by Woolf, Emma
He set out a warm basket of croissants, butter and jam, a couple of yoghurts, and the fruit bowl. While she ate, Marie and Claude poured themselves more coffee, filling her in on the news headlines. Beneath the lightness, there was something in the atmosphere, a sort of tension. Lily glanced at her father’s face and sensed that he wanted to talk.
“Right, I’m off to see Vincent.” Marie stood up from her chair, piling plates into the sink and wiping down surfaces as she went. “I need to drop off some books we brought him from the States. I thought we could all have dinner together this evening, now that you’re settled in—Vincent and Helene, and their little boys, and also Julien, if that sounds good, Lily?” It was tactful of Marie to make herself scarce. “And maybe I could take this little one with me—if you’ve fed her, she’ll be OK for an hour or two?”
After they had waved Marie and Stella off in the car, an uneasy silence fell in the kitchen. Lily stood at the window, once again unsure of what to say. She always found it strange at first, being without Stella. It hadn’t happened often since the birth. Whether she was overly attached because she was a single mother, or just that she was used to having Stella there, strapped to her chest, Lily wasn’t sure. And yet she wasn’t clingy—on the rare occasions that Cassie or Celia babysat for an hour or two, Lily was delighted to escape for a swim or a wander round the shops, or just to sit in Café Rouge with a book enjoying her own company. As she watched Marie’s car backing out of the driveway, Lily’s arms felt empty, that unaccustomed sense of freedom returning. For a moment, she wished she could slip outside and avoid the awkward conversation to come.
But of course she couldn’t. And it was no good pretending to talk about something else.
“Lily.” She turned at the sound of Claude’s voice. “It’s so good to have you here. To meet you again after all these years. I’m so glad . . . Thank you for coming.”
“I’m glad we came too,” she said, moving towards the table and pulling out a chair. She smiled at Claude.
“I’ve been thinking about it all, since I knew you were coming, I wanted to know what—I feel like there’s something I should be able to say.” Claude looked down at the table, tracing his finger over a chip in the wood. “But I’m not sure there is. I don’t have the answer to what happened between me and . . . your mother. Between me and Celia.” He hesitated before speaking her name. “I don’t have any reasons for why I left.”
Lily was holding her breath. Until this moment, she thought she had so many questions—but now every single one had gone clean out of her mind. Whatever Claude could tell her would be more than she’d known before. She just wanted him to talk about that time. She looked at him, feeling like a small child, close to tears.
Without knowing what she was saying, she began to speak: “I would like to know what happened. Why you left. Why you never came back. I know that sounds pitiful, but I’m not angry or blaming you. I just want to understand . . .”
Claude nodded. “OK,” he said quietly. “Shall I just talk about what I remember, and you can interrupt me?” She nodded, brushing away a tear.
“I was very depressed,” Claude began. “I’ve had depression since my late teens, I suppose, I’ve gone through phases. These days I understand myself better, and there are things I can do to manage it: exercise, therapy, so on. Back then I knew nothing about it—depression wasn’t talked about as it is now—only that the black clouds would descend, sometimes for a few days, sometimes for months.”
He leaned back in his chair, silent for a moment. “I was in my early twenties when I met Celia. We were both in Paris, I’m sure she’s told you about those times. We were young and free, both penniless, working in magazines, teaching; she did some modelling; I played guitar and even acted—it was a long time ago.” Lily smiled at his wistful tone, trying to imagine Claude and Celia in swinging Paris.
“The problems started after we moved to London. Cassie was born and then you came along—that was wonderful, I loved being a father. Celia and I got married when Olivia was on the way, and we were a happy family. But my depression was worsening—the black spells kept recurring, and each time they seemed to last longer. I felt hopeless, Lil.”
Only her close family and Harry ever called her Lil. Now she realised that her father must have called her that as a child because it sounded natural when he said it. As if reading her mind, Claude continued: “I remember one day—it was your third birthday. I was in a bad way. I’d been depressed for several weeks, I could barely leave the bedroom. There was a birthday party in the garden, the sound of children playing, and you came upstairs with a piece of cake for me. It was so bright outside, so dark and gloomy in the bedroom. You put this squashed piece of birthday cake down next to my pillow, and you sat beside the bed and stroked my face.
“I suppose I was getting worse. Some days I couldn’t even get out of bed.” Lily listened to her father with tears in her eyes. “Then my mother died. She’d had cancer for years, but I hadn’t said goodbye, not properly. I felt like a failure as a son and as a father.”
Claude took a deep breath. “A month later, Celia found out she was expecting another child—James. I sort of lost the plot. Sometimes I wanted to kill myself to escape the voices in my head, the crushing sense of panic and failure. I was overwhelmed by responsibility and this house and all these children. I was too young to be a father of four and I felt unable to cope.”
Everything Claude was saying made sense. Lily was hurt by it, and yet she understood. She sometimes felt overwhelmed by Stella and she was thirty years old. How would she have coped in her early twenties?
Claude shook his head. “The truth is, I wasn’t ready. Celia and I fell deeply in love when we met, but we were so young. And then babies happened. Celia was amazing. She took it in her stride and she was a wonderful mother. But I wasn’t ready to be a father. This isn’t an excuse, just the closest I can get to an explanation. It has taken me a long time to grow up.” They sat in silence for a few minutes.
“You know that Marie used to practise as a psychotherapist before she started teaching at Berkeley?” (Lily didn’t know this.) “She says that men usually take longer to grow up than women, and it was certainly the case with me and Celia. I was an only child, and I’d been spoilt rotten. In some ways I was still a child myself, and then suddenly I was a husband, a father of three, four young children.” He hesitated. “I felt . . . stifled. I adored you all and yet I felt stifled. One morning, I got up early and walked out of the house, and that was it. I didn’t know that I was leaving for good—I hadn’t planned it—I just walked and walked all through London that day. Eventually I took a train to the coast, then a ferry to France. Kept going for years: Europe, then America. I saw no outlet except running away. Being selfish. Being alone.”
Lily nodded. It made sense. Sort of. “And did you miss us?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, Lil, I missed you every minute of every day.” Claude’s eyes were dark with pain. “There were times when my body ached to cuddle every one of you. I never stopped loving Celia or any of you—maybe that was it; I felt frightened at how precious you were. I was scared I couldn’t protect you. Every day I thought of you, wanted to hold you all.”
“Then why didn’t you . . .” Lily began.
“Why didn’t I come back?” Claude said. “I wanted to. I thought about it constantly. But I felt so ashamed at first, and then it was too late.”
“It was never too late,” Lily said. “Mum never found anyone else.”
They spent the rest of the day outdoors. Lily lay on the lawn in denim shorts and a bikini top with Stella beside her on a play mat under a sunshade. Marie was knee-deep in the pond, sieving out weeds and stray leaves, while Claude pruned the apple trees nearby. Lily prepared a simple picnic lunch for “the workers” and laid it on a wooden table on the terrace. Afterwards Claude made tiny strong espressos and brought out a bowl of ripe nectarines. The sun blazed down from a cloudless sky, but there was just
enough breeze to make it bearable.
“So, tonight.” Marie yawned and stretched, leaning forward to clear the table. “I’m planning to make paella for dinner, with a vegetarian version for you, Lily.”
“Is that a bother?” Lily asked, jumping up to help stack plates. “I don’t want you to cook something different especially for me.”
Marie smiled. “It’s no trouble at all—in fact Jules is vegetarian too. I simply divide up the paella rice and spices and add extra veg to one dish, and fish or chicken to the other. Couldn’t be easier. They’re coming at seven, so we’ll put the children to bed and then we’ll eat around eight. And Claude, don’t forget the wine—the winery re-opens at three.”
When Claude had driven away, Marie and Lily carried the plates inside. Marie washed up while Lily put the food away in the fridge, and they chatted lightly about this and that, companionable kitchen talk. Neither of them referred directly to that morning’s conversation between Lily and her father, but Marie seemed to sense that the air had been cleared.
When the kitchen was ship-shape, Lily picked up Stella to take her upstairs for an afternoon nap. At the doorway, Marie rested her hand on Lily’s shoulder. “And what about you—why not run a bath or have a lie-down too? I’ll be making some calls this afternoon, answering emails and marking a few assignments. Why don’t you have a rest? It’s hard work being a mum—you look tired.” Her voice was genuine, and it hit Lily just how exhausted she was.
“You’re right.” She smiled at Marie. “I am tired. It’s lovely being here, but meeting Dad has kind of taken it out of me. There’s a lot to take on board.”
She and Stella both felt better after their sleep and a bath. Lily dressed in a white cotton shift and her diamond earrings from Harry, put Stella in a clean Babygro, and went downstairs to help with dinner. “Everything’s under control,” Claude said, at the stove with a blue-striped dishcloth thrown over his shoulder. “You just sit down and here”—he poured her a glass of red wine and topped up his and Marie’s—“tell us all about Stella. Where was she born and when and what are her middle names and what star sign is she and does she have any cousins yet?”
Marie, shelling peas by the kitchen sink, laughed. Claude’s delight in his unexpected grandfather status was infectious, and Lily felt a sudden pride in her baby daughter, so beautiful in her white Babygro. “Let’s see,” she said, “where do I start?”
What her father was really asking was: “Where does she come from, this little girl?” There had been those early emails, saying hello and then arranging the trip to France, but he hadn’t asked who Stella’s father was. For all he knew, she was the result of a one-night stand; or there could be a long-term partner in London. But then why had Claude only invited “the two of them” to come and stay?
Lily was reluctant to tell them about Harry’s death, not yet, and not with Stella in her arms looking so happy. The atmosphere was so convivial: the warm evening air blowing in through the back door, the pink sunset outside, background jazz playing on the radio, and their glasses of red wine. There would be time for that conversation, but for now she didn’t want to bring that sadness into the house.
Lily was saved by the sound of tyres on gravel heralding the arrival of Marie’s sons and grandsons. Vincent came through the kitchen door first, one small boy under his arm and the other holding his hand, Helene following with a large bunch of wildflowers. “Bonsoir tout le monde,” Vincent said, smiling around at them all. He was around six feet tall, with his mother’s clear blue eyes and wide mouth. His hair was brown and floppy, with a few streaks of grey. Helene was small and curvy, with dark curly hair and olive skin, more Spanish-looking than French. They both had that slightly ragged look of young parents who are woken most mornings before dawn.
In fact Vincent appeared even more ragged when his older brother joined them, holding a bottle of wine, having parked the car. Julien was one of those men who wake up in the morning looking immaculate. The physical differences between the two brothers were subtle: Julien was a few inches taller, his hair was darker and neatly cut, his eyes were brown not blue. They had the same build, lean with broad shoulders, the same voice and similar bone structure to their mother.
Lily stood up, smoothing down her cotton dress, the baby on her hip. The brothers came forward and kissed her on both cheeks, murmuring in English how good it was to meet her, making introductions to the twin boys. Helene smiled at her shyly and came forward to stroke Stella’s face. Julien was more reserved than Vincent, although not aloof. Lily’s cheek tingled from where he had brushed his lips in greeting.
With Vincent and Helene she felt instantly comfortable. They reminded her of Cassie and Charlie—a couple who were obviously happy together but not to the exclusion of others. She could imagine Cassie with a couple of sons, Charlie as a father; she could already see them with their little family in a few years’ time. Julien was less easy to read. Even wearing jeans and a white shirt, he appeared almost too smart for the rural setting and the informal family meal. His loafers were Italian and expensive suede, the navy jumper over his shoulders was undeniably cashmere. Vincent spoke English rapidly but with plenty of mistakes and a heavy French accent, whereas Julien’s English was faultless. From the slight American accent it was clear he’d lived and worked in the States as well as in London. Lily’s French was fluent from several summers spent working in France as a teenager, but now it felt rusty from lack of use. Helene spoke very little English—in the end they alternated between the two languages all evening.
Claude poured wine and Marie disappeared with Helene to put the boys down. Lily tucked Stella into an armchair where she instantly fell asleep. “Any dark corner and she’s fine,” she said to Julien as she wedged cushions in to keep the baby secure. “I should probably take her upstairs to the cot, but I’m not sure if she needs another feed.” He nodded, whether out of politeness or boredom she wasn’t sure. Vincent and Claude were at the other end of the open-plan lounge, near the kitchen, examining a crack in the plaster ceiling. Their discussion was animated and complicated, involving a lot of technical French terms, so Lily felt obliged to make conversation with Julien.
“So, have you been out here for the whole summer? Do you work here, or in Paris or . . .” She tailed off, her eyebrows raised in a question.
“I usually spend July and August down here, working on various projects with Vincent, designing websites, meeting investors, that kind of thing. The rest of the year I’m in Paris or London, usually about half-half, with quite a bit of travel in between.” Julien smiled, and his whole face instantly seemed friendly, more open. “And you, how do you spend your time?”
It was a non-specific way of asking whether she worked, or just looked after Stella, or was a single mum or married, Lily realised. As someone who used to have a proper career, someone who found it hard not working even in these early months of motherhood, she appreciated his tact. It was as if he sensed that Lily’s situation was sensitive, coming out here alone with the baby to meet her father. She wasn’t sure what Marie had said—Marie and Claude didn’t know much, after all. Also the situation between the three of them, Lily and Marie’s sons, could have been awkward given that Claude was now married to their mother, not hers. So far, it didn’t feel awkward with Julien. The way he watched her with Stella, his tone of voice, he seemed interested but not prying.
“Well, I live in London,” Lily replied. “I’m an editor in a publishing company, although right now I’m not working full-time because of the baby. I’m still doing editorial work for them a few days a week to keep me sane. And I’d like to write too, maybe some journalism or even a book one day. Something I can do from home.”
“And home is?” Julien asked.
“Belsize Park. Do you know London well?” Silly question, she realised, given that he’d just said he spent half his time working there. “I was born in Hampstead, that’s where my mother still lives, then I had a flat in Camden, then I
moved to my current place in Belsize Park. It’s lovely around there, with the parks and Primrose Hill, so green and villagey . . .”
“Yes, I love it too,” Julien said. “Actually, my flat is just on the edge of Hampstead Heath. You know that large building which overlooks the ponds? I often go running there at weekends—well, not that often, but when I can be bothered.”
Lily knew exactly where he was talking about—the large red-brick mansion block which towered above the Heath. “You mean on the west side, just up the hill from South End Green?”
“Yes, across the road from Well Walk.” Julien nodded.
“What a great location, and those fantastic views over the Heath . . .” she said, trying not to sound like an estate agent. “We walk there every day.”
“So we’re practically neighbours!” Before Lily had time to reply, he went on: “We should meet for coffee sometime—do you know Le Pain Quotidien? I go there on Saturday mornings with the newspapers. When I’ve arrived back late on a Friday night, it’s a great way to unwind . . .”
Under the immaculate jeans and shirt, he was human, Lily thought. They hadn’t even sat down to dinner and already she liked him.
Marie swept back into the kitchen and started moving pots about on the stove, calling to Claude to open more wine and to the others, “A table, mes enfants, on va manger tout de suite!” Helene followed, telling Vincent that the boys had demanded three bedtime stories and that she’d promised he would take them fishing tomorrow.
Once they were sitting down with platefuls of steaming paella in front of them, Claude raised his glass in a toast. “Here’s to finding my wonderful daughter—and granddaughter!” Lily flushed, looking at him and feeling such closeness since their talk that morning. Although there was still plenty that she didn’t understand, she was ready to forgive. As they all raised their glasses, Vincent added: “To families.” She felt warm and welcomed.
Julien—or Jules as they called him—was seated at the other end of the table, between Marie and Helene, so they didn’t get to continue their conversation. But several times during dinner, she looked up and found him looking at her. Later in the evening, she helped make dessert in the kitchen with her father, slicing up strawberries while Claude scooped vanilla ice cream into bowls. She heard Julien and Vincent laughing in the other room and was surprised that already she could distinguish between the two men’s voices and laughter.
