Viola taps the spoon to her nose. ‘True,’ she says, considering. She sees the hope in his eyes. ‘Alright, then. One night in a posh hotel.’
‘In London.’
Viola gives him a little smile. ‘OK, in London.’
‘Parfait!’ Mathieu claps. ‘Fantastique! I have persuaded my girlfriend to let me take her on an expensive trip to London – success!’
Viola laughs. ‘Look, mister, when this competition is done you can take me on all the fancy, posh trips you can afford. Next year, I’m yours. Barbados. Miami. Australia. Knock yourself out.’
Mathieu grins. ‘You’d let me take you to Australia? I’m most honoured.’
Viola nods. ‘At two and a half thousand quid a ticket, you should be.’
Mathieu raises an eyebrow. ‘That is posh.’
‘Well,’ Viola says, with a slight shrug. ‘Naturally, I only fly first class.’
Mathieu smiles. ‘But, of course. I wouldn’t have expected anything less.’
Viola pauses. ‘Who’ll look after Hugo, when we’re living it up in London?’
‘My brother,’ Mathieu says. ‘I’ve already asked him. Instead of us going to his, he’ll come to us.’
‘You’ve already asked him?’ Viola says, eyebrow raised in mock reproach. ‘I hate to think I’m so easy. Perhaps I should have played harder to get.’
At this, Mathieu explodes into laughter. ‘Harder to get? Harder?’ He gets up from the table, walks to Viola and takes her in his arms. ‘C’est fou, ça! My darling, if you were any harder to get I think I’d have to give up altogether. Getting my PhD, being awarded tenure at the Sorbonne, becoming head of the history department at St Catharine’s—’
‘—you never told me that.’
Mathieu shrugs. ‘All of these things have been nothing compared to wooing you.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Viola smiles. ‘Exactly as it should be.’
‘Indeed,’ Mathieu says. ‘Virginie proposed after twenty-four hours. With you, I think I shall be waiting a lifetime.’
Viola considers. ‘Or maybe two. Perhaps you’ll just have to propose to me.’
Mathieu looks confused. ‘Isn’t that a bit … unconventional? I’m a traditional boy. I think I’ll just have to wait as long as it takes.’
‘You’ll be waiting a while, then, unless you ply me with plenty of posh champagne and, of course, long strings of pearls,’ Viola says, leaning in to kiss him.
‘No cheap fizz, then?’
Viola shakes her head. ‘Nope, I’m Krug Private Cuvée all the way.’
Mathieu raises an eyebrow. ‘I’ve never heard of it, so it must be fancy.’
‘A mere two thousand pounds a bottle.’ Viola slides her fingers up his neck and into his hair. ‘I drink it at lunch. But, considering you’re a lowly professor, I might allow myself to be wooed with Dom Pérignon.’
‘Really? How gracious of you.’
‘I do my best.’ Viola smiles. ‘So, do I have to kiss you first too? You old-fashioned romantic, you.’
‘Hey,’ Mathieu says, touching his lips lightly to hers. ‘Less of the “old”. I may be ancient, but you’re no spring duck yourself.’
Viola giggles. ‘I think spring chicken is what you mean, you cheeky bugger.’
‘Exactement,’ Mathieu says. ‘That’s what I said.’
Viola smiles, closes her eyes and kisses him.
Chapter Forty-One
‘I don’t like this food,’ Hugo says, poking his fork into the tomato and lime salsa.
‘Is it oversalted?’ Viola asks. ‘I’m sorry, I think perhaps I added a touch too much this time. Overzealous. The precision of salt is an essential thing.’
Hugo regards her as if she’s just said something in Swahili.
‘I could make you a pizza,’ Viola suggests. ‘Would you like that?’
Hugo shrugs.
Viola pushes her chair from the table and stands.
‘No,’ Mathieu says. ‘Hugo will eat this, it’s delicious.’
Viola steps over to the kitchen counter. ‘It won’t take me a minute to make the dough.’
‘Sit.’
Viola turns. ‘OK, boss. If you say so.’
‘You’ve gone to so much trouble already,’ Mathieu says. ‘Hugo has always loved fish.’ He takes a big bite of his braised swordfish. ‘And this is some of the best fish I’ve ever eaten in my life.’
‘You’re easy to please.’ Viola smiles. ‘Sadly, Jacques is a bloody—’ She glances at Hugo. ‘Sorry.’
He ignores her.
‘So, tell me what you do like,’ Viola says. ‘What’s your favourite food? I’ll make it next time.’
Hugo shrugs.
‘Go on,’ Viola says. ‘Absolutely anything you want. Just say the word.’
‘Shark,’ Hugo says.
Viola raises her eyebrows. ‘Really? Well alright then—’
‘Hugo,’ Mathieu warns. ‘Viola’s making you a very generous offer, so please don’t be flippant.’
‘I’m not,’ Hugo says. ‘I love shark. It’s my favourite thing to eat. Especially barbequed with cow dung.’
‘Hugo,’ Mathieu snaps.
‘Don’t worry,’ Viola says. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘It does matter,’ Mathieu says. ‘You can’t talk to people like that, Hugo, no matter how you’re feeling.’
‘She’s not just people,’ Hugo says. ‘She’s a slut.’
‘Hugo!’
Viola reaches across the table. ‘Matt, don’t, it’s—’
‘No, it’s not OK,’ Mathieu snaps again. ‘It’s certainly not. Hugo, where the hell did you learn a word like that?’
Hugo shrugs again.
‘I’m calling your headmaster first thing tomorrow,’ Mathieu says. ‘And you’re apologising to Viola right now.’
‘I am not.’
‘Now!’
Glaring at them both, Hugo sits back in his chair, arms folded.
‘Hugo.’
Then he leans forward and pushes his plate hard so that it slides across the table and crashes to the floor, a scattered mess, a Jackson Pollock painting of splashed salsa, china shards, bursts of rosemary butter and three different types of cauliflower spread far and wide across the kitchen floor. For one long moment the three of them just stare at the scene in silence. And then Mathieu looks at his son.
‘Your. Room. Now.’
Hugo rises, kicking away his chair.
‘Je te déteste et je déteste ta stupide salope,’ he shouts, storming across the room as the chair clatters to the floor.
Mathieu and Viola sit in the echoing silence that follows Hugo’s departure. Viola waits for Mathieu to speak, but he says nothing, then cradles his head in his hands. Several silent minutes pass before Viola realises that Mathieu is crying. She stands quietly, steps over to him, then leans down to bury her face in his hair and wrap her arms around his shoulders.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ Mathieu whispers. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
Viola doesn’t say anything, but rubs her cheek softly against his scalp.
‘I want him to be happy,’ Mathieu whispers. ‘More than anything.’ He sighs deeply. ‘But I want to be happy too.’ Slowly, he rubs each eye with the back of one hand. ‘Is that too much to ask?’
And Viola, who has no idea, can only keep stroking Mathieu’s hair as his tears drop silently to the table.
Chapter Forty-Two
The second phone call comes that night. Jude had, with the help of Marcello, the chef at Gustare whom she also discovered is gay, moved two mattresses into the room on the third floor. Gertie could barely contain her excitement as they set up the beds. Without asking, she had already procured a little Victorian dressing table and set it at the head of her own mattress, placing her few possessions upon it: a brush, a mirror, a diary, a pink box and, of course, her silver hummingbird. She’s also raided the mahogany wardrobe on the second floor and added an assortment of vintage cami
soles, blouses and slips to her own clothes, so long as she’s wrapped in the warmth of Gatsby’s.
Gertie is asleep when the phone rings and, surprisingly, she doesn’t wake – though it takes Jude a full minute to tumble down the stairs and across the floor until she can grab the telephone from the counter.
‘Hello,’ she hisses into the phone, for a split-second wondering at the odds of having another secret half-sister and another niece who needs adopting.
‘Is this Judith Simms?’
‘It is.’
‘This is Dr John Ody, I’m calling from Addenbrooke’s Hospital.’
Jude’s stomach lurches – a reflexive reaction, since the only person she cares about is sleeping safely upstairs. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m calling with regards to your father.’
‘Oh.’ Jude says, feeling deeply relieved, then slightly guilty. She wonders how it happened – has he finally drunk himself to death? Or did an accident befall him while he was under the influence. For some reason, Jude has always imagined that he would die in a stupid, mundane manner, like tripping down the stairs.
‘He has advanced liver failure,’ Dr Ody continues. ‘We don’t expect—’
‘You don’t expect what?’ Jude asks.
Dr Ody takes a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid we don’t expect him to last much longer.’
‘Oh,’ Jude says again, feeling strangely calm. ‘Well, how long do you expect him to last?’
‘It would be … unlikely if he made it to the new year. I am sorry.’
‘So … he has liver failure?’
‘Yes, didn’t he tell you? He’s had it for some time.’
‘No,’ Jude confesses. ‘We weren’t … We aren’t close.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ Dr Ody says.
Jude is surprised to hear his words and even more surprised that he does genuinely sound sorry. In her experience, while her mother was dying, doctors didn’t seem to care very much. Jude imagined they’d hardened their hearts to all the incurable pain and suffering so they didn’t collapse under the weight of it. Nurses were better, but so overworked they simply couldn’t give each patient any unadulterated attention.
‘Thank you,’ Jude says. ‘How long has he been …?’
‘About eight months,’ Dr Ody explains. ‘Unfortunately, as you no doubt know, once the deterioration has reached a certain level, we cannot reverse the damage. We are, of course, doing what we can to alleviate his pain.’
‘And there’s nothing, nothing else you can do?’
‘I really don’t want to get your hopes up, Miss – Mrs? – Simms.’
‘Miss,’ Jude says. She imagines, based on his soft voice, that he’s young and handsome and far, far out of her league.
‘Miss Simms. He’s on the waiting list for a donor liver. But the likelihood, at this late stage, is remote. He won’t be at the top of the list, I’m sure you understand, because of his age and … condition.’
Jude nods. Of course, why would they waste a good liver on a chronic alcoholic?
‘I suppose there’s always some, small hope in these situations,’ Dr Ody concedes. ‘But I really wouldn’t want you to pin yours on a miracle, only to have them dashed.’
‘It’s OK, I promise I won’t,’ Jude says, feeling their roles reverse; now she’s comforting him. ‘Which ward is he in?’
‘Intensive care – it’s at the far end of ward D3, on the third floor.’
‘Intensive care?’ Jude says. ‘Bloody hell. He must be in a real state, then? I mean, of course he is, I just didn’t …’
‘It’s a lot to take in, Miss Simms, especially since it’s come as a surprise,’ Dr Ody says. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry to be giving you such bad news, especially at this time of year.’
Jude tries to imagine what the doctor looks like. Even if he isn’t young and handsome he is, no doubt, married.
‘Don’t worry, please,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault.’
Chapter Forty-Three
‘It’s a relief not to be a parent for twenty-four hours,’ Mathieu says. ‘God, I love Hugo more than life, but sometimes I just want to be a man again, instead of always a father. I feel guilty to say it, but it’s true.’
‘You shouldn’t feel guilty,’ she says. ‘You should feel enormously proud. You’re being a father and a mother, in the most difficult of circumstances, and you’re doing it brilliantly.’
‘Hardly,’ Mathieu says. ‘I do my best, but sometimes I think I’m setting him up for a lifetime in therapy.’
Viola smiles. ‘Then you must beat him and lock him in cupboards while I’m not looking,’ she says.
Mathieu manages a small smile in return. ‘He hates me.’
‘He adores you,’ Viola says. ‘He’s just angry and sad. And he’s taking it out on you, because you’re safe, because you love him and he knows you always will, no matter what he says or does, no matter what.’
Mathieu frowns. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because … Because that’s how it was with my mother and me, after my father died,’ Viola says. ‘That’s often how it still is, I’m ashamed to say.’
Mathieu takes Viola’s hand as they walk. She steps closer, so he lets go of her hand to slip his arm around her shoulders.
‘I’m sorry it’s so hard,’ he says.
‘What?’
‘Being with me.’
Viola stops walking. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m not,’ Mathieu says. ‘You’re thirty-six. You shouldn’t be with a widower and his son. You should be with someone who’s free and single, someone who—’
‘You forgot rich.’
Mathieu smiles. ‘I’m being serious. You—’
‘So am I.’
Mathieu nudges her. ‘Stop it. You should be with someone who can give you everything, to whom you’ll be the first. Not someone who can only offer you things already used, a second-hand family, a second-hand heart.’
Viola laughs. ‘Of all the stupid things you’ve ever said, and, let me assure you, there have been a great many, that is by far and away the most stupid of all.’
Mathieu bends to kiss the top of her head. ‘Stop being so kind.’
‘Kind? I don’t think you were listening,’ Viola says. ‘I just called you stupid. Monumentally and utterly stupid.’
Mathieu starts walking again. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘True.’ Viola follows. ‘You must have done something pretty bad in a past life to deserve me.’
Mathieu smiles. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure,’ Viola says. ‘I’m hardly a walk in the park, am I? A workaholic, perpetually dissatisfied perfectionist who—’
‘Well, when you put it like that.’
Viola reaches up to take the hand that hangs over her shoulder. ‘See, there you are. We’re neither of us good enough for anyone else but just about good enough for each other.’
Mathieu takes a deep breath, then exhales. ‘Well, thank God for that.’
‘You’ve outdone yourself with this hotel,’ Viola says, stretching out like a starfish on the bed. ‘This bed is heaven. These sheets … God, if I had a bed like this I think I’d actually be able to sleep.’ She closes her eyes with a sigh.
‘Hey, hey,’ Mathieu says, dropping his bag to the floor and leaping over to the bed. ‘That bed’s not for sleeping, not at four hundred and fifty quid a night.’
Viola laughs. ‘So, then, what exactly were you intending to do in it, if not sleep?’
Mathieu drops to his hands and knees and crawls over to her. ‘Oh, I’ve had a few ideas. All of them outrageous, a few of them illegal …’
Viola laughs. ‘I thought this trip was about relaxing, about me chilling out before the single most important day of my professional life.’
Mathieu begins to kiss her neck. ‘Oh, you’ll be relaxed, don’t worry about that. Just lie back and let me do the work.’
‘So long as yo
u let me sleep afterwards.’
‘Perhaps I’ll permit power naps in between,’ Mathieu says. ‘But only if you’re a very naughty girl.’
Viola giggles. ‘Thank you,’ she says.
Mathieu stops kissing her neck and looks up. ‘I’ve not done anything yet. But some of my best moves are coming up soon – you can thank me then.’
Viola smiles. ‘I meant, thank you for forcing me to stop working for a second and have a little fun. Thank you for kidnapping me and taking me to this very posh hotel.’
Mathieu resumes kissing Viola’s neck. ‘You’re very welcome,’ he says. ‘Now lie back and think of France.’
Afterwards, they lay together in the sea of tangled silk sheets. Viola nuzzles into the crook of Mathieu’s arm.
‘That was … outstanding,’ she whispers. ‘You’re right, those were some of your best moves yet.’
Mathieu smiles but says nothing.
‘I’ve never felt this way with anyone before,’ Viola says, almost to herself. ‘I’ve never felt like this in my life.’
‘What way?’
‘I don’t know, exactly.’ Viola considers. ‘Safe. Secure. Content. I don’t think I ever really understood that word before. I feel that … that I have nothing and everything, all at once. That I couldn’t possibly want anything more to make me any happier than I am now.’
Mathieu kisses the top of Viola’s head. She looks up at him.
‘Will you marry me?’
Chapter Forty-Four
The next morning, after returning to Gustare for breakfast, Jude and Gertie spend the rest of the day in the shop. Jude goes back and forth in her mind thinking about her father, about whether or not she should tell Gertie, about what’s the best and least traumatising plan of action. They wait for customers, Jude praying that they don’t get another hopeless case like the day before to dent both their spirits. But, in the end, no customers arrive, so their spirits are neither deflated nor lifted.
At dinner time, when Jude finally flips over the open sign to closed, Gertie hops down from the counter with a sigh. Jude realises that her niece’s spirits are most elevated when she has someone else to focus on, a stranger to sprinkle with some of her personal magic. Otherwise, she lurches from giddy excitement to abject sorrow.
The Patron Saint of Lost Souls Page 14
