by Sarah Mason
“What else has it been?”
He turns and looks me square in the eye. He opens his mouth to reply but then seems to think better of it. “Ask me some other time, Clemmie.”
I'm about to open my mouth and insist that he tells me now and stops this infuriating I've-got-a-secret-I'm-not-telling-you stuff when I hear my mother's dulcet tones echoing down the stairwell.
She arrives looking as though she has walked straight off the set of a Sophia Loren movie. Her huge floppy hat, which nearly takes out Emma's eye every time she turns to talk to her, is a vitriolic yellow, and is combined with her black Jackie O sunglasses and some sort of floral dress-cum-sun lounger. She is puffing dispiritedly on a cigarette and carrying Morgan under her arm.
“Darlings! Have you been waiting long? Your father seemed to take an age to get ready.” We all look absolutely disbelievingly at her, including my father. “Now, what exciting thing shall we go and do?”
“I'd like a swim!” I announce.
“Well, let's go back to Nice for a swim and then perhaps drive along the coast for some lunch in Monte Carlo?” suggests my father.
“That sounds perfect!” trills my mother, and even Emma has a go at not looking altogether displeased. “Can I make a call before I go?” she asks.
“Of course!” says my father. “Madame will let you call from reception.”
He escorts her over to the reception desk. “Who's she calling?” I ask my mother in a whisper.
“I think she mentioned someone like, em . . . oh, I can't remember. It was a plain, no-nonsense name.”
I sigh. We have to play these sorts of games with her all the time. “Will? Harry? Simon?”
She frowns, “Noooo . . . none of those.”
“David? Richard? John?”
“John! That was it!”
“John Montague?”
“Yes! Montague. I remember thinking about Romeo and Juliet.”
“Who is he?” asks Sam with interest.
“The MP for Bristol. He's a friend of Sir Christopher's and Emma was staying with him when we found her.”
My father chats to Madame while Emma is on the phone and when she finishes, he gestures to us and we hand our keys back to reception and make our way out to our Lego-land car. Emma gets to go in the front because she is still pregnant and Sam, my mother, Morgan and I pile into the back where I have to sit in the middle. Luckily our maps are still in place from where they were hastily abandoned earlier and we eagerly take them up again.
My father expertly negotiates the sharper corners and hills of the one-way system of Cap Ferrat and soon enough we find ourselves on the beautiful coast road back to Nice. The road climbs steadily for a few minutes before it opens out on to the fabulous vista of the Côte d'Azur. We can see for mile after glorious mile of beach and sea. We soon start our descent, however, and as soon as we have driven around Nice harbor, the road opens out on to the Promenade des Anglais. The famous dome of the Hôtel Negresco is in sight and we start to look for a place to park. I am desperate to get into the sea.
Once we are out of the car, my mother and father announce that they would prefer to take a stroll up the promenade with Morgan and maybe stop for some coffee at the Negresco. Emma elects to join them, so Sam and I indicate where we'll be for them to come and collect us when they're ready and then scramble down to the beach.
The beach is quite stony and the pebbles have absorbed the heat of the sun, so we scrabble over them to a free spot. Sam dumps his towel, which also appears to have been stolen from the hotel, and starts to pull his polo shirt over his head. I hastily avert my eyes and suddenly feel strangely embarrassed. Sam and I have known each other for years and it abruptly strikes me that I have never seen him in a state of undress. Not even a bare torso or anything because we always surf in wetsuits so we can stay in the cold Cornish water for longer.
I vaguely fiddle with my T-shirt and stare out to sea, trying to look as though I'm studying the form, or at least thinking about something immensely important.
“Come on, Clemmie! Get your kit off!” Sam says, standing before me with his swimming shorts on. He's smiling wickedly which suggests he knows I'm feeling embarrassed.
I stare fixedly at his face, without looking down. “You go on. I've got to change into my bikini.”
“Do you want me to hold a towel for you?”
“No, no! I'll be fine. I'll just, er, you know. Wriggle into them.” I feel my face blush red. Dear God! What on earth is wrong with me? I'm behaving like some sort of virginal teenager.
“Well, hurry up!” He turns and marches down to the sea and I cannot resist taking the opportunity to have a good look at him.
Bloody hell, he's gorgeous.
I clap my hand over my mouth.
This is Sam we're talking about, Clemmie. Just to remind you. Just to make things clear.
I continue to watch him with some sort of morbid fascination. He has a broad back with a large mole on one side. His hair is cut so short at the back that I can just see the shadows of little baby hairs in the nape of his neck. His legs are strong and powerful and I daren't even mention his bum. Really, I can't. I'm too embarrassed. I realize this is Sam, but he is still gorgeous. He wades into the sea and then dives into one of the waves.
In a vague state of shock I start to drag my bikini out of my beach bag. I lug on the bottoms underneath my skirt, give a little wriggle and then awkwardly haul my arms inside my T-shirt and unhook my bra. I put my bikini top on while still wearing my T-shirt but it is distractingly tight. I peer down the neck of my T-shirt to check all is in order. My breasts are squashed absolutely flat. I did get the right size, didn't I? It definitely said size twelve on the briefs but I'm pretty sure this isn't a size twelve top. Not unless my boobs have unexpectedly metamorphosed. Oh bloody hell, what is wrong with me? Emma wouldn't have done this.
I glance up to see Sam standing with his hands on his hips, up to his waist in water, staring at me. I blush again. He must wonder at this sudden fascination I have for my mammaries; he's probably been watching me staring down the neck of my T-shirt at them for the last few minutes. Does he think I'm admiring them or something? “Come on! It's beautiful!” he yells.
I awkwardly take off my T-shirt and then adopt an arms-pinned-to-side with folded-arms-across-boobs stance as I stagger awkwardly on the pebbles down to the shore. At least I've remembered to shave both armpits this time.
Now and again I look ahead at the figure in the water. When did Sam become this attractive? Has he always been this attractive? Has he had a new haircut? Is it the heady sunshine of the south of France? As I make my slow progress across the stones, I can see more and more why Barney and he are best friends, as though it's never occurred to me before. They both have that casual insolence and those lazy good looks. Sam is much darker than Barney though. He has chestnut color hair and brown eyes as opposed to Barney's fairness.
He is grinning broadly at me now, waiting for my arrival in the water. I am normally a tiptoe into the water sort of gal. An inch at a time, grimacing madly, but today I simply cannot afford to be. I need to get my torso underneath that water as soon as possible.
Sam is right, the water is absolutely beautiful once I have got over the initial shock of cold. I paddle out to him and crouch down so I can bob around.
“This has got to be worth any hassle from Emma, hasn't it?” he says. “Do you want to swim out to that raft? What on earth is wrong with you? Why are your shoulders hunched up?”
“I think I might have bought the wrong size bikini top,” I say in a small voice. We both involuntarily look down at my chest.
“I think you might have done.”
“It was in the bargain bin.”
“I can see that.”
“The bottoms are the right size. I just didn't check the top.”
“It looks like a couple of eye patches sewn together.”
There's a slight pause as we consider the situation.
“So
no underwater rugby tackles then?” asks Sam.
“I think even strenuous swimming might be out of the question.”
“I promise I'll keep my eyes fixed on your face at all times.”
“Even if you step on a crab?”
“Even if I step on numerous crabs.”
True to his word (and in my heart of hearts I am slightly disappointed at how easily he seems to be able to stick to it), Sam keeps his eyes firmly away from my top half while we mess around in the waves for the next half an hour. We float around, chatting idly about things, until I eventually decide to wade ashore to dry off while he swims out to the raft.
I quickly dry and re-clothe myself in my T-shirt, not caring if I have slightly damp patches, and then sit on my towel in my bikini bottoms with my sunglasses on, happily surveying the scene around me. It is absolutely blissful to be away.
“Cooo-eeee darling!” calls a particularly resonant voice. I turn around to see my mother waving from the pavement. There can be no mistaking her nationality.
I smile and wave back and then gesture to Sam, who is just exiting the water. I have no wish to blush at Sam anymore so I hastily gather my things together, pop my skirt on and make my way up to my mother, stumbling on the hot stones underfoot as I go.
“Hello!” I greet them as I shove on my espadrilles. My father and Emma are just wandering up toward us.
“Darling, I have just seen Michael Portillo.”
“God, have you?” I say, absolutely thrilled at our first celebrity sighting.
My father is shaking his head behind her. “On a moped, Clemmie,” he puts in. Ah. So maybe not our first celebrity sighting. “Did you have a nice swim?” he asks.
“Lovely. How about you?”
“We had some coffee at the Negresco and then your mother made us look in some shops.”
“Did you get anything nice?” I ask my mother, thinking that it's a pity she didn't take the opportunity to entirely reclothe me.
“I tried on some shoes. The shops are fabulous, Clemmie!”
“You really should take a look, Clemmie,” says Emma, looking me up and down. She is in a position of superiority because she fits in completely with the style of the Côte d'Azur, but even so, I don't like the tone of her voice very much.
“I think I will.”
“Darling, you'll adore it!”
“Come on!” says my father, linking his arm through mine. “Let's go and get some lunch. Will Monte Carlo be okay with you, Clemmie?”
“Monte Carlo will be just fine, Dad.”
After my mother has made a huge fuss about whether we need our passports in Monte Carlo, we park near the casino, which has many more glamorous cars than ours parked outside it, and then wander down toward the famous marina. Emma, my mother and Morgan decide to take the public lift while Sam, Dad and I choose to walk. It's not that I fancy the exercise, it's just that where Emma is, I am not.
“It's amazing to see these streets after watching them on the Grand Prix, isn't it, Sam?” comments my father.
Sam makes some insightful comment but loses me after the first word or so because it's all formula whatever speak. So I'm left to my own thoughts, which involve looking in various shop windows and trying not to eye Sam's backside.
We eventually arrive at the marina and locate my mother and Emma sitting outside an exclusive little restaurant. My mother is already in possession of a large gin and tonic, a cigarette and a bowl of water for Morgan.
I push my sunglasses onto the top of my head and pull out a chair to join them.
“How are you feeling, Emma?” I try to sound sympathetic.
“Sick.”
“Oh dear. And when will that stop?”
She gives me a withering look. “Probably when the baby comes out. The heat isn't helping. Of course, it wouldn't be this warm in England.”
Ah. She's still holding that against me, is she?
“Let's get you something to eat,” says Sam kindly. “You'll feel better with food inside you.” He signals to a waiter who presents us with five large menus.
My mouth waters greedily at the various descriptions but I have to spend the next ten minutes explaining the menu to everyone else and then trying to ascertain whether various cheeses are safe for Emma. The French don't seem to have heard of pasteurization so we abandon that tack and take on the tricky task of finding something that Emma can eat. I'm just about to suggest some bread and butter might go down well, even if the butter isn't bloody pasteurized, when Sam mentions soup.
While we all ponder our choices, my mother chats away to the headwaiter in her pidgin French, entertaining him greatly. He chats back to her in his near-perfect English and together they seem to be getting on like a house on fire.
“What is zis ‘Shit McGregor?'” he is asking.
“Il y a un bateau . . .” my mother starts to explain. “Clemmie!” she roars a moment later, making me jump out of my skin, “what's French for Scotland?”
I'm sorely tempted to tell her the wrong thing because I once told her that the French for a cow is a squirrel and it still makes me giggle whenever she asks if the cheese is goat's or squirrel's, but this time I don't think quickly enough and end up telling her the truth. Damn.
I eventually manage to pass on our order to the headwaiter, who is now walking round murmuring “Shit McGregor” to himself, and relax back in my seat and take a sip of the ice-cold white wine that Sam has poured for me.
“So, Clemmie, what was the name of that art dealer? The one you brought to the Christmas party at the paper?” asks Emma slyly. This is the first time she has ever made any reference to meeting me before.
“His name was Seth. He valued art actually. Just like me.”
“I remember him because he refused to drink the wine. I don't blame him on that, of course, it was filthy. Are you still together?”
“No, we split up some time ago.”
“Holly said that was why you disappeared off around the world for a year.”
So Emma obviously knew that we had split up. I am going to kill Holly if Martin doesn't get to her first. “Did she?” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“I thought you just needed a holiday, Clemmie,” puts in Sam. I flash a smile at him gratefully.
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
“No, I'm not.”
She looks at me pityingly and it's all I can do not to answer her back because it's not as though she has made a roaring success of her own love life.
“Do you think you'll go back to valuing art?” she persists.
“Actually, I thought I might open my own gallery,” I say bravely.
“Clemmie!” exclaims my father. “What a wonderful idea!”
“Sam's idea actually,” I admit. “But I like it.” This seems to shut Emma up, thank God, and we move on to talk of other things. Saying Sam's suggestion out loud seems to lend it some weight though, and move it slightly more toward a reality. It wasn't laughed off as a preposterous idea so maybe I could actually do it. My mind starts to think a little more about perhaps trying to find a job in one of Cornwall's many galleries when we get home. This might work out quite well as Mr. Trevesky must have given up on me by now.
Some sort of resolution reached, I turn my thoughts to how wonderful it will be to see the back of Emma. Roll on this evening.
“I wonder how Holly is getting on?” asks my mother. “Do you think James has forgiven her yet?”
“Of course he has!” I say staunchly, aware that Emma is listening intently. Holly and James are generally considered public property in Bristol since their get-together was documented by Holly in the Gazette.
“Did they have a row?” asks Emma eagerly. I know she has always been a bit jealous of Holly and now I have met James I don't really blame her.
“Not really a row,” I hedge. “More of a discussion.” Of course, if any other member of the family had asked me then I would have been forced to tell them they'd had a humdinger of a ro
w and I didn't know if they'd ever speak to each other again. “Anyway they've made it up.” I cross my fingers under the table.
My mother distracts us further by shouting, “Oh, darlings, do look! I think it's Tony Blair over there!”
When we get back to the hotel, Emma excuses herself and goes off to collect her belongings from my parents' room. The rest of us plump ourselves down in reception and wait for the Winstanleys, the people Emma is going to stay with, to arrive.
“Clemmie, darling, would you mind doing some lines with me for my new play later?”
“Not at all. What's the play about?”
“Well, your part is a bad-tempered old lady, embittered by some bad experiences in life.”
“And yours?”
“Beautiful ward fighting to follow the love of her life into battle, of course!” That figures. “How was Charlotte?” she asks Sam. Sam called her on his mobile on the way back to the hotel.
I had a very quiet journey back as Emma was refusing to talk to anyone, Sam was sitting next to me talking to Charlotte on his mobile and my mother was on the other side talking to Barney on my mobile (but I had to dial the number for her because she kept pressing all the wrong buttons).
“She's good. She's taken a few days' holiday from work and has decided to stay in Cornwall.” I listen with interest as Charlotte has taken on a whole new lease of life in my eyes. Have I not warmed to her because I secretly fancy Sam? Is she pretty? I can't remember but Holly certainly seems to think so. And my parents seem to like her.
“She's seen Barney and Norman. Apparently Barney is spending most of the day trying to persuade Norman to take up flying again by tossing sardines into the air. But of course Norman just waits until they hit the ground and then waddles over and eats them.”
“At least they're bonding,” I remark.
“When I spoke to Barney, he sounded as though he was enjoying having Norman to stay,” says my mother. I probably wouldn't go that far.
My father and Emma emerge from the lift together. My father is carrying her bag for her and he parks it by the sofa.
