by Woolf, Emma
Plans for the next day’s fishing expedition took shape: Helene would make a picnic lunch, and Lily must come, they insisted. It didn’t matter that she didn’t fish. “Moi non plus,” said Julien. The river was beautiful, and there were walks around the abbey nearby, and the weather forecast was perfect for a lazy day outdoors. Marie said she must go; the abbey dated from the fourteenth century and the little town was wonderful too, so Lily happily agreed.
She noticed that Vincent and Julien cleared away the plates and packed the dishwasher without being asked, even washed up the pans and the large paella dish. While Claude made cups of coffee and served it with bitter chunks of dark chocolate, the boys cleaned up, restoring the kitchen to order, then rejoined them on the sofas. Lily hadn’t made it upstairs with Stella after all, but the baby slept on, curled into a corner of Claude’s large armchair with her mouth slightly open.
Drifting off to sleep a few hours later, Lily found herself wondering about relations. If Marie was married to her father, what did that make their children? Were Julien and Vincent her stepbrothers, or half-brothers, or no relation at all? There was no blood link between any of them. Vincent made a lovely sort-of brother, but she wasn’t keen to think of Julien in the same way.
* * *
Getting ready for a date. A man called Robert. I can’t even believe I just wrote that—a date—for the first time in what, twenty years? Longer, probably. Polly and I met for lunch and went shopping, I bought a new dress, then we both got a blow-dry and manicure. I’ve done my make-up and moisturised and perfumed from head to toe, and I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be . . . Quite excited actually, wearing red lippy for the first time in a millennium, sipping my wine, dancing to ABBA, I feel almost sixteen again.
Poll and I had this routine as teenagers when one of us had a date: we’d get the train into town, buy something new to wear, just a cheap top or something, then get ready together. Mix tape on, a glass of something strong to share between us—usually smuggled upstairs from Dad’s drinks cabinet—dancing around while we did each other’s make-up. I met Harry when I was twenty-one and haven’t dated another man since. My God, that’s actually twenty-eight years.
So, things are happening. It’s been a rotten few months, hence why I haven’t written much, but I think I’m turning a corner. Not just the date tonight but other things too. I’ve started working again, part-time at one of the big estate agent’s in Beaconsfield. At the moment I’m only helping out with viewings but if it goes well they have plenty of vacancies for permanent roles. I’ve always loved browsing property online—who doesn’t—and looking around other people’s homes. It’s early days, but it feels good to be out of the house, finally doing something that interests me. I’ve even done a couple of interior design consultations for friends, and I’m hoping to build up some real, paying clients.
Oh God, butterflies. It’s been so long, I don’t even know how to act on a date! Apparently letting this Robert come to the house to collect me was a bad idea, what do I know? Poll made me download this app which will track my movements on my phone, so if he turns out to be an axe-murderer or something: “the police will know where to start the search.” I don’t know where she gets these ridiculous notions. He’s not an axe-murderer; we met online after the boys bullied me into joining a dating website. He’s the headmaster of one of the local secondary schools. He seems really nice, although we’ve only exchanged emails.
Joe just stuck his head around the door and said, “Good luck, Mum.” God that makes me want to cry! Eek, doorbell. Shoes, phone. Keys. Last sip of wine.
In the end, it was Julien who drove them back to the airport. He needed to go into Lyon anyway, he said, and it would be no problem to drop Lily and Stella for their flight home. “And it gives us a chance to discuss London,” he said as they all sat in the garden on their final evening, drinking wine on the terrace.
The fortnight in France had passed quickly. After that difficult first talk, things had become easier between Claude and Lily. Just saying those names: Celia, Cassie, Olivia, James; just speaking the words: when I left, after you’d gone, what happened, why? had cleared the way for them to rebuild something. He hadn’t given her perfect answers about the past, but she was starting to understand a little. She had a father now—and that was more than she’d ever had.
On the morning after the paella dinner, she’d gone up to the bedroom and brought down a folder. It contained a stack of old photographs showing the four of them as toddlers and children, and more recently, Cassie on her wedding day, Olivia and James grinning into the camera, Lily with Stella a few hours after her birth. And Celia of course, various images of Celia over the years.
Claude went through the folder in near-silence, studying each photograph for a long time. Again she sensed that he was hungry for knowledge of the family he’d left and the years which had followed. Lily was surprised at how much he remembered: as they looked at the photos, he asked detailed questions about changes to the rooms of the house. Was that the same second-hand car? Where had Celia taken them on holiday? Did they still visit her relatives in Liverpool? It was as if he’d wondered about them all that time, and now he was finding answers, filling in the gaps, storing away the precious scraps of information.
And she had found something too: a father at last, a face to fill that empty space. She had also found Marie—a woman who wasn’t a replacement for her mother, nor even a rival, just a kind, intelligent person who treated both Helene and Lily like daughters. Marie referred to them all affectionately as “les enfants,” and Lily enjoyed feeling part of this French-American family. Although Stella would never know her father, she now had an unexpected grandfather, and some half- or step-uncles too. Lily tried to imagine a meeting between the two sides of her family. Claude didn’t raise the subject, and Lily knew that it would be very difficult for Celia. Could it ever happen?
Then there was Julien. She was trying to work out why he was still playing on her mind.
After they flew back from Lyon, Cassie collected them from the airport and drove them back to Lily’s flat. Cassie put Stella to bed while Lily unpacked their bags and loaded the washing machine. She ducked into the shower while Cassie rang for a Thai takeaway.
Once Stella was sleeping, they opened a bottle of white wine and collapsed on the sofa. With rays of evening sunshine streaming in the large windows, the flat still held the warmth of the day. Cassie smiled and said: “So. What’s he like, this father of ours?”
Having met Claude before the others, Lily was conscious that she didn’t want there to be “sides.” She wanted her siblings to meet their father. She felt that they would like him, despite the painful emotions involved. As the oldest, Cassie probably remembered more of the past; for James it was entirely different since his father had left before he was born. Would that make him feel more abandoned or less? she wondered. As for Olivia, what did she remember; what did she feel?
Lily found Cassie’s question difficult to answer. She remembered how sceptical she had felt until she met their father. It was natural that Cassie should be sceptical too. She really wanted to tell her sister everything about Claude, to share her impressions and emotions from those first few days in France. But then Cassie’s question about “this father of ours” sounded sarcastic, almost hostile, and Lily’s heart sank. Please let this not create a family division.
“He’s nice, Cass. He’s just a normal, lovely man—and his wife, Marie, is lovely too.” Cassie’s left eyebrow arched at the word “wife,” but Lily ploughed on. “They live in California, but they spend every summer in France—she’s French. It’s a beautiful house. They were really welcoming, and he wanted to know about all of you. I showed him some of the old photos, also some of your wedding and things like that. He remembers a lot about when we were kids. I think it’s been hard for him actually.” Lily wondered how much to say about why he left. “He was going through a difficult patch, depression and all that.” She hesita
ted. “He found the family thing too much to cope with.” Cassie’s face was impassive.
Lily continued: “He didn’t make excuses, and I’m not making excuses either, but I think he’s a good man. He said he’d never stopped loving Mum and us children, that he was young and immature. He missed us all from the moment he left but he didn’t know what to do.”
Lily didn’t know if Cassie’s silence was pensive or angry. They sat without saying anything for a few minutes, then Lily asked: “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Cassie said slowly. “I guess people make mistakes. And it must have been hard for both of them, having all those kids while they were still young. But Mum didn’t walk out on us, did she?” She stared at her sister for a moment. “Lil, it’s just that when he left—I have such vivid memories of that time—it was terrible. I remember him being there, and then I remember the emptiness in the house, and sometimes Mum crying . . . It’s really hard to forgive and forget when I remember the sadness he left behind. The whole time you were in France, I was thinking about him, imagining your first meeting.” She paused. “Of course I want to forgive. I’d like to have a father too. I just—I don’t know if I can.”
“I know, Cass,” Lily said. “I felt exactly the same, and still do, sort of guilty about liking him, as though I’m being disloyal to Mum. I don’t think anyone needs to forget the past—how can we? But maybe forgive a little. And talk to Mum about it. Since Harry died, I think I’ve changed. The thing is, life’s short, isn’t it? And family is precious. We have a father, even though he wasn’t there. He’s there now.”
The doorbell rang: the takeaway food. Lily waved away Cassie’s money and ran down the stairs. Returning a few minutes later with several large brown paper bags, she said: “Let’s eat!”
“Come here.” Cass took the paper bags from Lily and reached out her arms. The two sisters shared a long hug. “You’re brave, you know that? Losing Harry and having Stella alone and going out there to meet our father . . .” Lily shook her head and refilled their wineglasses. Cassie began opening the foil cartons of steaming rice. “I’m ravenous. Let’s eat and you can tell me about the rest of them—what are Marie’s sons like?”
Lily wasn’t sure what they were like. She could describe Vincent easily enough: an outgoing young Frenchman, intelligent, friendly, and fun. But she was still trying to work out what she thought of Julien. And how could she trust her feelings anyway? After the highs and lows of recent months—Harry’s suicide, the grief and guilt which followed, then the shock and joy of Stella’s early arrival—she barely remembered what normal, calm emotions were like any more. When she thought of Julien, she didn’t know what she felt, but she thought about him a lot. Anyway, she told herself, she was in no fit state to plunge into another relationship.
With barely a fortnight’s acquaintance, she sensed the potential for something more serious between them. Was she completely misguided? She hardly knew him. She didn’t even know whether he was single or not. No one had mentioned a girlfriend or partner, but by the time she might have asked Julien himself, it seemed too loaded a question. He referred to friends in conversation, he clearly had a busy social life, but mostly he said “I” rather than “we.”
Then again, she had no evidence that he was interested in her on a romantic basis. After that first family dinner in France, he’d certainly been around a lot: whether it was odd jobs, or a meal, or he was “just passing,” he had dropped in at the farmhouse every day. He and Lily had gone for a long walk along the river after the picnic with Vincent and Helene. They had helped clear out the pond. They had spent a whole afternoon picking blackberries together, with Stella of course. On the final evening, they had left the baby at home with Marie and shared a bottle of the local Burgundy in the village’s only bar. But he hadn’t kissed her, nor even flirted with her, as far as Lily could see.
And now? She kept recalling what he’d said that first evening, when they discovered they were neighbours: “We should meet for coffee sometime . . .” But that had been an offhand comment early on; it hardly constituted a definite arrangement. He’d driven them to the airport that last day without repeating his invitation, and they’d said goodbye without swapping numbers or emails. Lily felt pathetic for replaying that fragment in her head.
She didn’t tell Cassie how she felt about Julien, how she liked being near him, talking together, the reserved, thoughtful way he had about him. She liked his perfect English with its slight French-American accent; his European clothes and suede loafers; she liked his dark hair and brown eyes. She liked the musky amber scent of his skin.
There had been hours, almost whole days, in France when she hadn’t thought of Harry, hadn’t woken with him on her mind or gone to sleep with his image in her head. She had been utterly taken up with being there—with Claude and Marie, their delight in Stella, the sunshine, the food and wine, getting to know her new family and Julien. In Burgundy, that part of her which had been in hibernation since Harry died began to wake up.
Lily didn’t say any of this to her big sister because it sounded ridiculously over the top. She hadn’t realised herself, until she got back from France, how much she liked Julien. And she didn’t even know when he was next in London. Still, these daydreams about him made her happy.
“Good morning Mum!” Lily unlocked her mother’s front door, calling out as she did so. “And what a beautiful morning it is!” She had Stella strapped to her chest, with a large shopping bag in one arm and a huge bunch of flowers tucked under the other. “I’ve brought you two of your favourite things . . .”
Celia came out into the hallway, smiling expectantly.
“. . . your granddaughter, just woken from her morning nap, and some purple flowers!”
“Oh, darling.” Celia rushed forward to unburden Lily. “What a treat! Delphiniums! And hydrangeas!”
“Is that what they’re called?” Lily laughed, thrusting the blooms towards her mother.
“Oh, they’re beautiful. Come through into the kitchen and we’ll get these in water. You look wonderful. And you seem, I don’t know, you seem different, since France. Lighter, somehow carefree!”
In the first few days after her return, both Cassie and Celia sensed this change in Lily. Her voice was full of life again, her eyes sparkled, her laughter was spontaneous. The sadness was starting to lift.
Lily felt it herself. She felt hungrier and had more energy. For the first time in months she found herself looking forward to the future. She alternated between waiting to hear from Julien—scanning emails from Claude and Marie for any mention of his name, a request for her phone number perhaps—to castigating herself for being so stupid. At night she replayed their conversations and walks, endlessly trying to analyse the situation. That day they’d walked by the river, hadn’t there been a connection? That last evening, sipping white Burgundy in the village wine bar, hadn’t there been lingering glances, an unspoken, delicious tension? Lily kept remembering the way he looked at her. She was sure there was something.
But when she was tired and Stella was crying and she felt overwhelmed and lonely, she told herself that Julien wasn’t interested. Of course he wasn’t. He was polite and well-mannered, that’s all. He’d felt sorry for her, a single mother struggling to bring up a child alone. He was practically her half-brother and he probably had a beautiful, sophisticated French fiancée in Paris. It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d come back to London and not a word from him. Why was she still obsessing over him like some desperate spinster?
This was characteristic of Lily, this tendency to swing between extremes of hope and despair. She was much harder on herself than she’d have been on Cassie or Olivia in the same situation. Partly it was a defence mechanism: she felt it was easier to cope with rejection if she anticipated it, whereas optimism only set you up for disappointment.
But still that nugget of hope refused to die. Despite hearing nothing from Julien, despite telling herse
lf to stop waiting for an email or text, Lily kept hoping.
After the initial buoyancy of her return to London, Lily fell into a slump. She realised that it wasn’t just her—everyone seemed down in the dumps. The weather turned autumnal overnight: endless rain and chill winds seemed unreasonable for September. Olivia arrived back from Rome declaring it was over with Giovanni. She couldn’t stand living with his family for another day. Cassie found out that she wasn’t pregnant again and began to despair. Celia seemed withdrawn too, and Lily worried that she’d hurt her mother’s feelings by going to France. The excitement of meeting Claude and her new family had worn off. Then Stella started teething, so they were both sleeping badly. The future seemed bleak.
Then the anniversary of Harry’s death rolled around, and Lily was at her lowest ebb. A whole year since she’d last seen him, and now she never would again. She had taken on more editing projects from home for Higher Education Press, keen to distract herself with freelance work, but the manuscripts were dull and complicated. Everyone felt it: the summer was at an end.
During this time—which was only a few weeks, although it felt longer—Lily didn’t entirely give up. She was fed up with life, with London, with the rain, sometimes even with her crying daughter whom she adored, but she tried to keep reminding herself that things could change. And finally, a couple of weeks after they got back to London, they did. She was struggling up the stairs with Stella and four heavy shopping bags when Susan popped her head out of the door on the ground floor.
