by Jane Holland
There’s resentment in her voice now. And I can see from the strain on her face that it does matter, that she wanted her brother by her side at the funeral.
But she manages a brave smile.
‘Let’s have an aperitif first, shall we?’ she continues, gesturing me deeper into the house. ‘You’re here at least. You must be parched after your flight.’
‘I am thirsty, yes.’
‘Afterwards, you can see where you’ll be sleeping. I have so many guests coming this week, so many friends who wanted to … Well, I was going to put you in your old bedroom up on the attic floor. But you should take the room Lucille prepared for your father. It’s larger, and has an ensuite bathroom. Salt-and-pepper marble with gold taps. Very Hollywood. I think Frank Sinatra slept in that room once.’ She grimaces. ‘A little down-at-heel now, of course. The mattress is new, though.’ Aunt Tamsin pauses, glancing vaguely down at my suitcase. ‘Is that all you brought, dear? I shall ask Jacques to carry it upstairs for you.’
Jacques?
I shake my head. ‘I’m perfectly happy to have my old bedroom, Aunt Tamsin.’ When she protests, I break in with, ‘No, please, I insist. Give the Frank Sinatra room to one of your friends.’
I follow my aunt into the large front room of the chateau, lugging the case after me. Her heels make a familiar clacking sound on the tiled floor of the hallway, stirring something like nostalgia in me.
She sounds confused. ‘You want the attic room? But there’s no ensuite.’
‘Honestly, that doesn’t matter to me.’ I hesitate when she glances round at me, her delicate brows arched in surprise. Or perhaps disdain. ‘Memories, you know.’
Tamsin doesn’t react at first, then nods mutely. I catch a lost look on her face, and wish I had not said that.
There’s an ice bucket and several bottles and a row of tall glasses on a tray near the window overlooking the sea. Three glasses. She turns to make us a drink, muttering something about needing to send Lucille for more gin.
I think of my father, and wish he was here too. He would have known what to say, how to smooth out these awkward silences. But he is not here, so I must do the best I can alone.
Aunt Tamsin drops ice into two of the tall glasses. ‘Pastis and water, darling?’ She gives a little laugh. ‘I’ve just realised … You would have been drinking lemonade when you were last here. Cold chocolate from the fridge for breakfast, and iced lemonade at lunch. Do you remember? But of course you’re all grown-up now.’
I watch without speaking as she fills the glasses almost to the brim with Pastis and water. I can smell the aniseed already, strong and sweet.
‘Who’s Jacques?’ I frown, recalling that Lucille had a kid. ‘Lucille’s son?’
‘Good God, no.’
‘Sorry, it was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten so much.’ I can’t help smiling at a sudden irreverent thought. ‘Oh, has Lucille remarried at last? Is he her other half?’
The housekeeper must have been married once. Certainly she had a kid who’d helped out around the house when we were teenagers. But she was such a dour woman, wearing the grimmest dresses and literally never letting her hair down, it had been a standing joke with us that Lucille went out of her way to repel men.
Tamsin looks round at me, her eyes wide, almost shocked by the suggestion, as though she holds the same opinion of Lucille.
‘Why on earth would you say that? Jacques is my new gardener-cum-handyman. Quite a young man, but very good, very efficient. Jacques-of-all-trades, I call him. He seems to know how to do everything, in that wonderful way some men do.’ She hands me a milky-looking glass of Pastis, lowering her voice. ‘Cheap, too. Though I don’t know how long I can afford to keep him on. Not now that Emily …’
She tails off, and her face seems to sag.
‘I’m sure I can manage my case without Jacques’ help,’ I say, partly to distract her. ‘It’s not that heavy.’ I sip the Pastis, grimacing at the taste. More alcohol than water, I think. But still refreshing. ‘Santé.’
She takes a gulp from her own glass, then another. The strong taste of the Pastis does not seem to register. ‘Santé,’ she agrees automatically.
The windows have been thrown open as wide as they will go to alleviate the afternoon heat. I stare out, surprised to find the view as familiar to me as the one from my bedroom at home, as though no time has passed, as though the years have made no mark on this place at all. The deep waters off the Cap sparkle brilliantly in the sun, as they always sparkle, a few white yachts passing mistily on the horizon.
From below this window, the beautiful tiered gardens that drop to the private beach are also invisible. But I’m aware of their existence, can easily recall the rows of white statues and neatly clipped hedges, the precarious stony path that leads to the water’s edge, and how I used to walk down there with Emily and Robin in the cool of the evening, listening to the rhythmic song of the cicadas around us.
From here, it’s almost possible to forget about the crowd of paparazzi at the gate. There’s a soft hum of voices in the background. The occasional sound of a car engine. But otherwise they seem surprisingly quiet. But perhaps most of the paps head off in the evenings to nearby restaurants and watering-holes, in search of locals perhaps, at least those willing to gossip about their famous neighbours.
I turn, and jump. My heart thumps wildly. ‘Oh God.’
‘Caitlin?’ She puts down her glass, staring. ‘What’s the matter? Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine. I thought I saw …’ I nod towards the large gilt mirror hanging over the mantelpiece. ‘Nothing. Just my reflection.’
‘This place is full of mirrors.’
At fifteen, everywhere I turned in this house, there were mirrors, glass doors, windows. Endless reminders of how gawky and untidy I looked in comparison to Emily’s elegance, and how impossible it was to compete with my cousin for Robin’s attention.
I will my racing heart to slow down. I’m jumpy, that’s all. Seeing things that aren’t there.
‘You’re right, it was a tiring flight.’
She smiles. ‘You should certainly rest before dinner, then. Though it will only be cold meat and salad. I no longer entertain as much as I used to.’
‘Salad sounds perfect, thank you.’
‘Always such good manners. I remember that about you. Dear little Caitlin. I only wish …’ She makes a fatalistic gesture. ‘Well, what’s done is done.’
I take my suitcase and follow Tamsin out into the cool of the hallway. There’s a gilt ceiling fan turning slowly overhead, a few flies dancing in its wake. I gaze up the long staircase, and abruptly recall Robin sliding down the banisters once, much to the housekeeper’s disapproval. The look of pure glee on his face. Sometimes we behaved more like ten-year-olds than teenagers.
Unwillingly, I think back to the last night I spent in the chateau.
That night is still so confused in my memory, it’s hard even to grasp at the memories. They slide away like smoke, defying too much examination. A scream, a half-glimpsed face under a dim, swinging bulb, something grotesque in the tub, a splash of red …
‘Sounds like you had a nightmare, darling,’ my aunt insisted the next morning. She gave me a hard stare over her newly-arrived copy of Vogue when I tried in my fumbling way to explain what I’d seen, abruptly cutting me off. ‘Too much fromage. I wouldn’t worry about it.’
She asked me to leave straightaway though, claiming my father needed me back in Cornwall. Some unexplained family emergency. Yet when I flew home, my father was not at the airport to meet me. He wasn’t even expecting to see me back in England so soon.
I wonder if she even remembers that incident now.
‘I’d better check with Lucille that your room is ready,’ Tamsin is saying, looking up the stairs, again with that vagueness in her voice. There’s a flush in her cheeks. From too much alcohol? ‘Poor Lucille. She’s been so busy since … Anyway, there’ll be more guests arriving tomorrow. No close fam
ily, most of them seem to have died while I wasn’t looking. But we were never big breeders, so perhaps that’s no surprise. Friends though, you know. Mine and Emily’s. Oh, she had so many friends. Everybody loved Emily. There’ll be quite a few your own age at the wake. So you should have someone to talk to.’ She smiles wanly. ‘Not just dull old ladies like me.’
‘Don’t be silly, Aunt Tamsin. You’re not dull, and you’re certainly not old.’
‘Thank you, darling. So kind …’ She kisses me on the cheek with real affection. ‘While you’re here, Caitlin, you must feel free to treat this place as your own home. You have a car, don’t you? Come and go as you please, don’t feel you have to ask me first.’ She pauses, blinking. ‘Now that reminds me of something. What was it?’
I wait.
‘Oh yes, I’ve had new security installed since you were here last. Key code pads on the two unmanned gates. One at the side, and one down at the gate to the private beach. To keep out the damn paps as much as burglars.’
‘Key codes?’
‘I had Lucille print the key codes onto a sheet. There should be one in your room. I always forget the bloody things, so I need to take the codes with me to the beach.’ She stops, and something flickers in her eyes. Wariness? ‘You and Emily often went swimming down there, didn’t you?’
‘On the private beach? Yes, often.’
‘Not that I’ve been down there myself recently. If I need a swim these days, I swim in the pool. Though it’s not very big. And if I want to sunbathe, I get Lucille to drive me over to the Hotel Du Cap-Eden-Roc. Only a few minutes away, and it has sun loungers and umbrellas and attractive young waiters who bring the most delicious cocktails without even being asked. So much nicer than huffing and puffing up that steep hill.’ She laughs. ‘My heart isn’t as strong as it was.’
‘Oh dear.’ I look at her anxiously. ‘Anything serious?’
‘Too much booze, the doctors say.’ She sees my expression, and grimaces. ‘Oh, don’t look like that. Booze is the only vice I have left. I’ll be damned if I’m giving that up too. I’m forever on a diet as it is. I don’t want to be found dead next to a last meal of carrot juice, like that poor actress the other month, the one who was so desperate to lose weight she practically stopped eating. Now what was her name?’
I don’t know, so can’t help her. But while she dithers, trying to remember, I try to deal with the uneasiness inside me.
I didn’t entirely tell the truth before. It would have been cruel. But for a moment, glancing in the mirror, I thought I saw Emily watching us from the corner of the room. When I spun round, it was only the reflection of a photograph on the wall behind me. A candid head-and-shoulders photo from her late teens, by the look of it. Her mouth curving in a smile, eyes full of teasing laughter. As though Emily had known how much her photograph would startle me one day.
‘Is Robin over here, do you know?’ I ask, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Or do he and his family live permanently in Los Angeles these days?’
I sense her sudden stillness, and am surprised by it. Is it possible Tamsin can have forgotten who Robin is? We were all so close that summer … And Robin was one of her favourites among Emily’s friends.
But I need to keep reminding myself that Tamsin is in the early stages of dementia. She may not remember people and things I take for granted. Though she seems less forgetful than I’d steeled myself to expect on the flight over.
‘You must remember Robin,’ I add hurriedly, trying to jog her memory without being too obvious about it. ‘From California. I thought his parents might still spend their summers on the Cap. They were always round here for dinner. What was his dad’s name? The film producer … ’ I think hard, then say, ‘David Halifax. That was it. You must remember David Halifax.’
For a moment she looks almost angry.
Belatedly, I remember Tamsin had a slightly indiscreet affair with Robin’s dad at one time, the film producer, even though he was married. They’d made several films together and it was the kind of thing that happened in the industry. People drifting together and then apart, such affairs not to be taken too seriously by either party.
Embarrassed, I wonder whether I should apologise.
Then she says abruptly, ‘Robin’s father is dead,’ and stalks away towards the kitchen in search of Lucille.
CHAPTER THREE
Up on the attic floor, Lucille throws open the door to my old bedroom with an almost defiant gesture, and steps aside for me to enter.
I hesitate in the narrow doorway, peering inside with sudden misgiving. For years, thinking of this room, I’ve remembered bursts of brilliant light and a scent of pine and a gorgeously soft bedspread with tiny embroidered roses.
The reality is very different. The window shutters are closed, the room dark and unbearably stuffy. I recognise the sloping ceiling and rough, exposed beams, but the rest of it is unrecognisable.
Was it always this gloomy?
‘C’est ta chambre,’ she says when I don’t move, and gestures me emphatically inside.
I smile. ‘Merci.’
Lucille does not smile back, watching me with an unreadable expression. Perhaps she resents me being here. For not having brought my father as my aunt wished. It’s clear that Tamsin was upset not to see her brother again. But there must be other guests coming, people who were closer to Emily and want to be there for her funeral.
‘Lucille, do you need any help?’ I ask in French, probably getting all the grammar wrong, and turn to dump my case on the foot of the narrow bed. ‘About the house, I mean. You must have a lot of extra work at the moment.’
She stares at me. ‘Non.’
‘Okay,’ I say, surprised by her abruptness, then add awkwardly, ‘Well, just ask if … if you change your mind. I’m happy to help you.’
A little uncomfortable under her gaze, I look around. There’s a scent of lavender in the room, used traditionally to keep linen fresh, and a faint hint of something else too. Musk?
No embroidered bedspread this time, I notice, smoothing my hand over the bed. But it’s too hot at night in the summer for much covering anyway. The sheets and pillow case are pale blue, a little threadbare. But the top sheet has been formally turned down for me, and a rose laid across the pillow, one of its scarlet petals already fallen.
‘C’est jolie.’
I pick up the red rose, smiling round at the housekeeper. Its lush petals smell sweet but subtle, and remind me of the beautiful chateau gardens below. I shall enjoy exploring the grounds again; maybe tomorrow if Tamsin has no other plans for me.
My French, not used in years, temporarily deserts me as I search for the right words. ‘The flower is … lovely, very kind of you.’
Lucille stands with folded arms, saying nothing. She looks at the rose and then at me, her face curiously blank. I can’t recall, does she actually understand English? I think we always addressed her in French as kids. Emily and Robin were both fluent French speakers, of course, while I struggled with the language, exactly as I do now.
I try again in French. ‘My aunt’s memory … Is it very bad?’ I grimace, knowing I must sound like a five-year-old. ‘She loses words often?’
Lucille nods. ‘Dementia. The doctors say it will only get worse.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She doesn’t seem comfortable with the conversation, anymore than I am. To my relief, she unfolds her arms and leaves the room, with vague mutterings about when supper will be ready.
‘Merci,’ I call after her, but Lucille doesn’t respond.
I look around in silence for a moment after she’s gone, just drinking in the bitter-sweet memories. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed with nostalgia.
Emily and I sat together on this bed the night she taught me how to braid my hair. Here I sat with Robin too – and later lay with him, on top of the sheets, both partially dressed – one unbearably hot, stormy evening. And once all three of us squeezed onto this single mattress for a game of cards, playin
g poker on a rainy evening.
There are still scrapes and indentations in the far wall where Robin set up a dart board and we took turns trying to hit the bull’s-eye. The rickety night stand is still in its place, and I turn to see the faded poster of Indochine, a French pop group, that Emily insisted on putting up for me, one edge now peeling from the slightly dirty white wall. Even the Chinese lantern bulb shade still hangs overhead, a few holes poked in the paper but otherwise intact.
Today the room is warm and suffocating, golden bars of light falling across the rush matting from each slat in the shutters.
I kick off my shoes, and touch my bare toes experimentally to one of the strips of sunlight. That’s another thing I’d forgotten about the South of France. Its gorgeous weather, which greeted me at Nice airport in a wall of heat, the dazzling blue haze of the Mediterranean dancing like a mirage just beyond the tarmac.
I study the printed sheet left on my bedside table that contains the key codes for the security gates. Four digits each. Easy enough to memorise.
There’s an old French-English dictionary too, that I remember using last time.
That will come in handy.
I expect my French will come back after a day or two. It’s just lack of use that’s making me struggle right now.
I check my phone. Nothing from Robin, whose abrupt reconnection on Facebook has both shocked and thrilled me.
A little disappointed, I hesitate, my thumb poised over the screen.
I don’t want to seem desperate.
Instead, I ring Dad.
‘Good flight?’ he asks as soon as he answers.
‘Not bad.’ I cringe at the banality of the conversation, given the circumstances. ‘I still can’t believe Emily is dead.’
‘I know what you mean. Such a live wire.’ Dad pauses. ‘How’s Tamsin?’
‘Better than I expected, given what’s happened. A little forgetful, but not a complete wreck.’
‘Is she annoyed with me?’
I make a face, though he can’t see me. ‘What do you think? Dad, you should have told her. Imagine if it was you …’
