by Claire Sandy
‘One hour to go till midnight!’ Fern was toothy, trying to amp up the atmosphere.
‘I think I’ll turn in.’ Layla stood, her chair scraping on the stone floor. Her yawn was an amateurish attempt at feigning tiredness. ‘Sorry to be a wet blanket, Fern. You and Luc stay up. Open the good brandy. See you in the morning.’
She was gone, her shadow faded on the stairs before Fern could protest.
The candle flickered over Luc’s face, a guarded face until suddenly he sighed and made a noise Fern thought of as typically French. More specifically, typically French male. It was like ‘Bah!’ but might have been ‘Bleurgh!’ – difficult to reproduce, but she understood him perfectly.
‘Brandy?’ she said.
‘Brandy,’ he said.
Fern seemed to be made of fumes. The cognac had suffused her soul. She was groggy and warm, even though she felt as if she had very little in the way of legs; anything seemed possible.
Outdrinking her by two shots to one, Luc was still buttoned-up, erect. They hadn’t mentioned Layla as the clock inched towards twelve. Instead they’d put the world to rights; Fern was particularly pleased with how she’d solved the problem of famine in Africa. She couldn’t quite remember her idea now, but she knew it was a corker. Something to do with airlifting Ready Brek to Somalia?
‘To you, Fern.’ Luc lifted his glass.
‘To you, Luc.’ Fern lifted hers, and they clinked. ‘Salut!’
‘Your French is improving.’
‘If I ask you a straight question, will you answer it?’ The brandy had rolled up its sleeves and booted out Fern’s inhibitions.
‘I can guess the question.’ Luc glanced over at Tallulah, as if to check she was still asleep. ‘You want to know what’s wrong with my wife.’
What Luc told Fern, in his almost perfect but idiosyncratic English, sobered her up.
‘We married very fast, yes? It was a surprise to you, and to Layla’s family. Although you are her family, she says. I knew she was a special woman when we met, when she brought that poor dog she found into my surgery. She cried over this mongrel as I put him down. She was tender. And she was pretty. Very pretty.’
‘She’s gorge,’ agreed Fern quietly, not wanting to break his rhythm. Her heart was full of love for Layla, two floors above them. And fear.
‘We become serious very fast. Because we are not so young, you know, and we have wasted enough time already. My first wife was wrong for me but this time I knew Layla would make me happy. She told me I would make her happy. We enjoy the same things. We cook, we sail, we take Bear to the lighthouse and back. Our life is simple.’
‘It sounds beautiful,’ said Fern, whose own life was a bag of frogs by comparison.
‘Do you know why we really bonded? What really brought us together?’ When Fern shook her head, Luc said, leaning forward into the candlelight, ‘We wanted to be parents.’
‘No,’ said Fern automatically.
‘Oui.’ Luc was emphatic. ‘It was a dream we had both put away. Locked up, comme ça.’ Luc mimed turning a key. ‘I admitted it, then she admitted it, and we cried together. After, we dry our tears and we feel full of courage. We ask why not?’
‘I had no idea.’ Fern had taken Layla’s acceptance at face value. She’d believed her friend was satisfied with being an ersatz aunt, an ‘other mother’ to Ollie and Tallulah. Other mutual friends were happily child-free, enjoying the freedoms it brought. Fern hadn’t scratched beneath the surface. Because it suited me?
‘So, doctors.’ Luc made another French noise, more of a pffft! this time, throwing up his hands. ‘They push her and prod her and they say no, no babies for you.’
‘There are lots of options now.’ Fern got up and splashed her face with water from the big old sink. ‘You could try IVF. I know it’s invasive but—’
‘We have tried IVF.’
Fern stared at Luc, hard.
He understood the question on her face. ‘Layla didn’t want to, what’s the word, burden you. The first IVF was about the time Adam made all that money, and she kept it to herself because she knew you were having problems.’
‘Hmm. Poor me. Not.’ Fern was possibly the only woman in history who needed support because she had too much money. ‘The IVF didn’t work, I take it.’
‘No. Layla found the drugs they gave her to prepare her body almost impossible to bear. The next one also failed.’
‘You’ve tried twice?’ Fern could only imagine the terrible optimism and the crashing collapse of hope.
‘Four times.’ Luc swallowed. ‘We discovered the latest one has not worked when Layla woke up this morning.’
No wonder the poor woman hadn’t wanted to ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ over pictures of Amelie. Fern cringed; she’d clucked over the new baby as Layla’s body told her, once again, a firm non. ‘Can you bear to try again?’
‘My wife would climb the Eiffel Tower nude to have a child,’ said Luc. ‘We can’t, though. There’s nothing left. We’ve mortgaged the house. Our savings have gone. We must face the truth.’ He hung his head, suddenly no longer in charge of himself. ‘I fear that she’ll leave me, go to London. When we look at each other we are reminded of what we can’t have.’ Luc rubbed his eyes roughly with his knuckles. ‘I can’t easily do without her now.’
‘You won’t have to.’ Fern came close to Luc, hugged him, her head on his shoulder. ‘Layla loves you. She’s not a quitter.’
‘Like Adam?’ Luc grabbed Fern’s hand as she pulled away. ‘Love isn’t always enough.’
‘You aren’t me, and Layla’s not Adam.’ Fern glanced at the clock. ‘I need you to shut up and listen and then I need you to say “yes” to everything I suggest.’
When fireworks silhouetted the lighthouse and the village streets filled with the sound of bells, a champagne cork popped in Layla’s kitchen.
‘To us!’ Fern yelled.
‘To us!’ laughed Layla.
‘To downtrodden women everywhere!’ shouted Tallulah, who’d woken up as the adults were hugging each other and crying and apologizing and thanking each other. She had low expectations of grown-ups, and this bunch were living down to them. Tallulah couldn’t work out what all the tears were for.
‘What a year.’ Fern felt worn out and exhilarated, as if she’d just run a marathon. ‘What a bloody terrible, wonderful year.’ Any year that had produced Amelie couldn’t be all bad.
Barefoot in pyjamas, Layla was giddy, a high colour in her cheeks. It had taken some very determined convincing/bullying to get her to agree to Fern’s proposition. The midnight deadline had helped; Fern insisted they would celebrate something truly special as the clocks struck twelve.
It had been an obvious solution. Fern had too much money; Layla had too little money. It didn’t take a genius to see what should happen.
‘I can’t,’ Layla had said. ‘It’s too much and it’ll be a waste because it won’t work.’
When Fern had asked Layla to visualize the tables being turned, she knew she’d broken through. ‘Let me do this,’ she’d begged. ‘Please.’
Layla’s nod had kick-started the chimes.
‘Adam suggested the very same thing,’ said Layla, wiping champagne from her chin.
‘Adam?’ Fern was nonplussed. ‘Hang on, you told Adam?’
‘Yeah.’ Layla winced. ‘Are you annoyed?’
‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t tell him, I guess.’ Fern felt uncomfortable, something she rarely felt around her friend.
‘I should have told you first.’ Layla chopped the air with one hand, making her point. ‘But Adam caught me at a low point. He wanted to talk about, you know, you and him, and my head was full of my own problems. He could tell something was up, and I just cracked and told him.’ She smiled. ‘He’s a good guy, Fern. He’s just not as expert at twisting my arm as you are. I said no to his offer.’
‘You’re too proud for your own good, you goose.’ So what if Layla had told Adam? They weren’t schoolg
irls, fighting over besties. Fern knew the two talked; earlier Layla had said something about Fern looking daggers at Adam all Christmas Day, and Fern had defended herself.
Tallulah, tired of trying to get Bear to take a sip of her half glass of champers, said, ‘Is Luc in a trance?’
Standing stock still, Luc looked past them all, tears rolling down his hewn rock of a face.
‘Oh, Luc,’ breathed Fern. The man’s depth touched her. He was the old-fashioned type, strong and silent; that didn’t mean he was cold. Never again would she ask why Layla had married him. ‘It’ll work this time. I feel it in my bones.’ The couple had agreed only to accept sufficient money for one round of IVF. Privately, Fern knew she’d pay for as many as they needed. As many as they could bear; Fern would ask Layla at some point about the rigours of the procedures, but not tonight. ‘You two are going to be parents.’
Layla wiped Luc’s tears, and slipped her arm through his. ‘We used to talk like that.’
Out in the courtyard, allowing Bear a last leisurely widdle, Fern saw Layla and Luc’s light go out on the top floor. She imagined them holding each other tight, wishing and fearful, making tentative plans. There’s nothing as warm as two people close together in a bed, faces close, hair mingling.
The urban cackle of a text arriving spoiled the calm. Hal was wishing her a ‘hippy new year’. On a whim, before she could examine the impulse, Fern dialled his number. The patchy coverage cooperated. She’d never called him before, and he sounded surprised when he picked up.
‘You’re in France!’ he said.
‘And you’re pissed.’
‘Yes. Yes I am.’ Hal burped and then apologized profusely, before tapering off. ‘Remind me, what am I apologizing for?’
Music played in the background. It was moody music, not a party anthem. ‘Where are you?’
‘In bed. But I’m not alone.’
Bear was scratching at the back door, but Fern didn’t see him. She saw instead a bedroom in London. A messy bed, containing a naked Hal and a just-as-naked girl of his own age. An unlined girl whose breasts were cheerful and whose bottom was polite. ‘Sorry. I’ll leave you to it. Happy new thingummybob.’
‘I was alone but now you’re here.’
‘Oh. I see.’ Fern let Bear into the house and strolled around the courtyard, head down. ‘I feel good about this year, Hal.’ I do, she insisted to herself. I really do. Her relationship with Adam wasn’t the be-all and end-all; Fern was determined to lift her eyes and notice the other people in her life. Really notice them. ‘I hope this year brings great things to you.’
‘That’s sweet,’ said Hal. ‘You too, babes.’ He’d never called her that before, and Fern pulled a face. Nobody had ever called her that. It wasn’t an Adam word. ‘Listen,’ said Hal, his voice more intimate. Fern imagined him delving deeper beneath the covers. She wondered what he was wearing, and then decided not to wonder that because it made it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying.
‘Fern, what’s happening with us?’
That was the question she’d wanted to ask, but hadn’t dared. Wrong-footed, she took the easy option and pretended to misunderstand. ‘In what way? We’re on the phone right now. Sometimes we walk dogs or drink coffee.’
‘Don’t do that. You know what I’m asking.’ There was a scritchy sound, and Fern imagined him scratching his head the way he did. ‘Is something happening?’
Her stomach melting, Fern closed her eyes. One of them had to be realistic. Hal would be sober in the morning; she mustn’t compromise herself by saying something she’d regret. He might not even remember this conversation; I must protect myself. ‘You’re a nutter, Hal. Get to sleep. Drink some water, or that head of yours will be sore in the morning.’
‘Goodnight.’ Hal didn’t press her. Perhaps he’d forgotten already.
The goodbyes were hard. Layla kept returning for one more hug, one more tearful thank-you. Fern had never left Tallulah behind before, but as she waved from the tiny airport’s one departure gate her daughter was already involved in some intense plot with Simone.
Climbing into the clouds, Fern already missed the soft colours of the Île de Ré and the mellifluous language of the French. During the short flight she toyed with a newspaper, resigned to seeing Lincoln Speed’s self-absorbed smile in the TV guide. The Christmas episode of Roomies had pulled in the largest audience of the festive season; the great man had celebrated by visiting a children’s hospice in the afternoon and dining with a transsexual porn star at Nobu in the evening.
The money would continue to flood Adam’s bank account, until it washed his whole life clean. Fern felt like one of the stains it was working hard to dislodge.
London’s sky was milky white and the air was a cold slap in the face. As soon as she switched on her phone it vibrated bossily.
The first thing Nora had done with the mobile Fern bought her for Christmas was to send her a text saying, Central heating playing up typical are you trying to freeze me to death you’d like that wouldn’t you yours sincerely Nora.
Tempted to reply that yes, she would quite like that, instead Fern set down succinct instructions for dealing with the temperamental boiler. As she finished, a cacophony of alerts announced a flood of texts from Ollie. She read them rapidly, one after the other; the incoherent snatches added up to a crisis Fern had dreaded.
‘Ollie?’ Fern called her son. He was flapping, out of breath. ‘Am I getting this right? Donna’s parents won’t let you see Amelie?’ The other grandparents were under the impression that Ollie was the baby’s natural father; Donna had been adamant on that point.
‘They won’t let me near the house, Mum. They’re blanking Donna as if she’s a ghost and they call Amelie “it”. It! My little girl and they’re calling her it!’ Ollie was running out of breath, traffic blaring in the background. ‘Donna talked to the council. They might give her emergency housing, but it’s in a really shitty block, Mum. I’ll move in with her if she gets it.’
‘No.’ Fern was in Mother Knows Best mode; one of her favourites. ‘Turn round and get Donna. She has a home and so do you, and so does Amelie. Take them back to Homestead House.’ Fern admired the girl’s gumption, but she couldn’t stand by and watch Donna drop through the cracks. ‘You won’t all fit in your room, so take mine.’
‘You’re amazing, Mum.’
‘Remember that next time I’m shouting at you to get up. Give your ladies my love, and see you later.’
The queue for the taxi rank was long and cranky as the reality of British weather hit returning holidaymakers. Fern thought about Hal. Or rather, she let thoughts of him back in. He’d been battering at her mind throughout the flight.
He’s brave, she said to herself. Not many men his age would contemplate any sort of relationship with a woman zooming through her forties. She’d been wrong: he was no young version of Adam; in his twenties Adam had thought of middle-aged women as mother figures. Homely ladies, good for tea-making and hot dinners, but whose sexuality was a no-go area.
Hal is Hal. This has to be about him or I’m not being fair. So much of life wasn’t fair – men left their wives and moved in with bitches; women who longed for babies couldn’t conceive; youngsters were forced to grow up because of one slip of a condom – that Fern was keen to be as just as possible in her dealings with other people. Hal’s bravery deserved to be matched by her own courage.
‘Hal, hi,’ she said as he picked up, sleepy-sounding. ‘Do you want to know the answer to the question you asked last night?’
‘Yes,’ said Hal, abruptly wide awake.
Forty minutes later a motorbike pulled up in the airport car park. Hal held out a helmet and patted the pillion seat.
This’ll ruin my hair, thought Fern as she swung a leg – with only a slight oof! – over the bike. She’d thought he’d collect her in a car and was glad she hadn’t had forewarning, because motorbikes scared the bejaysus out of her.
‘Arms round my middle,’ order
ed Hal.
He was snug to hold in his leathers. Fern squeezed and he laughed, ‘Ready?’
Not really. ‘Yes!’
The speed was exhilarating. Like sliding down an endless banister. Fern yelped in Hal’s ear as they curved round corners, the bike leaning to one side, before straightening up to eat the road.
They couldn’t communicate, a detail which added to the anticipation. Between her legs the machine pulsed with dynamic male energy as they soared forward. Fern was making progress, speeding up, getting on with it.
Fern was leaving Adam behind.
I can’t keep waiting for him to change back into the man he was before. Money had changed her lover; their arguments had changed them both. Fern hadn’t been emotionally available for her friends while she churned about in her own troubles. She’d dropped the ball with her children.
Today would mark an end to that. She’d start living again. Not just for others, but for herself. Yes, she was a slightly shop-soiled edition of the Fern who’d first fallen in love, but she wasn’t yet ready for a wipe-clean, high-backed chair with a view of the garden. If she was being scrupulously fair, Fern had to admit that she was due a little sexy fun.
The ride to the chi-chi boutique hotel she’d booked while waiting for Hal to arrive was the most extended foreplay Fern had ever known.
CHAPTER EIGHT
February: Légumes
Another postcard landed with a soft whack on the doormat, its colours a welcome contrast to the bills. ‘Dad’s in Ebeltoft!’ called Fern as her offspring bustled about upstairs, preparing for their day.
‘Where’s Ebel-thingy?’ asked Tallulah, limping down the stairs with one shoe on, one shoe off, and both of them covered in mud.
‘Denmark.’ Fern read out the card as she poured cereal and wrote CLEAN T’S SHOES!!! on the kitchen blackboard. ‘“Watch out Ebeltoft! Here comes Kinky Mimi! We tore up the stage last night! We’re HOT! Xxx”’ She pinned it to the noticeboard, along with all the others. ‘Dad’ll run out of exclamation marks if he carries on like this.’