by Sarah Mason
“All packed, Emma?” asks Sam politely.
“Yes.” She looks very downcast and I almost feel sorry for her.
My father perches on the arm of one of the chairs next to her. “Will your father be out to visit you soon?”
“He says he'll try to get out as soon as possible.”
“It'll be all right, Emma,” says my father gently. “These things have a way of working themselves out.”
We all sit in silence for a moment until I remember my promise to Holly that I would try to glean some information from Emma for “High Society.” This is my last chance.
“Er, Emma? I don't know if you know but Joe has asked Holly to write ‘High Society' until the paper can find a replacement for you.” I'm hoping this will sound as though Joe has asked Holly to write it because she is so talented, rather than the fact that we made such a cock-up of things.
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. Have you got any tips for her?”
Emma glances over to my father. I know that she likes him and wouldn't want to appear rude in front of him and thus she has no choice but to help me. Ha!
“Holly isn't terribly au fait with the social scene, is she?” This is a rhetorical question and I glance over to my father to see how he is taking this thinly veiled insult. He is making a sort of true-true face. Damn him, he always thinks the best of everyone. It is an extremely annoying trait.
“No, she's not.” Holly would rather poke herself in the eye than have to swan around at various cocktail parties.
Emma relents. “Tell her to take a look at some notes I was making for the next column on my PC.”
“Thanks, Emma.”
“But she really hasn't got the contacts to be doing it for any length of time. I have a firm following of readers and her stories from the local pub won't do for very long.”
“I'll make sure to tell her,” I say through gritted teeth, and just at that moment a man and a woman walk into reception. I know instantly that they are the Winstanleys. Amazing how you can spot your own countrymen from about a mile off. They look quietly distinguished and I notice, as they introduce themselves, that they speak very well. But then I wouldn't have expected anything less from Sir Christopher McKellan.
Emma says her good-byes to everyone with a relative degree of warmth until she reaches me. “Well, Clemmie. I suppose you've done your best in all this.”
“Yes, I have.”
“I know Holly can be terribly persuasive. People tend to like her so much that they'll do anything for her. So I know I might have acted as though I blame you for some of this but I don't really.” So she just doesn't like me then.
I open my mouth to defend my beloved sister but then think better of it. I simply cannot be bothered.
“It was all Holly,” I announce for the last time. “Take care of yourself, Emma.”
She half smiles and then takes her leave of us.
Chapter Nineteen
Freedom! Or as the French would say: Liberté and er, something else. I feel liberty is the bit worth concentrating on though. We are officially Emma-free, a blissful state, one much taken for granted previously.
We wander out onto the hotel veranda for a drink. I leave them wandering and march in double-quick time to the bar, intent on ordering the largest drink ever. I might even ask them if they have any runny cheese and pâté too.
“Clemmie!” my father calls after me. “Order Kir Royales!”
Ooh, yum. Champagne and cassis.
“Quatre Kirs Royales, s'il vous plaît!” I ask the waiter. My French isn't quite sufficient to add “and make them whoppers” but I think he gets the general gist from my various hand gestures.
My parents and Sam settle themselves on some wicker chairs on the edge of the balcony looking out to sea. The sun is starting to sink, which bathes our little island outcrop in a mellow light.
“I think you've caught the sun,” says Sam as I approach them.
I immediately put my hand to my nose. “Do I look red?” I ask anxiously.
“No, just freckly.”
“Oh God. How awful.”
“They're sweet!” protests Sam. But not sexy. Not exactly alluring. Unlike Sam, who has managed to catch the sun and has a golden glow about him.
Must stop these impure thoughts at once.
They're unfortunately quite addictive though. Maybe when we return to England and normality then Sam's and my relationship will too. He'll go back to bored disdain and I'll go back to being annoyed about my rhubarb yogurts.
“Are you two still planning to go home tomorrow?” asks my mother idly while feeding Morgan a pistachio.
Sam and I catch each other's eye. “I suppose I ought to get back to work,” says Sam.
I droop a little with disappointment. “I suppose I ought to as well,” I say half-heartedly.
“But on the other hand, there's no need to exactly rush back, is there?”
My spirits rise wildly. “No rush as such.”
“I mean, it seems a tad rude just to abandon your parents, Clem.”
“Really rude. What on earth would they do without us?”
“Well, since you put it like that, I consider it my moral duty to stay and look after them.”
“Me too!” I grin widely at him and take a sip of my drink. Heaven.
“Well, you two will have to fend for yourselves tomorrow night because your mother and I have reservations for La Colombe D'Or,” interjects my father.
“Where's that?”
“In St. Paul de Vence. It's usually booked up for months but I called just before we left England and they had a cancellation, so I am afraid, my little chickens, that we are absolutely not missing that.”
“Oohh, I daresay we'll manage,” I say with a degree of composure, trying not to look too lecherous at the prospect of an evening alone with Sam. I look accusingly at my Kir Royale. Is it making me behave like this? Dear God! This is Sam you've developed a sudden yen for, Clemmie. Sam who you have never really had much time for before.
I take another sip of my drink and spear an olive thoughtfully while the others nonchalantly discuss what they might want to do tomorrow. I really need to think this through and not rush at anything because the whole episode could become fairly embarrassing. I don't want to seem as though I've developed a thumping great crush on him and then have to leave the room every time I meet him for the next fifty years. My eyes involuntarily glance at him. I even like the way he sits. His frame is thrown arrogantly back into his chair but he is leaning forward slightly, laughing at something my mother is telling him. Of course, one cannot ignore the fact that he is going out with Charlotte. But one small glimmer of opportunity remains. Charlotte isn't here and I am. Charlotte is a few thousand miles away whereas I am barely a few feet. Charlotte is an actuary whereas I . . . Yes, well, I . . . Actually, what am I exactly? Do you think he likes the whole actuarial thing? Should I play on the fact that I used to work for an insurance company a bit more? I frown to myself. This is a tad confusing. Maybe I shouldn't dwell on it. But here we are, in the seductive setting of the south of France, without a care in the world and the prospect of being alone together. If he didn't want it to happen then surely he would have beetled off home at the earliest opportunity? He would be leaving train timetables lying around with a few suggestions ringed and “EXCELLENT TRAIN” written in red next to them.
“Clemmie?” questions my father.
I pause from my little soliloquy and look up. They are all looking at me warily.
“Are you all right? You were murmuring to yourself.”
“Hmmm? Oh yes, quite all right. Just thinking about something else.”
“You were saying something about actuaries?” queries Sam with a slight smile.
I color slightly. “Oh yes! Actuaries! I was wondering how Charlotte was getting on. With her being an actuary and everything.” Oh, well done, Clemmie. Congratulations. Just as we have been trying to forget about his girlfriend, you mana
ge to carefully lob her existence back into his head.
Everyone looks a little taken aback.
“You were wondering if Charlotte was okay with being an actuary?” says my mother, looking puzzled.
“Well. Yes. I suppose I was. I mean, I think it must be quite stressful, er, being an actuary.”
“I didn't think you knew what one was,” says Sam with some amusement.
“No, no. Charlotte has explained it to me.”
“Did you understand her? Because those two statements aren't necessarily mutually exclusive,” puts in my father.
“Well, exactly,” I bluster. “That's why it sounded so stressful.”
“Because you didn't understand what it was?” asks my mother, looking even more puzzled.
God, does she have to go on so? Have we not got anything better to talk about? We could be talking about Third World debt or the latest political crisis. Do we have to linger on this?
“Where are we going for supper?” I ask desperately. “I'm starving! Morgan's looking pretty hungry too.”
Morgan has wolfed down about a hundred pistachios so I hardly think this is likely but he is always a neat distracting point for my mother.
“I thought we'd wander around the corner to the Royal Riviera.”
“Maybe I ought to go and change.” I look down at my sandy outfit and wonder what on earth I can change into.
“I suppose we all ought to,” Sam says lazily as I gulp back the remains of my champagne.
“Meet back down here?” queries my father.
Sam and I are the quickest to change. Myself out of pure lack of choice (I get to wear my other skirt and my flip-flops) although I do take the time to dry my hair straight. I leave it loose around my shoulders and then add some foundation to my rosy face, along with a quick lick of lipstick and some eyeliner. Sam is already waiting for me when I arrive back at our seats. Without asking he goes off and returns with another Kir Royale.
The evening strolls along very pleasantly. My parents join us and after the delicate supping (my mother) and guzzling (me) of a few more beverages, we go round the corner for some food. The heat of the day has subsided and become a beautiful, balmy evening. We walk down some steps to the tiny harbor and meander along the front looking at the boats until my father finds a restaurant he likes the look of.
After the consumption of several bottles of wine and lots of gorgeous food, I feel enormously content and at one with the world. I look over to Sam, who is listening intently to my mother as she tries to convince him that she has seen Gordon Brown wearing a Bermuda print shirt (I've noticed that for some reason all her celebrity spottings have been politicians). He has a slight smile on his face which tells me he is trying to take my mother seriously and not laugh. I wonder why I haven't noticed him in all these years. I suppose I have been rather busy with my own life. And Barney and Sam were extremely annoying when we were younger. I mean, they are quite annoying together now but back then they were positively enraging. Lying about on the sofa together, eating yogurts and taking the piss out of me seemed to be their favorite occupation. None of it was particularly malicious because Barney simply hasn't got a malicious bone in him, but when I wanted to watch TV they would be playing computer games on it. When I had booked to borrow the car, Sam and Barney had already taken off in it without telling anyone. It's quite difficult to notice someone who has a long history of just simply aggravating you.
After the main course, my parents announce that they don't want pudding and they're going back to the hotel to have coffee there. I certainly do want pudding, I have a certain yen for crème caramel. I express this view to Sam after they've left.
“God, don't tell me that you're pregnant too, Clemmie.”
“Christ, chance would be a fine thing,” I say and snort unattractively. I immediately regret this and blush. Must stop drinking wine. Just as soon as I've finished this glass.
The waiter comes over and presents us with the menus. He gives me a stern look as I have already managed to set light to two menus by holding them over the candle on our table. The first one was laughed off with much hilarity until they presented me with a second one and I did the same thing almost immediately. Our candle was pointedly blown out and has remained so ever since.
“I hope Emma is okay,” says Sam as we make our choices and hand the menus back to the waiter. Bloody hell. She's only been gone five minutes.
“I'm sure she's fine.” I try to keep my top lip from curling. “Her father will look after her.”
“You don't like him, do you?”
“Let's just say I won't be visiting Rock for a while.”
“He's not as bad as you think.”
“Really?” I am unconvinced.
“I wonder what Emma will tell her child about its father.”
“Preferably not the truth.”
“You don't get to choose your parents.”
“I clearly didn't.”
Sam smiles at me but there's a slight wistfulness in his expression which makes me add, “God, I'm sorry, Sam. I was forgetting. Do you miss them?”
“I suppose I do. I mean, my aunt did her best but it's not the same. Your parents have always been amazing to me.”
“Have they?” I say, knowing full well that they have.
“They didn't just let me practically live at their house, they let me be a proper teenager. I never felt like a guest who had to say please and thank you. They let me lose my temper, lie about on the furniture, and your dad even taught me to drive. That stuff means more to me than anything.”
I smile at him and suddenly forgive him for everything. Even the rhubarb yogurts.
“Dad said that one of the reasons you went back to London was to find out some more about your own parents. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yes, Clemmie. I found it all right. But . . .” He breaks off as he notices me staring absolutely transfixed over his shoulder. “What? What's wrong?”
“I've just seen Martin Connelly walk past.”
Chapter Twenty
Sam makes a huge 180-degree swivel in his chair. “Where?”
“He has literally just walked past.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Did he see us?”
“I don't think so. Oh my God. How on earth can he have found us?”
“Which way did he go?”
“Toward the hotel.”
“Come on! Let's follow him!”
Sam is upstanding in an instant and calling for l'addition. I struggle to surface from my alcoholic stupor and just about manage to scramble to my feet. Follow him? Why are we following him? Shouldn't we be trying to lose him?
Sam is already over with the maître d' and is frantically shoving notes into his hands. I try to hurry over to him in order to voice some very heartfelt concerns about this plan of his but some bugger has placed an inordinate amount of tables and chairs in my way like some sort of bizarre obstacle course. “Pardon! Pardon!” I chirrup as I cannon off another unfortunate couple's appetizers.
Sam is by the exit now and peering in both directions while he waits for my arrival. “Clemmie!” hisses Sam. “Will you come on?”
“Sam, why are we following him? Shouldn't we be going in the other direction?” But my words are left hanging as Sam grabs hold of my arm and marches me out.
We exit into the balmy evening air, subtly scented with flowers, and I breathe in deeply. Big mistake. I nearly pass out with the heady rush of oxygen and have to cling on to a handy lamppost.
“Clemmie! Will you stop pissing about and come on! This is no time to start reading posters!” Sam doubles back and takes hold of my arm. I'd forgotten how bossy he can be. He marches me down the street at about a hundred miles an hour.
“Can you see him?” he asks me urgently.
I pretend to peer knowingly in front of me but in actual fact I am just trying to focus. “Er, no.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A tweedy sort of coat. And he has chestnut-colored hair.”
We reach the main street and Sam peers in both directions. “There he is! Come on!” He points to some pin-like figure in the distance. How can he even see that far? Damn the Côte d'Azur and their street-lighting policies. “We need to catch him up a bit!”
“Em, Sam. Why are we following Martin Connelly?”
“Because we need to know where he's staying, Clemmie,” he says patiently. He's looking at me in a sort of “duh” way.
“Again, I have to ask why? Why do we need to know?”
“Because if we know where he is then it makes our position stronger.”
I can feel Sam getting distinctly annoyed with all my questioning so I don't feel brave enough to ask any more. But I do feel brave enough to have a petit pit stop, and sit down on a convenient bench.
“Clemmie! Come on!” says Sam, dragging me onward. “Jesus! Martin Connelly is here and you're . . . what's wrong with your face?”
“Hmmm?”
“Your face. What's wrong with it?”
I put a hand up to touch it. What does he mean, what's wrong with it? How rude is that? My features seem to be exactly as I left them, except . . . oh no.
“I'm swelling up!” I say in horror.
“I can see that, but why? You didn't eat any of that avocado, did you? I did point it out.”
“What avocado? I didn't see any avocado.” My legs seem to have taken on a life of their own and are frenziedly keeping up with Sam. I do wish they would stop it.
“In the salad. I told you it was there.”
“I didn't hear you!”
“Too busy gassing with your face in your wineglass. Never mind that now, can you still see him?”
Can I see him? I'm having great difficulty seeing Sam, let alone anything more than a meter away. God, I can't believe I ate some avocado. I've only done it once since the Munchkin fiasco and I really can't remember how long it takes to calm down. Twenty-four hours? Surely it can't be any more. And that gassing/wineglass jibe really hurt.
