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The Next Best Thing

Page 24

by Sarah Long


  ‘I want to go to the toilet,’ said Liberty, looking up from her comic.

  Jane stood up to go with her, leaving Will to sulk over his newspaper. She looked back at him, cross and out of sorts, his battered briefcase lying on his lap like a badge of intellectual superiority.

  During take-off, Liberty stared out of the window in fascination at the receding landscape while Jane squeezed her daughter’s hand tightly and tried not to think about air disasters. She had never heard of an Easyjet plane crashing, and there was no reason why that should change today. Once they were up above the clouds, Liberty plugged herself into her Discman like a miniature teenager, and sat back with her eyes closed, quite at ease in this modern world that was constantly on the move.

  The sight of her daughter made Jane happy. She stroked the back of Liberty’s hand, running her fingers over the thin white line above the wrist where she had been stitched after falling from her bike. She had a parent’s intimate knowledge of her child, could identify the precise location of the chicken-pox scars behind her knees and the mole on her back, the way her second toe grew longer than the first. But, in a few years, her daughter would grow tall and leave home. She would no longer require her mother’s cosseting, except perhaps when things went wrong, when someone let her down, when she had her own child.

  And then what? Would Jane settle down to a comfortable old age with Will, who at this moment was sitting beside her, writing in the leather-bound notebook that he never travelled without. She found it impossible to imagine how it would be when they no longer had Liberty at home. Perhaps they might move house, to something smaller back in Notting Hill, or maybe to the country. If things went well, they might be able to afford both. To be honest, she really didn’t care.

  She closed her eyes to sleep and thought about Rupert. He would be waiting for them, having arrived last night with Lydia to open up the house. She couldn’t wait for him to show her the garden, the kitchen, the view from the terrace as he had described it to her. She had a picture of it in her head that was already tinged with nostalgia, filled with regret for the life with him she might have had if things had been different.

  The plane touched down on time and in bright sunshine. Jane unfastened Liberty’s seat belt and gently shook her awake.

  ‘Mercifully short, at least,’ said Will, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. ‘Do you realise you couldn’t get from Shepherds Bush to Soho in a taxi for the price of that flight? It does make you wonder what’s wrong with the world.’ Half an hour later he stood apart, looking pained in his crumpled linen suit, while Jane and Liberty queued at the car-hire desk.

  Outside, it was warm, the kind of spring day that makes British people wonder why they don’t move to the South of France. The kind of spring day that makes so many decide to do that very thing.

  ‘Not exactly Scott and Zelda, is it?’ Will said as they got into the Fiat Multipla, which was shaped like a frog, with three seats spread across the front row. ‘Bloody ridiculous thing, what on earth made you choose this?’

  ‘It was on special offer.’

  There was a brief tussle when Liberty was denied the extra front seat on safety grounds and strapped into the back, then Will was issued with a road map while Jane got behind the wheel.

  ‘We need to head for Aix on the A51, then the A8 going east,’ she said.

  Will sighed. A Fiat Multipla on special offer from Avis rent-a-car, it wasn’t exactly poetry. He wished he was back in the 1920s, winding his way down through the mountains in a curvy open-top sports car, catching glimpses of the Mediterranean, sparkling blue through the grey-green Cezanne landscape. That was before the Cote d’Azur was ruined. At least they were heading inland and would be spared the excesses of coastal development.

  He checked the map then shook his head in disapproval. ‘We should have flown to Nice instead of Marseille, it makes far more sense. We could have stayed for longer on the motorway, it would have saved us at least an hour.’

  ‘It’s about the same, I checked on the map.’ She was sick of the way Will left all the planning to her and then criticised the end result. She would like to be the one relaxing in the passenger scat, offering her opinion on his choice of route.

  ‘You need to take that turn-off,’ he said half an hour later, as they whizzed past the motorway exit.

  ‘You could give me a bit more notice!’ said Jane. ‘I’ll have to go on to the next one now.’

  ‘I thought you knew we wanted the D560 for Barjols. There’s no need to shoot the messenger, I’m merely pointing out that you appear to have missed the turning.’

  Once they were off the motorway, the road began to twist and turn, heading up into the hills through a series of villages, backed by forests and rolling hills. It was surprisingly green, and danced in the sunlight, which was coming through strongly now the morning mists had lifted. It was quite enchanting, and even Will didn’t find anything to complain about, in spite of his best attempts to pick out evidence of tourist pollution.

  The best he could manage was foreign numberplates. ‘Look at that,’ he said, as they drove through a particularly charming village. ‘Dutch cars, Belgian cars, and of course the ubiquitous British. I don’t suppose there’s any such thing now as a real French village. Did you know the French call us Les GBs after our car stickers?’

  ‘Yes, I did actually,’ said Jane, irritated. ‘You may recall that I have a degree in modern languages and also work as a French translator.’

  ‘We don’t reciprocate, though, do we?’ he continued. ‘It’s not as if we call them “the Fs”. Though I suppose that’s because they never come to England. When was the last time you saw a French car in Britain?’

  For the rest of the journey, he entertained Jane with an analysis of the rise of the British motoring holiday, with a special mention for his particular pet hate, the touring caravan, which clogged up the roads and defaced the countryside, the late-modern equivalent of Betjeman’s bungalow eczema. The Dutch were even worse offenders, he told her, and widely loathed by the French for stocking up on their wretchedly bland cheese and ham before leaving home and spending the minimum in their host country. In some campsites, you even got a Dutch van selling the stuff in situ.

  His tirade went uninterrupted until they drove past the entrance to a castellated restaurant high on a hill, at which point Will leaned across Jane to take a better look. ‘Now that is Michelin two-star, and well worth a visit. I might see if I can get a free dinner, say I’ll review it for the paper.’

  It was shortly after this and only a few kilometres away from their destination when Jane heard a bang and realised she must have driven over something. ‘Did you hear that?’ she asked. ‘I hope I haven’t got a puncture.’

  Her fears proved well-founded as she felt the car lurching to one side, but they managed to limp on to a lay-by, where she parked and got out to inspect the tyre which was deflating softly before her eyes.

  ‘It’s a damn nuisance,’ she shouted back to Will, ‘though I suppose it could be worse. I could be by myself with darkness falling and the wolves creeping out of the trees.’

  ‘The wolves I could cope with,’ said Will, ‘but I do hope you’re not expecting me to change a wheel.’

  ‘Oh come on, Will, everyone knows how to change a wheel. Even me, luckily.’

  He held up his hand in self-defence. ‘Give me my due, Jane, you know perfectly well I don’t do cars.’

  ‘Well you’re a load of bloody use then.’

  She found the toolbox behind the seat, then slid deftly under the car with a spanner to release the spare wheel. Luckily she hadn’t dressed up for the flight; she couldn’t imagine her equivalent of Will’s grey linen would respond too well to such treatment.

  In spite of her confidence, it proved more difficult than she’d imagined, and after several attempts with the jack, she realised she would need to call for help. Will was reading in the passenger seat, having done his duty by finding her the rele
vant page in the car manual. Liberty was sleeping, still catching up on her early start to the day.

  She took her phone from her bag and called Rupert’s number, walking away from the car.

  Will stuck his head out of the window and asked her what she was doing.

  ‘Getting some help,’ she said.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Rupert.’

  ‘Why don’t you call the French AA?’

  ‘I don’t need the AA, I just need someone with a bit of muscle and common sense.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on him being any more use than me.’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘How come you’ve got his number?’

  I’m well-organised, remember. All-round handyman and travel rep, and I never travel without the right numbers. Rupert, thank goodness,’ she said when he answered, ‘I need you.’

  ‘I need you too,’ he said, and she could hear the pleasure in his voice. ‘Are you nearly here? I’ve just put some coffee on.’

  ‘No, I mean I really need you.’ She explained about the flat tyre and her failure to engage with the jack.

  ‘No problem, where did you say you were?’

  ‘Just a bit after a posh restaurant called the Tour de something, with a load of flags flying.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  Jane got back in the car to wait. Fourteen minutes later he arrived in a battered old Jeep, tooting his horn as he came down the hill, pulling across the road to park in front of them.

  He jumped out of the car and came towards them, a picture of masculine capability. He was wearing old jeans of the functional variety and a faded denim shirt that Jane felt inclined to rip from his broad body.

  ‘Good to see you Will,’ he said, extending his hand through the passenger window. ‘What an extraordinary car,’ he added. ‘Was this your choice?’

  Will’s jaw tightened as he shook Rupert’s hand. ‘Jane assures me it was on promotion,’ he said, as though the words were a personal affront. ‘I leave these things to her, though needless to say I wouldn’t have chosen such a ludicrous vehicle. But cars are not my thing, especially not when they go wrong.’

  ‘Of course, I remember now, you don’t do cars.’

  Will glared at him. Was he taking the piss? And how did he know that Will didn’t drive?

  ‘Lydia told me,’ Rupert added quickly, ‘she said that Jane was the driver.’ He looked across at her, sitting nervously behind the wheel. ‘Come on then, Jane,’ he said, ‘let’s get on with it.’

  Will picked up his book, anxious to distance himself from this humiliating episode. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it takes three British tourists to change the wheel of a rental Fiat Multipla.’

  ‘No indeed.’

  Jane followed Rupert to the back of the car and watched him work. ‘I’ve never seen you out of a suit before,’ she whispered. ‘It suits you.’

  He looked up at her, his red-blonde hair falling over his eyes as he turned the wheel. ‘Clothes have never been my thing,’ he said, straightening up and wiping his oily hands on his jeans, ‘I’ve never seen what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Nor had I until I saw you just now in your rugged outdoor wear,’ said Jane. It reminded her of all those Harrison Ford movies, real men battling with real tasks.

  He touched her lightly on the cheek and her heart missed a beat.

  The wheel was soon in place, and the punctured tyre replaced beneath the chassis.

  ‘All done then,’ he said, sliding out from under the car, ‘you can follow me for the rest of the way.’

  He got back into his Jeep and set off up the hill, pausing for a minute to wait for Jane to catch him up. She started the engine and drove up behind him, admiring the set of his shoulders silhouetted against the windscreen. How did she get herself in this situation? Driving in convoy behind the man she desired, while locked in grim silence with her life partner, who was still rigid with irritation at having to be rescued.

  She should have called out a proper mechanic in overalls instead of making him look like a pansy in front of that bloody banker, Will thought. He was the explorer, after all, the one who was supposed to take charge in unforeseen circumstances. He should never have agreed to this holiday.

  They reached the brow of the hill, then followed Rupert down the gently winding road, shaded by grey-green trees.

  Jane had never expected it to be so lush, you could grow anything here. Liberty was awake now and back on chatty form.

  ‘That man is good at fixing cars,’ she said.

  ‘He only changed a wheel,’ said Will, ‘it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to unscrew a few bolts.’

  ‘And then he fixed Mum’s other car too. Didn’t he, Mum?’ She tapped her mother on the shoulder.

  ‘Did he? I don’t remember,’ Jane said brightly, her voice brittle in anticipation of what might follow.

  ‘Yes, he did, when you came to get me from school and you couldn’t find your keys and he came by in a taxi to give them back to you.’ ‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ said Jane in a giveaway nonchalant voice, ‘so he did.’

  She glanced quickly across at Will, but she needn’t have worried. He had pulled the vanity mirror down and was performing his anti-ageing exercises, which involved sticking his forefingers inside his upper lip and moving them about in order to maintain the elasticity.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it, Daddy,’ Liberty went on, like a dog with a bone. ‘That man is good at fixing cars.’

  ‘If you say so, sweetheart,’ Will said indulgently. ‘And I must admit cars are not my own strong point. But then I never had pretensions to being an oily rag. Each to his own, I say, or, as we are in France, A chacun son true’

  Jane’s relief at not being blown out did not extend to hearing Will slag off Rupert as a rude mechanical. ‘I wouldn’t say that being able to change a wheel qualifies you as an oily rag,’ she said. ‘I would say it was all part of being a fully functioning human being.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Will.

  They reached Rupert’s village and followed him through the main street, past the old market place and the fountain spring and the stone troughs where the women used to come to do their washing. Then up a side street which led into open country, with views down to the valley. A few minutes later he turned up a steep stony track which led them through high metal gates into a forecourt shaded by cypress trees, beyond which stood a sumptuous stone mas. A row of generous windows with soft green shutters gave out onto a terrace lined with massive terracotta pots bleached pale by the sun, filled with lavender, rosemary, cistus, sage, and other herbs that Jane couldn’t wait to identify. From the terrace, steps led down to a discreet pool like a giant fish pond, hedged in by flower borders, and beyond that the lawn stretched seamlessly into the distant landscape.

  Jane stepped out of the car and looked around her. It was so entirely perfect, she couldn’t see how she could ever leave. Rupert was watching her anxiously, reading her response.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I think . . . it’s like all my escapist fantasies rolled into one. I don’t know why you would want to live anywhere else.’

  ‘I’m working on it, as you know,’ he said quietly. He led her up to the house, stopping on the terrace to look at the early rock roses coming through, and the herb garden, aromatic with basil and thyme, lemongrass and tarragon. ‘I’d have a proper vegetable garden, if I lived here all the time,’ he said. ‘Ten sorts of tomatoes and ratte potatoes, and garrigue strawberries do very well round here, you know, those orangey-red ones, small oval shape.’

  It was cruel of him to draw so clear a picture of a perfect life that she had decided she could not share with him. It was like wheeling a trolley of delicious food past a fasting man, tormenting him with delectable smells of what he must refuse.

  Lydia came out of the house to greet them, wearing a pale pink suit and holding a jug of steaming coffee. She set it down on a ta
ble and came towards them, the sun reflecting off what appeared to be a pair of metal sandals.

  ‘Darling, how lovely to see you,’ she said, giving Jane a quick head-to-toe appraisal from behind her sunglasses. Clearly a trip abroad had done nothing to improve her dress sense.

  ‘Nice flip-flops,’ Jane replied, following the modern convention that women should always comment on each other’s shoes.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘they’re Louis Vuitton. What have you done with Will and the child?’ Jane looked around guiltily; in her excitement she had forgotten all about them.

  ‘Liberty’s found a playmate,’ said Rupert, pointing down to the lawn where she was throwing a stick for a large dog. ‘Don’t worry,’ he added, seeing Jane’s anxious face, ‘he belongs to the caretaker, he’s perfectly safe with children. And Will’s around somewhere.’

  ‘There he is,’ said Lydia, ‘over there, poking round the maison d’amis. I’ll go and tell him to come for coffee.’

  She went off to get him in her narrow pink skirt, leaving Rupert and Jane alone on the terrace, suddenly shy.

  ‘Can I see the kitchen?’ she said. ‘Now, while no-one’s here.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He led her indoors and there it was, just like he’d said, a blue and white gingham cloth spread over a large farmhouse table that sat comfortably in the middle of a kitchen rich in old charm and short on mod cons. A vase of wildflowers stood on it, and Jane guessed, correctly, that Rupert had gathered them for her.

  ‘I deliberately didn’t bring that jacket,’ she said. ‘I didn’t want anyone else making the same comparison.’

  ‘Me neither. That’s our memory. The first time we met, seeing you on those stairs, I could tell you were looking for something.’

  ‘My lens.’

  ‘More than that.’

  ‘No, not more than that. I was looking for my lens.’

  ‘You don’t believe, then, that people give off vibes of availability?’

  ‘Of course not. I wasn’t available then, and I’m not available now.’

 

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