“Afternoon, folks!”
My head snapped up to the parents mingling at the door, and there, pushing his way through, was my dad, looking really happy and with his hair fluffed up at the front like a feather duster. I ran up to give him a hug and got an overwhelming waft of the sour smell that always clung to his coat after he’d been in the pub.
“Right, birthday girl. You need to go in the living room for a moment. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
His voice was fuzzy and loud, and I glanced at Mum, wondering how annoyed she was with him, but this time she just looked surprised and a bit nervous, the same as everyone else.
“Here, mate, give me a hand with this?” Dad said, sounding uncharacteristically macho as he grabbed Vicky Jones’s father by the arm and dragged him, staggering, towards the door. “Go on, scoot, Jess!”
Grandma Jill stiffly led me into the living room and shut the door. A minute and lots of kerfuffle later, someone yanked the handle down, it sprang open again and Daddy shouted: “Surprise!”
There, in front of me, was the princess dressing table, all the way from London.
Sarah Hems’s jaw dropped. “You are SO lucky.”
As I stepped forward to touch it, I felt as though there was a little bird flying around in my chest. “I know,” I whispered, promising myself I’d pray to God that night, to thank him for sending my stork to the best mum and dad in the world. And perhaps to also ask if he’d keep Daddy out of trouble from now on.
Chapter 10
The morning view from the kitchen window is hazy and unpromising, with a low sun obscured by mist. I make myself a coffee before taking it outside.
As I take a seat, a door on the other side of the courtyard opens, and a man steps out with a girl who appears to be his daughter. He looks about my age, possibly older, and is wearing shorts that reveal a pair of muscular, tanned legs. His shirt is smart and cleanly pressed. The girl has long black hair, a nose ring and so much makeup she could be twelve or twenty-five.
“Morning, Mum!”
I look up to find William stretching in the doorway, his eyes still sleepy and his pajama bottoms inside out.
“Morning, sweetheart, how are you?”
“Starving.” I hear this refrain at least twelve times a day lately, except, apparently, when gizzards are on the menu. “Can we go and get some pains au chocolat?”
“Okay, we’ll walk over to the château,” I reply. “It’ll give me a chance to practice my French.”
I studied the language when I was at secondary school. This has stood me in great stead over the years, for all the occasions when I’ve had to explain that I’m fourteen years old and my hobbies include netball and reading Judy Blume books. I recently downloaded an audio language course, however, which I hope has at least updated my repertoire of phrases.
Once William and I are dressed, we step outside to find the haze quickly burning away. It feels fresher than yesterday afternoon, with powdery clouds high in a sharp blue sky. We emerge from the dappled light beneath the trees to find a handful of couples are on the terrace, relaxing over the papers and breakfast. It bursts with the dreamy scent of sweet, freshly baked pastries and strong coffee, while pots of damp, just-watered flowers provide a riot of glistening color.
Double doors lead us to a cool drawing room, with a polished antique table and a bowl of large, ripe figs in its center. A tall glass vase filled with agapanthus sits across from it in the corner. The whole place smells of designer soap, freshly cut flowers and luxury.
“Bonjour, madame.” The lady who greets us is several decades older than some of the staff, but she has a bright smile and skin that glows with vitality. “Je peux vous aider? Vous avez l’air un peu perdu tous les deux.”
She speaks in the soft tones of a lullaby, gently laughing at the final part of her sentence. I join in too, despite not having a clue what she’s saying.
“Vous désirez quelque chose?” she continues, significantly faster than anyone on my audio download.
I clear my throat and decide to keep things simple by starting with a drink. “Vous avez EAU?”
A quizzical line etches itself above her nose.
“Eauuuu,” I repeat.
I say the word as clear as day, but she looks at me as if I’m demanding something so obscure she’ll need to Google it first, then place an order to a small specialist store on the outskirts of Siberia.
“OOOhhhhww?” She frowns slowly.
“Oui!” I grin, triumphantly.
“Je ne comprends pas. Vous pouvez répéter? Si nous n’en avons pas, je peux en commander.”
I redden around the gills. “Are you okay, Mum?” William asks.
“Yes, absolutely,” I say, deciding to show her what I mean. I proceed to mimic unscrewing a bottle and pouring myself a glass of water, before glugging it down my neck enthusiastically.
“Ahh!” she says at last, inviting us to take a seat outside, before she disappears back into the château and returns with a wine list.
“Can I help?” Adam steps out of the doorway dressed in cool grey trousers and a soft blue shirt that falls open at the neck.
“All under control,” I insist, before she addresses him in rapid-fire French, he proceeds to reply in rapid-fire French and I sit nodding, to convey the impression that I’m following the entire exchange.
“What are you trying to order?” Adam asks. “Claudine seems to think you want some antifreeze for your car, but I didn’t think that could be right.”
“I just want some water,” I mutter. “That’s all.”
“AHHH, water!” Claudine exclaims.
“Yes, water.” I smile helplessly. “Eau. Just eau. Oh, and two pains au chocolat and a café au lait, if you don’t mind.”
“Bien sûr,” she replies and disappears through the double doors. Adam and William look at me and exchange an amused look.
Not quite the type of bonding I had in mind.
Chapter 11
Adam returns to the office to make a phone call as a little girl in a yellow swimming costume and matching sun hat arrives, clutching her father’s hand, the other of which is laden with plastic buckets and spades.
I delve into my bag for some sun cream and when I look up realize that the teenager staying in the cottage opposite ours is at the next table. She is wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, a black T-shirt and cutoff jeans that skim her pale, slim thighs. She is engrossed in Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, which has never struck me as a holiday read. She glances up and catches me looking.
“Hi.” I smile, but her nose crumples into a suspicious frown. “Excellent book. Are you enjoying it?”
“I think it’s overrated.”
“Oh?”
“I preferred The Trial. It was funnier. I’m more of an existentialism fan, to be honest.”
She doesn’t expect a reply, instead placing her head firmly back in her book. I open the sun cream, when she glances up. “You’re opposite us in the Stables, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. We arrived yesterday,” I tell her.
“Us too. Thirteen more days to go.” She sighs theatrically.
“Where are you from?”
“Devon,” she replies. “At least I am—I live there with my mum. Dad’s in Cheshire.”
“Oh—that’s near us. We’re from Manchester.”
For a moment I think she’s going to go back to her book, but she looks up again. “Have you heard of Hampson Browne?”
“Aren’t they solicitors?” The company has an advert that comes on during the commercial breaks after the local news.
“Yeah. That’s my dad’s company.”
“He works there?”
“He’s the Hampson.” If she’s proud of this, she doesn’t look it.
My phone rings, and I excuse myself, registering Becky’s numbe
r as I press “answer.”
“Hello there, stranger. How are things?” I ask.
“Well, it’s 10:30 a.m., and I’m contemplating opening the sauvignon blanc, if that answers your question. More importantly, how are you?”
That used to be such a straightforward thing to ask. But it takes a second for me to locate the cheerful note in my voice. “I’m okay.”
“Really?”
“Yes, the weather’s great here. Sunny but not too hot. And there are things for the kids to do—they’ve got a little five-a-side pitch and a playground, plus the pool’s great—”
Two high-pitched voices burst out of my handset. I immediately recognize them as Becky’s two eldest children, seven-year-old James and five-year-old Rufus.
“BOYS, STOP FIGHTING!” Becky shrieks. “BOYYYS!”
This is followed by a clatter of shoes, doors slamming and the din quietening. When she finally returns, she’s out of breath. “Sorry about that.”
“Have you locked your children in a wardrobe?”
“No, I’ve locked me in one, or at least the shoe cupboard.”
I burst out laughing, and she joins in. “I was only improvising, but this is a pretty good office. A bit smelly, admittedly, but I can at least hear what you’re saying—and Poppy likes it because she thinks we’re playing hide-and-seek.” Poppy is Becky’s two-and-a-half-year-old daughter.
“Listen,” she continues, “I’m just phoning to ask if the cottages have a hair dryer—or do I need to pack one?”
“Ours has two. I’m sure yours will be the same.”
“Great. So how are things with Adam?”
“Oh. Fine.”
“Is he still annoyingly fit?” she asks.
“Oh please.”
“Sorry. Is he still a wanker then?”
I snort and glance at William, hoping he hasn’t heard. “You’ll have to judge for yourself.”
“Well, I’ll forgive him anything if we manage to get a minute’s peace on this holiday. Oh . . . no.”
“What’s up?”
She sighs. “The boys have spilled a two-liter bottle of milk, the window cleaner’s at the door and Poppy’s done a poo. It’s nonstop fun around here.”
Chapter 12
The flaky croissant on my plate smells so heavenly that it makes my mouth water. In the last ten minutes, however, we’ve become surrounded by soft-skinned women in their late teens and early twenties, wearing the kind of shorts that I last had the guts to wear at age nine. I push away my plate with my forefinger. “Don’t you want it?” William asks, his cheeks full of chocolate.
“Of course I want it. I want ten of them.”
William’s eyebrows rise, as if he’d never thought about asking for ten, but now this opens up a whole wealth of possibility. I look at the pain au chocolat again and wonder why I’m bothering to restrain myself. I pick it up and take a bite.
“Why don’t you go and explore?” I suggest, when William’s finished eating.
“Okay,” he says with a shrug, pushing out his chair.
“Don’t go too far, will you?” He rolls his eyes as Adam steps out of the château holding a coffee cup and heads towards me.
“Oh, I can’t wait until he’s a teenager,” I mutter as Adam sits down.
“He’s a good kid. I’m sure he won’t give you too hard a time.” I feel like saying: How would you know?
“You’ve done an amazing job on this place,” I manage instead.
His eyes flicker with pride. “Well, it’s taken a long time to get it to this point.”
“I know. You must be incredibly pleased with it.”
“Yeah. I am.” He reaches for his coffee, and I notice how different his thick, tanned fingers look since the days when he was office bound. He always had masculine hands, but his nails were naturally neat, his skin soft and supple. These days, they’re darker, with a honey-colored hue that’s scuffed around the knuckles.
“Someone made me an offer to buy the business last month.”
“Really?” I say, looking up.
“I’d never sell it, but it was flattering.”
I look at William, picking up stones and examining them like he used to when he was a toddler.
“Listen, about the smoking,” Adam says suddenly. “I’ll try to remember not to do it in front of William.”
I’m slightly taken aback by this softening of standpoint but don’t want to push the issue. “Okay.”
“I’m not giving up, but I get why you wouldn’t want him watching his dad doing it.”
“Thank you.”
“I think you vastly overestimate how much influence I have over him though.”
“You might be surprised,” I say under my breath, as William appears at the table again.
“Is there anywhere to buy sweets?” he asks Adam.
“You’ve just had two pains au chocolat!” I protest. “We’re going to the supermarket soon to stock up, so we’ll get some. And plenty of fruit. So, what have you got lined up for us for the next few weeks, Adam?”
He freezes midsip, then lowers his cup slowly, his eyes glued to the saucer. This protracted movement is clearly designed to buy time while he thinks about how to answer.
“Well, there’s lots to do around here,” he says eventually.
“So I’ve read. What have you organized?”
“I thought it’d be better to wait until you got here to discuss what you fancy.”
I narrow my eyes cynically. “That’s . . . considerate of you.”
He ignores my tone and turns to William. “There’s loads for you and your mum to do. There are walks I can show you, or you could go canoeing. If you’re both feeling adventurous, I could put you in touch with a company that could take you scrambling.”
“I’ve read the guidebooks,” I tell him. “I just wondered what you want to do with William.”
He pauses. “Me?”
“Yes.”
Judging by the way he straightens his back, he realizes his mistake. “Right. Well, it’s peak season, so it’s impossible for me to take a lot of time off. I can do the odd afternoon, but there’s Simone to consider.” Coffee catches the back of my throat.
“But clearly you’re my priority while you’re here, William,” he adds hastily. “Tell you what, how about one day we go and do some gorge walking or easy canyoning?”
“What does that involve?” I ask. “It sounds dangerous.” Adam’s judgment about the sort of activity that’s suitable for a kid William’s age is woefully underdeveloped. For his fifth birthday, he bought him an enormous Thomas the Tank Engine set, despite the fact that he’d last shown an interest in the character when he was three. When he was eight, he bought him a bike big enough for a fifteen-year-old, one so enormous that it took three goes and my best cocker spaniel impression to get my own leg over it.
“The canyoning will be fine,” he says dismissively, in a way that doesn’t sound fine.
“But what does it involve?”
“A bit of rock climbing, jumping into pools, sliding down waterfalls. It’s great. I’ve got a mate who can take us.” A cold sweat beads on my spine.
“How about you stick to something along the lines of . . . a bike ride,” I suggest. “Or is there somewhere they have pedalos?”
“I’ll do the canyoning,” William decides.
I close my mouth. “Um . . . okay.” I turn to Adam. “I’ll need to chat through a few things with you before you go anywhere with him. Like his allergies. And he’s got a phobia of wasps.”
“I have not!”
“You were hysterical for most of last summer every time one came near you.”
“That was last summer. I was only nine then,” he says, as if this was decades ago.
I glance at Adam and realize his dark eyes ha
ve wandered listlessly across to the other side of the pool, where there’s an elegant woman in tennis shorts and a chic wide-brimmed hat. She must be about fifty but has the hard, slender body of someone who maintains herself with religious levels of commitment.
I turn back, and Adam eventually realizes I’m looking at him. “Sorry—I thought I recognized someone. What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I reply, wondering how I ever got involved with someone like him. Especially as I can’t claim I wasn’t warned.
Chapter 13
Adam had a reputation even before he and I got together, but it made no difference—because there’s no logic behind falling in love. When your heart is singing, your head is completely at its mercy.
We met in Edinburgh, where we both studied English literature at university. I first became aware of him at a lecture on the Enlightenment, about a week into the course. It wasn’t some thunderbolt moment, when I was so dazzled by him that he took my breath away. But, as the weeks went on, every time I caught a glimpse of his face, even from the other side of the room, my entire body would soften.
He had acquired some standing as heartthrob of our course, someone who made otherwise intelligent girls lose their heads. I was one of them. Yet, for the whole first year, I sat tight at the side of the lecture theatre, invisible.
I ended up confessing my feelings for him to Becky on our summer break, while we were traveling round Thailand. It was a trip in which she’d swum naked in the sea at midnight, had a threesome with two Swedish bartenders and smoked pot from the minute she woke up every morning at eleven. Personally, I preferred to stick to my coffee at that hour, or roll up my skirt for a paddle and chat with a really nice woman we met from Dunstable who’d always wanted to come after watching The King and I.
“I have no idea why you don’t just go and talk to him,” she’d said, as if it would be as simple for me as it was for her.
Instead, when we returned for the second university year, I embarked on a low-maintenance relationship with a very nice guy called Carl, who these days is something big in insurance. I only know this because he popped up on daytime TV a few years ago commenting on a woman whose ingrown toenail cost her a fortune on holiday because she hadn’t read the small print on her travel policy documents. We didn’t last long and split up just after Christmas. Neither of us was especially devastated.
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