So I’ve been the definition of civilized for a long time—smiling, for William’s sake, when he’d arrive to pick him up; exclaiming “how fantastic!” when our son would return extolling the gastronomic virtues of the McDonald’s Happy Meal to which he’d been treated.
Even if I did want to waste time and energy resenting Adam, I don’t have it in me with everything else going on. These days, I’m numb to him. I go along with the pretense that he’s in France because that’s where work has taken him, not because he never wanted to bother with anything as mundane as monogamy and fatherhood. My son stirs and sits up, rubbing his eyes as we are rewarded with our first glimpse of Château de Roussignol. I’ve only seen it in pictures, in every state of renovation, right from the beginning when it was a neglected wreck.
That was in the days before William was old enough to talk, when Adam would email me intermittently, attaching pictures of the château. Everyone thought he was mad when he first bought it.
You could tell there was a grand building somewhere beyond the thickets of overgrown bushes and unkempt gardens. But it had no electricity, mice under the floorboards and a sanitation system from the Dark Ages. But Adam, for all his faults, was always single-minded enough to make it work.
As the emails dropped into my inbox each month for three years, I got an insight I never asked for and never wanted into his new life: his hours of physical toil, his obsessive approach to planning, the ludicrously ambitious vision he had for the place. I worried endlessly about the financial risk he was taking and how it would affect his ability to contribute to the cost of raising William, without which we wouldn’t have survived in the early days.
I read the emails with a mixture of intrigue, jealousy, anger and despair. But with hindsight I think his main motivation for sending them was merely an almost childlike need to prove that he was really making something of himself.
When the château was nearing completion and our son approached his third birthday, it was apparent Adam had managed to pull it off.
I refused to let myself be bitter, at least not about his success, which he’s worked hard for. Though I’ll admit I could never quite believe how quickly he started dating someone else after our split—while I was adjusting to life with sore nipples, no sleep and the idea that a successful day meant brushing my teeth before 3:00 p.m.
“Are we here?” William asks, brightening. “Wow, it’s amazing, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. Your dad’s done a great job.”
The château is disarmingly beautiful, more of a French manor house than my idea of a castle, but with all of the grandeur and neoclassical glamour you could wish for.
It’s three stories high, with a silvery grey roof that slopes towards the biscuit hues of its walls and huge windows, flanked by elaborate shutters painted the color of seashells. Two ancient stone steps with an intricate wrought iron bannister lead to an oversize arched doorway. A high ivy-strewn balcony overlooks the graveled driveway and feathered cypress trees. Pots of brightly colored flowers line the outside of the building.
We bump along in silence, the scent of thyme and bellflowers hanging in the air as the only sounds to be heard are the chirrup of nightingales and soft rustle of the breeze.
“I can’t wait to see Dad,” William says. “Is he coming to meet us?”
“He’s going to try. He told us to head to reception as soon as we arrived.”
Adam swore that he would rush out and throw his arms round William the second we appeared, but I’m playing this down. Given that this is Adam we’re talking about—and that he hasn’t responded to the text I sent an hour ago when we stopped for petrol—I’m not prepared to risk it. I turn off the engine and open the door.
“Let’s go and see if we can find him,” I suggest, swinging my legs out of the car. “He won’t recognize you. You must’ve grown two inches since he last saw you.”
We’ve only seen Adam in the flesh once since Christmas, when he was staying in London at his new girlfriend Elsa’s place. Like many of the women Adam has dated since me, Elsa is several years younger than he is and is positively breathless in his presence, at the mercy of a twinkly look from those brown eyes.
Most of the time, I find it hard to remember feeling that way about him myself, but logic tells me I must have, because we were together for more than three years, in love for at least some of that time, and managed to make a baby together, albeit by accident.
That was before I realized that when Adam had said he’d never wanted to be a father, he really meant it.
He was the first to admit he wasn’t cut out to be the kind of father I had. My dad was far from perfect, but his love still shone through in every hour he spent playing with my dollhouse with me or, when I grew up, teaching me to drive. That kind of thing didn’t appeal to Adam, even after fatherhood had become not a lifestyle decision but an unavoidable reality.
All of which is why I had to end our relationship. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. But I had no choice.
Chapter 5
Stone steps lead us up to the heavy set of doors and into a cool reception hall tiled in weathered stone.
We approach a long, ancient-looking desk upon which sits a glass bowl of billowing, heavily scented white blooms and a snowy blotting pad. The chair behind it is empty, which William takes as his cue to ping the silver bell several times.
We’re greeted by a young woman wearing a short black skirt, semisheer white blouse and ballet pumps. She has plump, dewy skin, gleaming teeth and long blond hair scraped back like the tail on a dressage pony.
“Can I help you?” She’s English, with a high, confident voice that suggests privilege and breeding. I’d put her in her midtwenties. She’s not skinny by any means, but not a bit of her wobbles, except the bits that are meant to. They wobble quite a bit.
“We’re booked into one of the cottages. The name’s Pendleton. Jessica.”
Her face breaks into the sort of smile you’d expect on hearing the news that there are no calories in chocolate Easter eggs. “Jess! I’m Simone.”
She puts down her pen, marches round the desk and throws her arms round me. This strikes me as quite an approach to customer service, particularly given that I’m getting this holiday for free.
“And you must be William!”
William shuffles in his spot. “Yes.”
She keeps grinning. “You really look like your dad.”
He looks pleased. “Oh.”
“Honestly, you’re the spitting image. Just gorgeous.” William’s cheeks are now crimson. “Well, I’m over the moon to meet you both. And William, I’m sure I’ll get to know you better, because I’ve managed to persuade Adam that we should start some children’s activities this summer, and I’ll be organizing them.”
William grins again. In fact, you could put a pencil in the dimples in his cheeks and it’d stay put. “If you like soccer, you’re in the right place. Would you like me to sign you up?”
William is the only child in his class, and probably in the entire eighty-nine-year history of his school, who is not even vaguely interested in the game. The closest he’s ever come to a sporting achievement is joining the school debate team.
“Um . . . yes,” he replies. I do a double take.
“What team do you support?”
He swallows. “Manchester.”
“City or United?” she asks.
“Um . . . both.”
She giggles, and so does he. She returns to the desk and clicks on her computer. “Right, let’s get you checked into your cottage.” As luxurious as the château is, I’m glad not to be staying there, where I know Adam has his office. It feels too close for comfort.
“There’s a third person booked in with you too, is that right?”
“That’s my friend Natasha, but she’s not joining us for another week or so.”<
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“Ah, of course. Well, the rooms are all ready. I can take you over there now.”
She disappears into an office to grab a key, then tells us to follow her outside, back into incandescent sunshine. There, she leaps into a golf cart as William and I slip into my car to follow her.
“Well, she was friendly, wasn’t she?” I say.
“Yes, and she smelled lovely,” William replies enthusiastically, to which I can’t think of an appropriate answer.
The road snakes around the château to a beautiful pool, dotted with sunflower yellow loungers and matching umbrellas. There are a handful of young families there, toddlers in Breton stripe surf suits and kids who look William’s age, splashing in the deep end.
It is overlooked by a terraced bar area, with a handful of tables and chairs, shaded by a canopy of climbing honeysuckle in full, scented bloom. On the far side, I can see a tennis court, a sports pitch and a Crayola-colored play area, all flanked by well-kept gardens and romantic beds of rambling roses and daisies.
I spot a signpost to “Les Écuries”—The Stables—as I follow Simone’s cart towards a wooded area. The temperature drops in the shade of the trees, and after a short drive we reach a small car park next to a clutch of stone buildings with pale blue shutters and individual patios full of white geraniums arranged around an attractive courtyard.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell Simone as we cross the dusty courtyard to the door right at the end. “How many cottages are there?”
“Twenty-one. Some of them are two bedroom, others three. They’re not all in the stable block though—the old servants’ quarters on the other side of the grounds have been renovated too.” She leans in and whispers: “These are the nicest though. And they’re only a few minutes’ walk to the château if you take the path through the woods.”
She slides a cast iron key into a heavy wooden door and pushes it open. Inside, the cottage is simple and rustic, with a pale tiled floor throughout and an open-plan living room and kitchen. The dominant feature is a big, old-fashioned fireplace in front of which two small blue sofas are arranged. There’s a big dining table and a functional but sweet-looking kitchen, with a deep ceramic sink, cast iron pots hanging on the wall and worktops made of thick slabs of oak. The bedrooms are whitewashed and beamed, with pretty patterned bedspreads and enamel vases.
“It’s lovely. Thank you,” I say as William lays claim to his bedroom.
“Adam will be so glad you like it,” she replies.
“So . . . where is he?”
“Oh! I was meant to say: he had something on this afternoon,” she replies vaguely. “He wanted to be here when you arrived, but it was unavoidable.” I bite the inside of my mouth and nod politely. Somehow, it always is.
Chapter 6
“This car isn’t going to unpack itself,” I say to William, after Simone has gone. “If I drive it to the door, will you help me?”
“Just let me finish this,” he murmurs, his forehead poised three inches from the iPad.
“What are you watching?” I ask, peering over his shoulder.
“The Woman in Black.”
“When did you download that? Surely that’s too scary for you?”
“Mum, it’s only a 12A,” he sighs.
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Age ten is a strange milestone. William is very much a child but showing alarming glimmers of his future as a teenager. On the one hand, I’ve explained the facts of life to him. On the other, he still goes along with the idea of Santa (though I’m pretty sure he’s humoring me).
“Just don’t come running to me when you get nightmares,” I tell him.
“Mum. I’m not going to have nightmares.”
“One minute, okay? Then I need you.” He doesn’t answer. “William?”
“Yep. No problem.”
I head outside, feeling mildly dizzy from heat and tiredness as I pull the car up next to the cottage, then jump out and open the boot. I gaze inside, wondering how I managed to get all that stuff in there. I’m not even sure how legal it is to have this much clogging up the back windscreen. I gently click the lock and, quickly realizing my error, throw my body against the boot door in order to prevent the whole lot from falling out. As sweat beads on my brow, I tentatively begin to pull out the contents, until I’m surrounded by detritus and aware that I’ve still got a picnic basket, twelve paperbacks and my four-pound dumbbells to go.
“William?” I call out, not entirely expecting him to rush to my aid. “WILLIAAAM?”
“I’d recognize those dulcet tones anywhere.”
I spin around and feel my neck prickle at the sight of Adam walking towards me. “Oh. Hello,” I mumble.
“Let me help.” He flings a bouquet of pretty blue flowers on the patio table, followed by a brown paper bag.
“I’m fine, honestly,” I insist, but he dives in anyway and takes the strain.
“I’ll hold it, you pull out some stuff and we’ll see if we can manage this without a forklift.”
By the time we have an enormous pile on the ground and there’s no longer a danger of anything tumbling out, I register the turned-up corner of Adam’s mouth.
“Have you brought everything you own?” He picks up one of my mini dumbbells and starts pumping it. They’re the only thing between me and bingo wings, but I’m not going to explain that, so I simply snatch it out of his hand.
“There’s not that much. It’s deceptive because my car is really small. And there are two of us—for five weeks. We needed stuff.”
He lifts up William’s popcorn maker. “Is this for emergencies?”
“That isn’t mine.”
You only have to look at him to see that Adam eats the kind of fresh, ripe food that makes your eyes gleam, enjoys a good red wine, gets lots of exercise and likes the warmth of the sun on his skin. It takes only the faintest prompt for him to smile widely, and there are no signs of stress on his brow. His dark hair is half an inch longer than in the days when he had an office job and now curls loosely onto his tanned forehead.
“You’re looking well,” I say, politely.
He seems slightly taken aback, before casting his eye over me. “You too, Jess.” I turn away before he can see the heat in my cheeks.
Adam peers into the boot and picks up the facts-of-life book. I’m baffled about how this ended up in the car; surely no ten-year-old needs to know any more detail about the sprouting of pubic hairs than he’s already read.
“You should’ve told me if you needed anything explained, Jess,” Adam continues, flicking through it. “I’d have been happy to offer some insight.”
“Ho ho.”
He continues to flick. “I take it this is for William?”
“Good guess.”
He sighs. “It only feels like I was pushing him on the swings five minutes ago. Anyway, sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I was sidetracked.”
I feel my jaw tighten but remind myself what I’m here for. “That’s okay. Thanks for putting us in such a nice cottage. I know they’re in demand in the summer.”
“I’m glad you like it. Oh . . . I got him a couple of things.” He walks to the table and picks up the paper bag, before returning and handing it to me. “Some sweets and a few tops.”
I pull out a T-shirt. It’s so small it would be snug on a garden gnome.
“That’s lovely. Have you kept the receipt, in case it doesn’t fit?”
“Oh. Not sure.” For a brief moment he looks so much like his twenty-one-year-old self, all contradictions and charisma.
“Why don’t you go and surprise William so you can give them to him yourself?” I suggest. “He’s in the bedroom.”
A heartbeat passes before he nods and says, “I will.” He goes to head to the door, then stops and picks up the bouquet from the table, before thrusting
it towards me, straightening out the stems. I take it from him uncomfortably.
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thanks,” I mutter, realizing how unsettling it is when he tries to be nice to me. “Go on,” I add, nodding to the cottage. “He’s dying to see you.”
Chapter 7
I’m not sure how I imagined my son’s reunion with his father as this trip approached. Given how excited William is and how long they’ve been apart, a bit of me pictured them in a field bounding towards each other in slow motion, like the stars of a bad 1970s perfume advert.
In the event, the reality falls some way short, which I realize when I spot Adam creeping round the side of the stable block.
“What are you doing?” I ask, following him.
“Shhhhh,” he says, finger to his lips before he peeks through the bedroom window. “BOO!”
“ARGGGHHHH! MUM!”
I look through the window in time to see William crashing off the top bunk and onto the floorboards. I head to the front door as he scrambles out.
“Something crept up on me through the window!” he blathers, clearly convinced supernatural forces are at work.
“William, calm down. It was your dad.” Being an arse.
His shoulders deflate as Adam appears from around the corner. “Oh, William. I’m sorry,” he says, suppressing his amusement as our son stands in mute mortification.
I nudge him. “Go and give your dad a hug.”
He steps forward, and Adam launches himself at him, grabbing his skinny torso and pulling him into his chest. “Hello, you.”
William looks up and blinks. “I didn’t realize it was you, Dad. I wasn’t actually scared though.” You can still almost see his heart pounding out from his bony chest.
“Don’t worry about it,” Adam says, failing to realize that this was his cue to apologize. “So how was your journey? Your mum texted and said you were puking the whole way.”
William scowls at me. “Not the whole way. Just a bit.”
You Me Everything Page 3
