by Daisy Waugh
Tiffany giggles. ‘There are absolutely millions of you!’
‘Not millions, Tiffie, you silly old fool!’ says Superman, having already counted. ‘Only eight. One…two…three…four…five…six…seven…Eight. See? Eight.’ They’re both dripping with water and impatient to get back into the pool. ‘C’mon,’ he says to all of them, to any of them. ‘We’re doing a diving game.’
‘HELLO SUPERMAN!’ bellows Rosie ecstatically. ‘ARE WE STILL CALLING YOU SUPERMAN?’
‘Hello,’ he answers politely, wondering why she has to shout.
‘AND TIFFANY! HELLO! I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU REMEMBER ME BUT I WAS A VERY, VERY CLOSE FRIEND OF YOUR MUMMY A LONG, LONG TIME AGO. WHEN SHE WAS CARRYING YOUR BABY BROTHER IN THAT LOVELY FLAT TUM-TUM!’
Tiffany looks at her, not quite certain how she’s expected to respond. Is the poor woman a bit retarded? Why hasn’t anyone warned her about it? ‘Um. Hello,’ Tiffany says.
‘YES! “UM” INDEED! WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT THAT? HM? – Oana,’ Rosie turns to the unhappy purplehaired Romanian girl without waiting for an answer. ‘Oana, please,’ she snaps. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but don’t just stand there. Fiddling with your lip-stud thingie. The children need sunscreen. Pronto. And their hats are somewhere. I’m not sure where…Somewhere in the boot. Could you find them for me? I cannot stress to you enough, it is vital that the children don’t get burnt.’ And then she smiles and turns her red face back towards her hostess.
‘Maude!’ she moans, throwing hot, fleshy arms around Maude’s neck. ‘It’s been so, so long!’
‘It’s been a long time,’ Maude agrees weakly. ‘And gosh…what a band! What a…Since when did you have so many children, Rosie? I had no idea…And this is…This is – Oana?’
‘Oh yes,’ Rosie says airily. ‘Oana’s the au pair. Well!’ she says, surveying the house. ‘This is quite a crib you’ve got here, isn’t it? Well done! Goodness. Isn’t it stunning, Simon? Don’t you think? Do you suppose we could afford a place like this? We’re only thinking for the hols, of course. Nothing full-time.’
Simon has grown a goatee and a small beer gut since the Haunts saw him last. He’s also completely shaved his head. He is wearing tiny rimless sunglasses, a fitted yellow T-shirt and bicycle shorts.
‘What do you think, Simon?’
But he’s still talking into his mobile. He nods, puts up a thumb, gives his hosts a half-hearted wave and a wink, and saunters off to finish his conversation by the swimming pool.
Rosie watches him, rolls her eyes. ‘Always working,’ she says. ‘Seriously. But I must say, he’s doing so well.’ She laughs. ‘Even you guys probably heard about Celebrity Dentistry –’
Maude and Horatio look polite, but blank.
‘No? Oh, come on! You must! We put a bunch of celebrities in The Chair. And for every second we drilled into their mouths, they got to donate £1000 to their favourite charity! And no painkillers! Sounds awful, I know, but it was fab, actually. And all in a great cause, you see. Which gave it that nice edge. People couldn’t get enough of it.’
Horatio says: ‘Perhaps you’d all like a swim before lunch?’
‘Second series already in the works,’ Rosie says, waving a pair of crossed fingers. ‘So anyway. Don’t pay any attention to Simon. You won’t get a conversation out of him all week! I never do!…Seriously, though,’ she says, standing back and squinting at the house. ‘What a fab gaf! How much did it cost you? – If you don’t mind?’
Maude says: ‘Why don’t we all help get the car unloaded? And then I’ll show you your rooms – I must admit, I had no idea – We’re going to have to make up a few more beds…Maybe some of the children won’t mind sleeping on cushions?’
‘You don’t mind my asking, do you?’ Rosie says. ‘Sorry. Only as we’re searching…’ She laughs. ‘I said to Simon this morning as he was cutting his toenails: “What we want is a life exactly like the Haunts”, and he quite agreed. Except, obviously, with all Simon’s commitments and the kids’ fantastic schools, we’ll only be able to come out in the holidays. But no matter. We’ll be having a jolly good snoop at you over the next few days, I’m afraid! See what works and what doesn’t. That sort of thing. So I hope you won’t object to us firing all sorts of questions.’
‘Object to what?’ says Horatio, not knowing where to begin.
‘We want to see how you manage things,’ Rosie says patiently, her age-old suspicion already confirmed. People’s brains turn to potato as soon as they move out of London.
‘Manage what, exactly?’
‘Oh, I don’t know! Everything! We’re actually working on a little series at the moment, Horatio. Called Property Boomers. All about people like you…People who cashed in, sort of thing. When the price was right. People living the life of Riley out on the continent, thanks to the crazy prices their houses made back in old London town…So it’ll be very interesting. Not just for us, but for the series. Consider yourselves warned. You’re under the Mottram Microscope this week! We want to know all the dirty details!’
‘Well –’ says Maude, not daring to look at her husband. ‘In any case. Lunch won’t be for half an hour. Perhaps you’d all like to swim…’ She smiles, looking from one filthy, scowling Mottram child to the next one. ‘They look awfully hot, poor things.’
Rosie glances up at the clear blue sky, and shakes her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says. ‘Not in the middle of the day. It’s too hot for them. Perhaps a little dip before bedtime, when it’s cooler. Unfortunately the children have all inherited Simon’s sensitive skin. They really shouldn’t be outside…In fact, Oana, perhaps you could get them in. Please. Put them in front of the telly box, would you? And then perhaps you can unload the car? I must say I am gasping for some of the vino français. Don’t suppose you’ve got any pink?’
And so the first day passes. With the five Mottram children smothered in sunblock and plonked in front of a video of the first Harry Potter. With Simon Mottram pacing the garden, nodding and bawling into his telephone. And with Rosie splayed out by the pool, breast mountains glistening with sun oil, sucking back the rosé and yakking to whichever of her unfortunate hosts whose turn it is to entertain her.
At some point in the early evening Rosie finally rises from her sunbed, heaves her bikini top back over her burning bazookas, and looks at her watch. ‘Seven o’clock,’ she says to Maude, who’s just finished feeding tea to the older six children. ‘Time to get our monsters into bed, I suppose. Has Oana knocked off already?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Maude says. ‘Last I saw her she was feeding the baby.’
‘Oh. Jolly good. Well perhaps she can help then. Come on, Simon!’ she yells across the garden. ‘Hang up the ruddy phone! It’s all hands on deck!’
By half past ten the last of the wey-faced Mottram children has demanded its final mini-snack and retired to bed. The miserable Oana, having refused supper, is in her bedroom, texting her friends back in Romania, and munching miserably through a private stash of Wagon Wheels brought with her from London. Tiffany and Superman have been asleep for hours. Which leaves Rosie, already quite drunk, Simon, Horatio and Maude – alone together for the first time.
Maude’s dinner – roast poussin, roast potatoes and salad – would, in fact, have been delicious if it had been served on time. Maude’s approach to cooking hasn’t changed greatly since she left behind the Tesco’s on Acre Lane. She still looks on it as a chore. But at least it’s an easy one. In France, she (or, less often, Horatio) can always deliver excellent food with minimal effort, mostly because the Montmaur market sells nothing else. It’s something they appreciate about their adopted country almost every day – although not, as it happens, tonight. Because by half past ten, the poussin, once so perfectly juicy and fresh, have been cooking for two and a half hours. When the Mottram parents are finally ready to sit down and eat them, they are dry and as tasteless as cardboard.
‘At last!’ sighs Rosie, who’s lifted not a finger to help. �
�I thought this moment might never come.’ She sinks into her seat. ‘Simon. Do you want to say something, or shall I? Oh, I will.’ She takes Maude and Horatio by the hand and waits, head bowed and eyes closed, for Simon to sit down with his plate of cardboard, and complete the circle.
‘…Lord, for this special moment in our lives,’ she begins, ‘for the special people in our lives, and for our very special friends, Maude and Horatio. For all our laughter; for all the moments of joy that we share together, that make up our lives together and apart, and for all the love we hold in this room, together, most especially, Lord, thank you. Amen.’
‘Right then,’ says Horatio briskly, whipping his hands away. ‘Shall we get on and eat?’
‘Unless Simon has anything to add…?’ asks Rosie.
Simon has nothing to add.
‘You’ll never guess what Simon and I were saying to one another in the bedroom just now…’ Rosie continues, taking up knife and fork and tucking in. ‘Simon was just out of the shower, putting his pants on. He had a brainwave, didn’t you, Simon? God knows why we didn’t think before! Would have saved us so much trouble, because the French section’s been looking iffy for weeks. The family’s been incredibly difficult. Well. This afternoon, as luck would have it, they finally pulled out!’
‘Sorry,’ Maude says politely, ‘I’m not sure I understand. Pulled out of what?’
‘Property Boomers. Remember? I was telling you – we’ve got the gays on the Costa Brava, running the Olde English pub. Fantastic! We’ve got the golf pro in Dubai – that one’s in the can. We’ve got the struggling starlet over in LA, haven’t we, Simon? And – what’s the other one? Oh yes – the safari guy. Bit of a weirdo actually. He’s got this big giraffe-breeding thingy out in Namibia. Set up the whole business off the profit from a two-bed Battersea maisonette…Unbelievable. We may not do him, though. If we can get away with it. Travel costs and so on. But France, on the other hand…
‘La Belle France,’ adds Simon.
‘Much cheaper,’ Rosie nods. ‘And here are you guys. I mean – perfect. Growing veg, and looking so fabulous. Don’t you think, Horatio? You’re such a fab-looking family. Simon was saying he can’t wait to get you all on camera.’
‘Oh really?’ Maude says again. Very politely. She daren’t even look at Horatio.
‘Absolutely, “really”, Maude! We could get you at the vegetable stall, chatting to the locals, and then get all the village drama, you know, when Monsieur le docteur has it off with…whoever. You know. The fishmonger. All that sort of typical French stuff…Very, very elegant. But sexy. I mean the French’re always having it off with each other, aren’t they?’
Maude smiles. ‘I’m not quite sure,’ she says carefully. ‘Hasn’t the English-in-France thing been done a bit to death, though? My mother says there are things on telly the whole time.’
‘Exactly!’ cries Rosie. ‘All the more reason to do it again!…You guys are living the dream, don’t you see? You are the Real Deal. Because you actually do what the rest of us only ever talk about! And here you are, three years on, all set up with the house, the terrace, the sunflowers, the bloody swimming pool. The kids are speaking fluent French. I mean, it’s a million miles from Brixton. Isn’t it?’
‘But half the people in the Charente are English,’ says Horatio carelessly. ‘You only have to go into the local Carrefour supermarket to find that out. And they’ve all got terraces and sunflowers and children who speak French. I could introduce you to hundreds of people just like us.’
‘No, but you guys are different,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Because you guys have got it exactly right.’
‘No we haven’t,’ snap Maude and Horatio, both at once.
‘Come on! Organic veggies! How perfect is that?…It’s totally perfect! You’ve got two perfect kids. You both look great; your house looks great; you’re doing OK moneywise…you obviously adore each other…’
Maude and Horatio look queasily at their plates.
‘…You guys are the Happy Ending. You’re everybody’s Happy Ending! You’re living proof that living the simple life actually works –’
‘For heaven’s sake, Rosie,’ says Maude, sounding sharper than she intended. ‘You’ve only been here about six hours. You’ve got no idea…Really.’ She tries to laugh. ‘I mean really…’
A short pause while Rosie appears to consider this. ‘I tell you what, Maude, Horatio,’ she says, looking at them both. ‘I can see you’re not comfortable with the idea right away, and I can respect that. We respect that, don’t we, Simon? So let’s talk about something else. But think about it, at least. Just tell me you’ll think about it…We’ll need to get cracking if you are up for it, of course. We need the whole thing done and dusted by the end of next month. But that’s not the point. Don’t think about that. Not at the moment. Just think about the suggestion…It could be so much fun, and believe me, the kids would love it. So just think about it…’
‘There’s actually – really – I don’t mean to be rude. But there’s nothing to think about,’ Horatio smiles. ‘I can tell you now, the answer’s no. It’s out of the question, isn’t it, Maude?’
But Rosie isn’t hearing him. ‘Something about Sunshine and Sunflowers, we could call it. Something like that. Sunflowers and Sangria. Only not…What do you think, Mrs Haunt?’
DAY FOUR
The house has been colonised by Mottrams. Except in the COOP, the only room in the house they have yet to discover, there isn’t a surface, inside or out, which isn’t covered with something messy and Mottram-related: damp swimsuits, grubby towels, footballs, plastic goggles, water pistols, selfhelp paperback books, half-used nappies, any-way-up cups, empty Evian bottles, lukewarm glasses of milk, half-eaten apples, open yoghurt pots, dirty cereal bowls…
Tiffany and Superman have completely failed to coax any fun out of the visiting Mottram children, who seem only interested in videos, and demanding snacks in moany voices. Nevertheless, infuriatingly, Maude and Horatio have barred them from visiting their friends in the village until the Mottrams leave. They are bored witless; unwilling even to go swimming while Rosie’s always there, shouting at them for splashing. In their boredom and claustrophobia they have been more than usually argumentative. As, indeed, have their parents.
Maude and Horatio have reached a point where they can barely be in the same room with their guests without wanting to strangle them. It’s led them to abandon much of their earlier caution, and to return to work. In fact, the last couple of days they’ve spent more or less entirely tucked away in the top corner of the house, locked in behind their sliding bookshelf. Tiffany and Superman come in and out via the skylight, and Maude emerges at mealtimes to feed people. Otherwise they have left Simon and Rosie to entertain themselves.
Which suits the Mottrams very well, as it happens. Rosie points it out to Simon in the late afternoon, after their fourth hour of uninterrupted solitude beside the Haunts’ swimming pool.
‘If they don’t want to talk to us, that’s fine by me, Simon,’ she whispers from her position on their nicest sun-lounger. ‘Why should we complain? I don’t quite see what we’ve done, exactly, to offend them…but I mean – seriously – It’d cost us about £1500 a week to rent a place like this for ourselves at this time of year. Maybe £2000. Frankly, if they want to hide away all day and leave us with the run of the place that’s their lookout, don’t you agree?’ She turns her head to look at her husband. ‘Their problem is, Simon, they’ve been out of London so long they’ve forgotten how to talk to people. That’s what’s happened…’
He doesn’t respond. May well even be asleep, behind those D&G sunglasses. His mobile telephone is resting idle in a small pool of sweat on his soft belly. ‘…I don’t think we’re going to persuade them to do the show, though, do you?’ she adds, reaching for the pink wine she earlier pulled out of their fridge. ‘They always look so uptight when we bring up the subject. Have you noticed?’ She sighs. ‘It’s a shame, really. Becaus
e the more I think about it the more I see it working. Not so much as a vision of the Good Life. Not now I’ve had a chance to see things more closely. More as an anthropological study, actually, of how dreams turn sour – Because it’s fascinating, isn’t it? Actually quite reassuring for those of us who don’t succumb to the White Flight. I mean those of us who stick it out in London and slog away, keeping the bloody economy on its legs…’ She falls silent a moment, thinking about that.
‘…I mean,’ she continues, ‘the change that’s come over the Haunts in the past three years…Maude and Horatio used to be such lovely people. They’ve become moody and sullen…I think they’re depressed. And I suspect that that’s what happens to expats, by and large. They get depressed. They think they’re moving to paradise, but what they’re actually doing is moving to a sort of culturally alienated Britpack vacuum. A sort of very British type of Hell…’
‘That’d be our building block,’ Simon murmurs. So he’s not asleep.
‘Hmm. Misery and Mayhem in Paradise…That sort of thing. I think we should keep plugging away at them, don’t you? See if we can’t get them to change their minds. Tonight’s our last night, after all. They’re hardly going to throw us out, are they?’ She chuckles. ‘I think we should give it one more try…’
FINAL DAY
It’s eleven o’clock and, for the first time in many weeks, it is raining. Tiffany and Superman are in the COOP with their parents, pestering them to be allowed to bicycle to the village to see their friends. Maude remains unwilling, partly because of the rain but still mostly because of the Mottrams. She thinks, having got this far, Tiffany and Superman ought to stick it out to the end; make one final effort to entertain the Mottram children before they leave.
