles told me that you think he’s a gold digger.’

  Giles is Dad’s old colleague from the legal practice. I had a supposedly secret conversation with Giles about Mum’s new boyfriend.

  ‘I didn’t exactly say that, Mum.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s drawn up a pre-nup agreement. So can you just relax about it all and help me make it happen?’

  ‘Even if I do stay, Mum, two weeks is pushing it.’

  ‘You always said you liked deadlines.’

  ‘That was in advertising. This is different.’

  ‘You said you worked best under pressure.’

  It’s undeniable that I have said this many times, so I don’t argue.

  ‘So there’s your challenge. Organise a wedding, a reception, and your dotty old mother’s outfit in two weeks.’

  I smile weakly at her and shake my head. ‘You’re barking mad, you know that?’

  Mum winks at me. ‘Like mother, like daughter. Humour me.’

  I nod.

  ‘Now have another piece of this cake. I bought it specially for you because it’s your favourite.’

  JE L’AIME

  Mark dashes across the car park and hurls himself into the car. ‘Jesus Christ!’ he exclaims.

  ‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ I laugh. ‘The only thing I forgot to book was decent weather! Anyway, hello you!’

  ‘Hello, sweetie!’ Mark says, holding his wet coat away from me as he leans over to give me a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Thanks for coming. I honestly don’t think I could have faced it on my own.’

  ‘No worries,’ Mark says. ‘So, time for a pint, or not time for a pint? That is the question.’

  ‘I can’t. Mum’s on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Saddam hasn’t said a word for twenty-four hours. I’m not even sure if he’ll manage “I do”. I need to get back there.’ Peering out through the rain, I pull out of the station car park and onto the main road.

  ‘So how are you?’ Mark asks.

  ‘Knackered. I’ve been managing a very demanding princess and organising her wedding for two weeks.’

  ‘Has it been bad?’

  ‘Well, Mum’s never been the easiest person, you know . . . But it’s been OK, I guess. She just changes her mind all the time about every detail. It’s exhausting.’

  ‘Is it a big do?’

  ‘No. Mum doesn’t know that many people, really. At her age, quite a few of them have already moved on, if the truth be told. There’s eight of us for the service and twelve back at the house.’

  ‘Twelve can’t be that hard to organise, can it?’ Mark says.

  I shrug. ‘Well, Mum wanted it to look like four weddings and a funeral, even if it is tiny.’

  ‘Without the funeral hopefully,’ Mark laughs.

  ‘Well yes. So we have a gazebo – not that we’ll be able to use it in this rain – and a DJ . . .’

  ‘Ooh, do I get to dance?’

  ‘If you like waltzes. Mum specified the music, and found this really decrepit DJ. I feel a bit sorry for Saddam, really, but I guess that’s what you get if you marry an oldie.’

  ‘And Victor’s stuck in France, huh?’ Mark asks, fiddling in his satchel and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. ‘Can I smoke in here?’

  ‘If you open the window a bit,’ I say, ‘and yes, Victor’s stuck in Nice because of all the fog.’

  ‘I saw on the news. Three hundred flights cancelled at Heathrow or something.’

  ‘Victor was flying to Gatwick, but his flight was still cancelled. He’s been on standby since yesterday, but so far zilch. I’m really quite heartbroken about it all, but . . .’

  ‘So how is everything now? Did you get all your issues sorted? You look fabulous, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I’m wearing a rather expensive Whistles dress that my mother treated me to. It disguises my swelling boobs wonderfully. ‘You’re looking jolly dashing, too. Shiny, but dashing.’

  ‘Shiny suits are in,’ Mark tells me, fiddling with his tie. ‘It’s the whole fifties thing.’

  ‘I’m just not used to seeing you look so suave.’

  ‘That’s Iain’s influence. He keeps buying me cufflinks and ties. In the end, you have to take the hint. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. How’s stuff between you and Victor?’

  ‘It’s all fine . . . Jesus! This rain!’ I turn the wipers onto full speed and slow down. ‘I haven’t seen him for two weeks, of course, but he phones every day, and the house is just about finished.’

  ‘Does this mean you’ll be going back there?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. We need to have another talk about all that.’

  ‘So you’re not keen.’

  ‘No . . . No, not keen would be an understatement. And what about you? How are things with Iain?’

  ‘Fine. Perfect, actually.’

  ‘And all that open relationship stuff?’

  Mark shrugs. ‘It’s all sorted. He had a revelation one morning and stopped shagging around.’

  ‘Really!’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘What caused that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mark says. ‘I think he just thought about it all and decided that I was right. His sexuality is based on a lot of fantasy stuff, so we’re being a bit more experimental. That seems to be enough for him for now.’

  ‘Hmm. Not sure I need to know about that.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing that freaky,’ Mark says. ‘But he likes guys in suits, bikers in leather, and that kind of stuff . . .’

  ‘It sounds like the Village People,’ I say.

  ‘It is a bit. But anyway, we’ve been experimenting more. I’m managing to keep him satisfied better now. I’m sure we’ll have rampant sex when I get home in this little number.’

  ‘Well that’s good.’

  ‘It is. It’s been fun. But yes, since we had our big talk, we’ve been totally in love, really.’

  Just for a second, I consider telling Mark of the conversation I had with Iain. Ultimately, though, I decide that I may never know what influence my harsh words had, and that even if I did somehow contribute to saving their relationship, it’s probably better if Mark never knows this.

  ‘You must come round for dinner again, next time you’re in London. Iain seems to really like you.’

  It’s as much as I can manage to keep the
shock off my face.

  ‘What about you?’ Mark asks. ‘Did Vic believe you about the witch woman in the end?’

  ‘Yes. Well, it turned out that it wasn’t his aunt who was doing it. It was her girlfriend, Carole.’

  ‘So she’s a lezzer?’

  ‘Apparently so. And a jealous one, at that. She thought I was going to steal Victor’s aunt away or something.’

  ‘Erhhh,’ Mark says. ‘You said she was rancid.’

  ‘Well, not rancid, maybe, but I wouldn’t say she was a looker. But Carole loves her, apparently. She was prepared to fight to the death for her, it would seem.’ I put the indicators on and swing onto the drive of Rylston Manor.

  ‘Wow,’ Mark says. ‘I thought we were going to a registry office.’

  ‘This is the registry office. Nice, huh?’

  ‘Very! And are they all here already?’

  ‘I brought Mum and Saddam before I came to get you. The others hadn’t arrived yet. There’s only eight of us at this bit anyway.’

  ‘What’s he like then, Saddam? Do you like him now?’

  I park the car and switch off the engine. Rain drums against the roof.

  ‘He’s shy. Quiet. Overawed by everything. You’ll see.’

  ‘And do you like him?’

  I shrug.

  ‘OK,’ Mark says, nodding at the door. ‘Let’s do this thing!’

  We jump from the car and run towards the manor as fast as my heels will allow. The main hall is chock-a-block with the previous wedding group, so we struggle to even get in out of the rain.

  ‘We’re in the little room,’ I tell him, grabbing his hand and pulling him through the crowd and along the hall-way.

  When we enter, the only person present is my mother. She is standing in the bay window, looking out at the rain.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ I ask.

  She turns and smiles at me weakly. ‘Bloody weather! Still . . .’

  We pull off our wet coats and hang them on the coat stand and I now see Mark’s fifties suit in all its glory. It is made of a rough silky weave, and is beautifully tailored. He is wearing a white shirt with a pinned collar and a thin grey silk tie. ‘You do look amazing today,’ I say.

  Mum crosses the floor to join us. ‘Hello. Mark, isn’t it?’