“Well, you’re here now. What do you think of the place?”
“It’s brilliant,” he says, suddenly animated. “I love the bunk bed. My friend Jack has got one.”
“Lucky him.”
Then they stand there awkwardly, three feet apart, and it becomes painfully obvious that this might be the singular thing they have in common to talk about all holiday.
“So,” Adam says, clapping his hands.
“So,” William repeats.
“Glad to be off school?”
“Definitely.”
“You like school,” I point out.
“I know, but I’d prefer to be here.”
“Is maths still your favorite subject?” Adam asks.
William thinks for a moment. “Hmm. I think I like history better. We’ve been learning about Queen Victoria this term. It’s quite sad actually. When her husband, Albert, died, she missed him so much that she had a plaster cast made of his hand so she could hold it.” He doesn’t pause for breath. “And that’s not the only fascinating thing about the Victorians,” William continues earnestly, before proceeding to give Adam a five-minute lecture covering everything from medical advances at the end of the nineteenth century to the subjugation of women.
“Wow. I never realized I knew so little about diphtheria,” Adam concludes flatly.
“I can tell you some more if you like,” William offers.
I glare at Adam, making it clear he needs to respond carefully. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
William smiles. “I’m going to go and get my iPad,” he says, returning to the cottage.
“I think you’ll find it’s my iPad,” I call after him.
Adam picks up a holdall and heads inside with it. “So I thought we could have dinner tonight with some of the team who work here. I can’t wait for everyone to meet William. And you, of course.”
I follow him in as he puts the bag down and then doesn’t move. “I’m fine with the rest of the stuff. Thanks for helping,” I say.
“No problem.” He still doesn’t move. “It’s good to have you here, Jess.”
I nod briskly. “Well, William can’t wait to spend some time with you.”
He looks as though he’s suddenly remembered something he should already have asked about. “How’s your mum?”
I feel my ribs tense. “She’s not brilliant.” I unzip the bag and start to unpack it onto the table. “You probably wouldn’t recognize her these days.”
“I’m really sorry. It must be hard for you.”
“It is, Adam,” I say, deciding to change the subject. “So, I met Simone.”
“Oh, did you?”
“When did you stop seeing Elsa?”
He freezes. “How did you know I’d stopped seeing Elsa?”
I look up. “I presume Simone is your new girlfriend?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“I can read you like a book. And not a very complicated one.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not the sensitive type,” he laughs, waving as he heads towards the door.
I watch the way the contours of his back move through his T-shirt, as he puts his hands in his pockets and walks away with what can only be described as a swagger.
“Don’t worry, Adam. Nobody could ever accuse you of that.”
Chapter 8
Dinner takes place round a long communal dining table on the terrace behind the château.
William and I arrive as its old walls are bathed in the rose gold light of a setting sun, the air heavy with the scent of herbs and citronella.
The surface of the pool is silky and silent, and the loungers have been arranged into neat rows. There are a handful of families on the other side of the terrace sharing large plates of green bean salads and duck breasts, as wineglasses clink and the ringing laughter of young children drifts into the sky. I take my place at a long table dotted with twinkling tea lights and accept a glass of pastis so cold it beads with condensation.
Among those gathered this evening are several older French staff members, including the groundsman Jean-Luc and an elderly couple called Monsieur and Madame Blanchard, from whom Adam bought the château all those years ago. It had been in their family for generations, but for the last decade they’d struggled to maintain it, meaning their hopes to open it as a hotel never materialized, until it was bought by Adam. Although largely retired, they are both excellent cooks so return once or twice a week to apply their skills in the kitchen and give lessons to guests, even if Adam jokes that he insisted they hang around to make sure he doesn’t make a mess of the place.
There are also four young Brits and their French counterparts who have the air of a group of gap year students, all ankle tattoos and travel anecdotes. Adam slots in with them unfeasibly well. At his age, my dad had a mortgage, family and the sort of accountancy job from which you don’t come up for air until you hit sixty-five.
But here, Adam can be twenty-one forever, with the sun always shining, the girls young and eager to please. Not that it’s just the girls who are taken by him. He’s treated like a cross between a cool older brother and a benign dictator, holding court as the booze flows. Before long, the searing heat of the day gives way to a balmy night, and we’re illuminated by an orange moon, candlelight and the blue glow from beneath the water.
The food is served in a relaxed French style, starting with crisp mixed salad leaves and a charcuterie platter with dry cured meats, mousses and sliced, smoked duck breast, all served on a slate board.
“What are they?” asks William, examining the salad. He’s wearing one of the T-shirts Adam bought him, and it’s so tight under the armpits it’s almost cutting off his circulation.
“Gésiers. Try some—they’re delicious,” Adam says, spooning some on his son’s plate.
William scrunches up his nose. “But what are gésiers?”
“Gizzards. Part of a goose’s digestive tract, if you want specifics, but I’ll admit they don’t sound appetizing when you put it like that.” He grins. William grimaces, and I point him in the direction of the salami instead, assuring him that it’s just like the stuff he eats on a pizza, only better.
“Adam tells me you’re a lecturer,” Simone says, lifting a glass to her lips.
“Yes, I teach creative writing at a sixth form college.”
“How fascinating. Do you enjoy it?”
“I love it,” I reply, which is a default position. It’s too complicated to explain that I was once passionate about my work, until the start of this year when I was feeling so low that I wondered if I’d actually enjoy anything again.
“You must have to juggle, being a single mother.” She puts a peculiar emphasis on the two final words.
“Yeah, life’s busy,” I agree. “Plus my mum’s not well, so she can’t help out like she used to.”
“Oh dear. Fingers crossed she’ll be on the mend soon,” she says breezily.
I smile and nod, wondering afterwards if this might be the most British thing I’ve ever done: not wanting to blight small talk with something as inconvenient as an incurable disease.
“You know, you really remind me of my mum,” Simone says all of a sudden.
I look up, surprised. “Oh. I hope your mum’s Angelina Jolie.” I grin, but she looks at me blankly.
“She’s got lots going on too. When women reach a certain age, they have loads of commitments, don’t they? My mum’s rushed off her feet. That’s why I’m determined to make the most of my twenties before I get tied down with responsibilities and stretch marks.” She smiles, then catches herself. “Not that I’m suggesting you’ve got stretch marks. Oh, that sounded terrible, didn’t it?”
“Not at all,” I reassure her. “And anyway: guilty as charged.”
Later, when Simone excuses herself to go to the ladies’, there is a momen
t of silence between Adam and me.
“She’s sweet,” I tell him.
“Thanks.”
“And William likes her.” He looks like it’s never occurred to him to consider what William might think of her. “Have you met her parents yet?”
He splutters into his wine and turns to look at me, filling my head with an unexpected burst of whatever scented shower gel he’s using these days. “Is that your way of saying she’s too young for me?”
“How old is she?”
He hesitates. “Twenty-two.”
“Far be it from me to judge.” I smile into my glass, then feel his eyes on me. “No, she’s nice. Seriously,” I insist, deciding that’s enough of this conversation. “Oh, William: let me take a photo of you to send to Granddad.”
William pauses to smile for the picture, before Adam offers to take one of the two of us as well. I choose an image and compose a text.
Arrived safely, and William’s having fun already after a long journey! How’s Mum? x
I press “send” and watch the little line on my phone screen trundle along, struggling.
“The Wi-Fi isn’t exactly supersonic around here, I’m afraid. We’re too rural,” Adam tells me. “It should get there eventually, but if you need to Skype your parents or send something urgently, come into the office to do it.”
“Thanks.” Adam removes a pack of papers and some tobacco from his back pocket. I lower my phone. “I thought you’d given up.”
“I’m just a social smoker these days.” I watch him begin to roll up his cigarette, as I glance at William. I know he’s smart, but I still don’t want him getting any ideas. “We’ve all got our vices,” Adam says with a shrug.
“Yes, but mine’s cake and Netflix, neither of which is fatal.”
He flashes me a dismissive glance. “Give me a break, Jess.”
And while there are two dozen responses to that whizzing round my head, I take a deep breath, followed by a mouthful of wine, and look for someone else to talk to.
“How’s your cottage, Jess?” The young guy sitting next to William has sleepy brown eyes and the softest of Welsh accents, but hair like a surfer, blond and salty.
“It’s lovely, thank you.”
“Did you hear that, boss?” He smiles at Adam.
“Top marks.” Adam turns to me. “Ben cleaned it before you got here. He’s unstoppable with his Marigolds on.”
Ben laughs. “These are the pitfalls of coming to work in a gorgeous place like this. You might have sunshine and beautiful scenery, but you also have to roll your sleeves up and scrub toilets when the cleaner phones in sick.”
“Well, it sparkled,” I assure him. “You have my compliments.”
“Cheers to that,” he says, lifting his glass.
By the time William and I crash into our respective beds a couple of hours later, I lie on my back and check my phone, realizing a text from Dad has made it through.
Glad William’s having a nice time. What about you? Mum’s had a good day. I spent the afternoon at Willow Bank, and the weather was lovely, so we sat in the garden and looked at her cake books. Dad x
I close my eyes and picture them sitting among the roses as he turned the thick, glossy pages, giving her eyes a chance to settle on each photograph. There can’t be many of the sugarcraft designs she hadn’t attempted at some point—to Mum, this wasn’t just a pastime; it was her passion.
And although the elaborate creations in those books are now beyond her capabilities, she likes to look at them and remind herself of the magic she once made with a cupboard full of ingredients, a little patience and her natural artistic flair.
Chapter 9
The best cake my mum ever baked for me was for my sixth birthday, and to this day my heart still leaps every time I think of it.
“Are you sure it’ll be ready in time?” I had asked, as she finished sandwiching together three Victoria sponges with a mountain of pale, fluffy buttercream.
Our kitchen was small in those days—it was before my parents had it knocked through to the dining room—with immaculate white Shaker cupboards, beige patterned floor tiles and a microwave that nobody entirely trusted.
“You haven’t got much faith in me, have you?” she laughed, handing me the spatula to lick, which was obviously the best bit of the whole process.
“Does that mean yes, it will be ready?” I asked.
She leaned down and kissed me on the head. “Jess, I promise that by the time fourteen girls descend on this house tomorrow, your cake will be complete, even if I’m up until midnight.”
She wouldn’t have minded if she had been.
She never needed to be asked before she got to work on those cakes for every family birthday, christening or wedding: a ladybug for my third birthday, a four-tiered wedding cake for my cousin Charlotte and another masterpiece that featured my dad as Superman.
I wandered through to the dining room and found Dad hanging decorations.
“Have you come to supervise?” he asked from on top of a ladder. He’d attached blue, green and white balloons to the picture rails along with a huge “Happy Birthday” banner. Streamers swept down from the bookshelves that dominated three of the four walls.
There must’ve been hundreds of novels in that room, if you’d bothered counting them. Mum had a section reserved for her cake books, but most of the paperbacks were fiction. Crime was her favorite genre, everything from Ruth Rendell to Murder on the Orient Express, which she read over and over again.
“I’m so excited!” I said again.
“Yes, I was getting that impression.” Dad grinned, stepping down from his ladder. “So remind me . . . what’s the present you want more than anything else in the world?”
“A bike,” I lied.
He smiled uncertainly. “Really? I thought there was something else, but . . . you’re sure a bike would be okay?”
I didn’t know if I should say anything.
I’d seen a grown-up princess-style dressing table in the window of a department store in London when we’d been visiting my uncle Alan in the summer, and it was the first time I’d longed for something that wasn’t a toy. It was a thing of beauty in my eyes, with a kidney-shaped surface, an ornate three-piece mirror and a tapestry curtain that swept around the bottom, concealing a labyrinth of wooden drawers.
“No, really, I’d love a bike.” I felt my cheeks warm up.
His eyes grew serious. “You know why you couldn’t have the dressing table, don’t you?”
I nodded. “It’d be silly to buy something that cost that much, wouldn’t it, Daddy?”
“Really silly,” he agreed and went back to the balloons.
The following morning, I opened the bike and was delighted with it. I made sure to show it too, because I’d recently watched Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory on TV and didn’t want to turn out to be a brat like Veruca Salt.
The morning passed painfully slowly, as Mum finished the sandwiches and Dad got the music and cushions ready for pass the parcel, before slipping out for a lunchtime pint while he had the chance. Then Grandma Jill arrived and helped me into my red party dress, white tights and black patent leather shoes.
“What are belly buttons for?” I asked, as Grandma Jill pulled me into the gusset. I’d been reading my Children’s Encyclopedia of the Human Body a lot at the time, and while I had an extensive knowledge of the functioning of the lower intestine, I couldn’t recall reading anything about why there was a hole in my stomach.
Grandma Jill twisted my tights into place. “Because after God puts your ears on and chooses your hair, he sticks his finger into your tummy and says, ‘You’re done.’ Then you’re ready for the stork to take you to the mum and dad he had in mind for you.”
I scrunched up my nose. “That can’t be true.”
“Course it is.” The bell r
ang. “There’s your first guest!”
I was too busy enjoying myself to notice right away that Dad hadn’t arrived back for the party. I was too busy twirling round musical chairs, ripping open presents and—mainly—reveling in the gasps of admiration when my mum brought out the cake.
It was spectacular: a seashell white fairy-tale castle, with a trellis of yellow fondant roses and turrets covered in sprinkles.
As I blew out the candles and the girls around me erupted into applause, I noticed Grandma Jill touching Mum’s arm. “Probably better that he’s not here.”
Mum nodded and looked like she was going to cry.
“Are there any more sausages on sticks?” Sarah Hems asked.
Mum snapped out of it. “Yes, there’s plenty more. Then, how about we do another party game?”
I remembered then that organizing the party games wasn’t meant to have been Mum’s job. “Why isn’t Daddy here?” I asked.
“He’ll be here later,” Mum said vaguely.
“Has he forgotten about the party?” She didn’t answer. “Perhaps he thought it’d be better to leave us girls to it, like when we watched The Sound of Music?” I offered.
“Yes, that’ll be it,” she said.
But I didn’t believe that was it. And I felt a wave of sadness that Dad was missing my big day. He could be forgetful at times—he was always turning up late for things, and Mum would hit the roof. But I knew he’d be upset once he realized where he was meant to be.
I tried to forget about it and enjoy the rest of the party, but I couldn’t help worrying. For all we knew, he could’ve been run over by a bus. That idea grew in probability as the minutes ticked by, especially given how often I’d heard Mum say that very thing.
As parents started arriving to collect their daughters, I tugged at Grandma Jill’s arm. “Do you think we should call the police and see if they know where Dad is?”
“Why, where do you think he is?”
“Flattened on the road by the Number 86.”
Her eyes creased up, as if she was really sad but annoyed at the same time.
You Me Everything Page 4
