‘They’ve called him Andy,’ said Daisy. ‘After Andy Warhol. So we should call her Edie. After Edie Sedgwick.’
‘Who?’ said Jim.
‘Let’s just watch her over the next couple of days,’ said Sam. ‘And get to know her. Then we can decide on a name.’
And he sat back and watched his two children take the puppy onto the floor, and fuss over her, laughing with delight, and he felt warm inside and the ache-that-never-left-him seemed to fade, just a little bit.
At Pennfleet House, Vanessa and Nathan were sharing a bottle of wine while she cooked spaghetti bolognese. She was coming to terms with the fact that Frank Cooper had gone and was never coming back.
‘He was such a good companion,’ she told Nathan. ‘He kept me company when Spencer wasn’t here.’
Nathan put his glass down and took her hand.
‘I want to take you to see something.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not telling. You might like it; you might not. But if you do, you can have it.’
Vanessa frowned. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.
‘Turn off the pasta. Follow me.’
She did as she was told. She followed him up the high street to his grandfather’s house, and into his yard.
‘Just don’t look round you,’ said Nathan. ‘It’s pretty grim. There’s been no woman’s touch here for over ten years.’
Vanessa just laughed. There was a certain charm to the ramshackle yard. You got the feeling you might find all sorts of treasures. And as Nathan opened the door of a shed and ushered her inside, there was treasure indeed.
There was just one left. A little girl. The smallest, bundled next to her mum.
‘Oh my goodness.’ Vanessa scooped the puppy into her arms and nuzzled her. ‘She is beautiful. What is she?’
‘Well, Monkey’s a border terrier. But no one has a clue about the dad. So she could be anything. She could end up a giant, or not get much bigger than she is now. It’s a risk.’
‘She’s got giant paws.’
‘Yes. Bigger than her mum’s at that age.’
Vanessa held her up and looked at her in delight.
‘I’ve never had a dog.’
‘Dogs are easy,’ Nathan assured her. ‘And I know she’s no replacement for Frank Cooper …’
‘No one would ever replace Frank.’ Yet Vanessa held the puppy even tighter. ‘Can I really have her?’
‘I’d love it if you did.’
‘Poor Monkey, though.’ Vanessa looked down at Monkey.
‘No. She’ll be fine. She’s got me. She can’t wait to have me all to herself.’
Vanessa stroked the puppy’s head. It shut its eyes in appreciation.
‘It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had.’
‘What are you going to call her?’
Vanessa thought of the moon that had hung overhead, that first night, in the Neptune garden.
‘Luna,’ she said, and tucked the little dog inside her coat, where it snuggled up and, moments later, fell asleep against the warmth of her new mistress.
30
If Squirrel had stopped to think about it, if she had tried to plan, or phone ahead, she would never have done it.
She slept like a top on the ferry, woken by the curious strumming of a harp that was the ferry company’s signature wake-up call and always made her feel as if she was being summonsed to heaven.
She was very much still alive, though. She showered and dressed as quickly as she could. She wouldn’t bother with breakfast yet – she would stop for coffee and croissants after she had done a couple of hours’ driving. She had a long journey ahead of her.
She rolled off the ferry, reminded herself to keep on the right, and set off, her AA map of France open on the front seat beside her. The route was pretty simple. She just had to keep going south. She estimated it would take her six hours, as long as she didn’t stop too often. She would be there before nightfall.
She didn’t mind driving. Her car was small but powerful, and she was an excellent driver. And she had plenty to think about on the journey. What this might mean. What she would say. How she might feel.
Just after three o’clock she drove into the little town that was nearest to her destination. It was typical: the square, the mairie, the church, the bars. And a hotel. Large and square, the windows painted dark burgundy, the Lion d’Or looked welcoming. She parked in the square nearby and made her way to the entrance.
Inside the reception was dustily opulent – stone floors, ochre walls, gilt and velvet chairs and strikingly modern paintings. As was so often the way in France, it was a little more chic than its exterior suggested.
Squirrel made a booking for that night in her rusty schoolgirl French.
‘Une nuit,’ she said, with more firmness than she felt.
Tomorrow she would leave, perhaps drive south to Montpellier or Carcassonne, where there might still be some sun.
The receptionist appraised her with chilly eyes. Was she a threat to anyone in this town? She was too aloof to question Squirrel on her reasons for being here, but that she was dying to know was apparent.
Squirrel decided to tease her by asking directions to where she was heading. The receptionist drew a sketchy map on a piece of hotel notepaper, complete with arrows and landmarks.
Squirrel went to her room – surprisingly chic, with black and white striped wallpaper and a grey satin bedcover. She took a shower to wash away the residue of travel and wake herself up, then dressed in fresh jeans, a pink silk shirt and pink pumps.
She swept out through Reception, her caramel suede jacket over one shoulder, because the sun meant it was still warm but by dusk she would need it.
She followed the directions, driving down tiny narrow lanes flanked by flat fields, passing crumbling farm buildings and cottages that made her mouth water. She smiled to herself. No middle-class English woman worth her salt was immune to the appeal of a little gîte in the French countryside.
Eventually she turned down a track that wasn’t even Tarmaced. The car bounced over the rough ground until she stopped in a little clearing next to an ancient Peugeot. There, nestled in the shade of a walnut tree, was a tiny pigeonnier with a wriggly tin roof. It was what an estate agent would call unspoiled, and what anyone with common sense would call tumbledown. It was charming, glowing the colour of gingerbread in the late afternoon sun.
She saw him. He looked no different, except the slightly too-long hair with the sweeping side fringe was now streaked with grey, and he was thinner. Dressed in jeans and a navy linen shirt and big boots, he was picking walnuts off the floor and hurling them into a wicker basket.
She felt as if she had come home, although she had never been here before. The familiarity was overwhelming. She could, if she breathed in, smell his warmth, the faint trace of citrus on his skin from his cologne. She could imagine the touch of his long, slender fingers.
How had she lived without him all these years?
She supposed it was all too easy to forget the frustration, the humiliation, the anger and the sadness of living with him. The days when she had no idea where he was, and the worse ones when she did. His inability to handle any responsibility. The overwhelming excitement of his euphoria, followed by the inevitable dark days when he wouldn’t get up, or wash, or eat.
Of course, she knew now, because every time she read an article about it, or saw a documentary on the television, she recognised the symptoms. But back in the day, people just said, ‘Oh, that’s just David.’ ‘Just David’ enabled him to behave exactly as he wished, with no concern for anyone else on the planet.
Had she known it was a sickness, an illness, could she have done anything to help him?
More importantly, had he discovered the truth in the meantime, or was he still subject to the terrifying swings in temperament? Had he shared his life with anyone else, and had they been able to manage?
All these questions and many more flittered through her mind. And the
n he looked up and saw her. He didn’t miss a beat.
‘Blasted walnuts come crashing down on the roof. Make a hell of a din.’
His voice had always been a little too big for him, gravelly and deep. She could have listened to him recite anything: a shopping list, the shipping forecast, because he imbued every word with nuance and promise. Even with just those few words of introduction, he had told her so much more.
She walked over to him and they looked at each other. Up close, she could see his face was lined, but he wore it well.
‘I was just passing,’ she told him, with an impish grin.
‘Excellent,’ he replied, lifting up the basket. ‘Come on in. You’re just in time for an aperitif.’
She followed him, thinking how it only felt like yesterday since she’d seen him. They would snap back together, like two pieces of Lego. When it was good, she thought, it had been so very good. She watched him sling the basket onto the stone paving outside the front door. He seemed more physical, easier with his body. She was intrigued. He had been such a city person, his life made up of bars and taxis and pavements and night-time.
Inside, the house was cosy, the downstairs an open living area with a wooden staircase rising up. The stone floor was warmed with rugs. At one end there was a long wooden table with mismatched stools. Around it the walls were hung with shelves. On them were bowls made of pottery, enamelware and wood containing deep-red onions, lemons, speckled apples, garlic, loose change, walnuts. There were jars filled with spices, pulses, rice, pasta next to copper saucepans and empty tins stuffed with wooden spoons and implements Squirrel couldn’t identify. There was an ancient sink and an even more ancient cooker, on top of which was perched a metal espresso maker. It was as unfitted a kitchen as you could get. She loved it.
David took down two dumpy glasses from a shelf and sloshed two inches of white wine into each. No change there then. Yet he was still alive and looking in rude health, so she wasn’t going to comment.
‘Just the local plonk,’ he told her. ‘I’ll get out something more special for tonight. Assuming you’re staying … for supper?’
‘I’ll be driving.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll make it something very special. You can have one glass.’
She couldn’t quite look him in the eye. She took the glass from him and sipped. It was surprisingly good. Actually, that wasn’t a surprise. David took his wine very seriously. If only he hadn’t drunk quite so much of it.
He filled a bowl with some fat glistening olives, flecked with fresh herbs. The smell was intoxicating. Squirrel realised that her morning croissant had been a long time ago.
‘So when you say just passing …’ He put his head to one side and smiled at her, his eyes laughing.
‘Actually, I wasn’t just passing. I wanted to see you. Don’t ask me why.’
Squirrel didn’t see any point in dissembling. He wouldn’t fall for it, anyway.
‘I’m really pleased. It’s good to see you. You look … as wonderful as ever.’
Squirrel shrugged, a little embarrassed. She knew she looked good for her age, but she felt awkward under his scrutiny, because suddenly it really mattered what he thought and she hated herself for that.
He leaned forward. ‘How are the girls? Tell me everything.’
She stared at him for a moment. How could she not want to berate this man for walking out on them all those years ago? Surely she should rip him to shreds now she had his attention? Tell him just how hard it had been, being a single mother. The exhaustion, the worry, the loneliness.
Yet she knew he had done the right thing. That worse would have happened had he not left them. He’d had enough self-awareness to know that. She felt desperately sad that it hadn’t been in her power to redress the problem. And now, she felt no anger.
‘They are wonderful,’ she told him. ‘You would be so proud.’
She told him about their older daughter – her jobs, her marriage, her various offspring, her home in Seattle.
‘And Vanessa …’ She paused for a moment. ‘She’s had a difficult time, but I think she’s going to turn the corner. She’s got a few things to work out, but I have faith.’
Knowing Vanessa was on her way to being settled was one of the reasons she had felt able to make this journey. It had taken all this time, but now it was her moment. To lay the ghosts.
‘How about you?’ she asked. ‘What are you up to?’
‘I do a bit of English coaching. Help out on some of the local farms. And I pick things up at the local brocante. My mate comes over with a van once a month and sells it all at his shop in Bath. We split the profit.’
He grinned, and Squirrel grinned, imagining him picking up bits of French tat that the good people of Bath would coo over, and pay over the odds for. He had a good eye, did David.
‘You look amazing,’ he told her. ‘You look the same as the day I left.’
Squirrel winced. She tried not to think about that day, or the dark days afterwards.
She remembered the first Christmas after he had left, when a solemn-eyed Vanessa had asked if ‘her Father Christmas’ was going to come.
‘My daddy, I mean. My Father Christmas.’
It had nearly finished Squirrel, that question.
She’d wept alone in her room that night, then pulled herself together and stuffed their stockings and thought that, if he were still with her, he wouldn’t be there to help with the presents, he would be in some Soho watering hole having made a promise to fetch things from Selfridges, which he would forget. It was hard to convince yourself you were better off without someone when you missed them so very much.
Yet again, she wondered if Vanessa had gone for Spencer because she was looking for the father she had never had. Spencer, for all his faults, had been the polar opposite of David. In control. He never missed a beat, or an opportunity. Had Squirrel forced Vanessa into Spencer’s arms, by driving David away?
She told herself to stop punishing herself. You couldn’t be responsible for people’s choices, in the end.
He put out a wooden board with salami, which he hacked up with a Laguiole knife, and tiny cornichons. And while she nibbled on those, and sipped her golden-white wine, he made a cassoulet. The kitchen was soon filled with the rich scent of garlic and tomatoes.
‘This is my quick version,’ he told her. ‘Made with ready-made confit. It’s cheating, really. I’ll make you a proper one one day.’
‘When did you turn into Raymond Blanc?’ she laughed.
He gave a mock Gallic shrug.
‘When in Rome.’ He chopped up garlic, lemon and flat-leaf parsley and mixed them in with some breadcrumbs.
‘This is the man who couldn’t boil an egg.’ She watched in admiration as he scattered the mixture on top of the cassoulet and slid it into the oven.
‘Yes, but you know I’m an obsessive.’
Yes. It was just a pity he wasn’t obsessive about his family. Squirrel took another sip of wine and reminded herself not to slip back into bitterness. That wasn’t what this trip was about.
He went to fill her glass, an automatic gesture, but she put her hand over it. ‘I mustn’t. I’m driving.’
‘You can stay. With pleasure.’
She thought of the comfort of the hotel room at the Lion d’Or. And imagined the masculine asceticism of his bedroom. Wooden floors. A brass bed. No clutter.
She didn’t have to make an excuse to anyone for sleeping with him. She was, after all, still his wife. She still bore his name. They had never bothered to divorce.
She took her hand away and let him pour more wine that fell golden from the bottle. He filled his own glass, then clinked it gently against hers.
‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ he told her.
As she looked at him in the candlelight, the shadows flickering across the angles of his face, she remembered why she’d never bothered with anyone else. She knew she might well get hurt, she knew that within days she would want to kill him,
she knew he would not have changed, not really. But she wanted to feel her skin on his once more.
31
Terminal Five was brightly lit and full of distractions, so Kate didn’t have time to think much about the trip ahead. She bought some chewing gum and a magazine, then realised that at this rate she wouldn’t even have time to peruse the duty-free perfume before boarding. She strode towards the check-in as her phone rang.
It was Carlos. She would answer, if only to placate him and stop him bombarding her.
‘I’m just about to check in.’
‘Oh, honey, that’s great. We’ll have a car come get you tomorrow.’
‘Actually, I was hoping to have Friday off. And come in on Monday.’
Carlos’s voice changed.
‘Kate, I’m not paying you good money to work part time. You’ve already had more time off than you asked for.’
Carlos always became evil when he was stressed. He said stuff he didn’t mean. Made demands that he knew were unreasonable. And there were usually flowers or champagne to make up for it afterwards. But Kate didn’t have time for it any more.
‘Carlos, forget it. I’ll have jet lag. I’ll be in no fit state.’
Sometimes she had to play the crisp English bitch. Carlos loved it. It was one of the reasons he employed her. He thought it added class. He and his clients all thought she lived in a house like Downton Abbey. She had never disabused him or them.
‘You get in here tomorrow or you won’t have a job. I need your input. I’m surrounded by morons.’
Kate stood still as people milled past her to get to the check-in desk. She knew she was standing in an inconvenient place, but she was rooted to the spot. Who did Carlos think he was, calling her in like that?
All she could hear was Carlos repeating ‘Kate? Kate?’ He sounded like a crow cawing.
Eventually she found her voice.
‘Carlos, my flight’s about to be called. I have to go.’
She heard him protesting as she hung up. She stuffed her phone back in her bag, walked over to the check-in desk and held out her passport and paperwork. She felt as if she were sleepwalking
High Tide Page 25
