We'll Always Have Paris

by Sue Watson

  ‘Mother!’ she says.

  Isobel is giggling and looking at me. ‘Mum, you minx,’ she says, and we both laugh which causes Anna to soften.

  ‘Like something from a bloody Häagen-Dazs ad it was, you all over him, pralines and cream splattered all over his chest,’ she says, half-joking.

  Isobel looks at me, shocked.

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that at all,’ I laugh. ‘But next time, please knock or you might see something far racier than the Häagen-Dazs commercial.’

  Anna rolls her eyes. I know her and it’s not about Peter, she doesn’t know him well enough to dislike him, she’s just uncomfortable with the idea of me having a boyfriend full stop. Anna wants everything to stay as it is and I understand, I can relate to how she feels. I used to feel like that too when I was younger and less sure of myself, but these days I feel different; every day I’m feeling stronger, more capable and I’m looking forward to whatever inevitable and exciting changes are ahead . . . with a little trepidation, but not enough to stop me.

  We go back to our carnations and small talk. I managed to make my point without causing too much of a drama, and I’m just relieved we were able to make light of something that had the potential to become incendiary in Anna’s hands. As always, Isobel helped ease the situation and defused Anna’s upset with acceptance and humour, and despite her bossiness Anna usually sees the funny side. I know it isn’t going to be easy bringing Peter into the family, but as long as us girls can laugh about things I reckon we can make it down that rocky road.

  Chapter Twenty

  I sit at Isobel’s outdoor table tonight watching my family enjoy a late-summer barbecue and suddenly, in the middle of it all, I’m missing Mike. It just hits you sometimes, when you least expect it, but I suppose it’s because we’re all here and when we’re together as a family I feel his absence more keenly. I think about how it would be if he were here now, he’d have been pouring wine, making sure the men were okay for beer, and advising Richard on their loft conversion while helping with the burgers. He’d be teasing his grandchildren, making sure Anna’s partner James felt welcome, and pointing out the different stars as the summer evening drew in.

  My phone beeps and I see a text from Peter. He says he loves me and can’t wait to see me on Friday. I feel warm and fuzzy inside about Peter, and a yearning for Mike because I know I’ll never see him again. It seems strange to be missing two men at the same time – but then I’ve loved two men in my life, and being with Peter again has made me realise that there really isn’t one person for each of us. Our partners can be made up of many things, they can appeal to our values, sexuality, sense of humour, and they can also be right and wrong at different times in our lives. I’m still a bit wobbly and unsure, and I’m trying not to see my love for Peter as a betrayal of Mike. It will take time to be completely free from my own guilt, my own imagined infidelity, but I’m slowly working through it.

  Richard arrives at the table with a plate of steaming chicken and steak and everyone drools. Isobel has filled the table with vibrant salads and huge platters of buttery garlic bread as the wine of many colours flows freely.

  As I look around at my family I feel so lucky. I’m in the middle, the heart of everything, the noise, the trouble, the fun – it’s not always a bed of roses but it’s my life and I love being here. But Peter is on the outside, and if we’re to love a second time and make the most of what we have left, I know I need to bring him in.

  ‘It’s a bunfight,’ Anna yells as everyone piles in with their plates, filling their glasses, chatting. A couple of the children’s friends are here and an old school friend of Isobel’s, but other than that it’s just us. We’re quite insular, I think, we all get on well and apart from younger disagreements over ‘borrowed’ clothes and make-up, my girls have a good relationship.

  Lily sits at my feet, salivating, as I take a bite of the juicy chicken that Richard has marinated in lime and chilli; it tingles in my mouth, a salty, savoury heat I love. I wonder at the exotic dishes Peter has enjoyed on his travels as I watch them all laughing, arguing, eating and just being – and I wonder what it would be like if Peter were here. I like the idea, but my stomach dips when I consider the bigger picture. The girls still miss their dad and the grandchildren miss their granddad and however I try to convince myself that bringing Peter into this arena won’t change anything, it will. The girls are old enough to understand that I would never try to replace Mike, and why would I? But by bringing in my new partner I am changing the dynamic of this lovely family group. They will see me differently. I’m still Mum and Nana, but I’m also someone’s girlfriend, and I have a relationship that is completely independent of all of them. It doesn’t matter how much I love him or how wonderful I believe him to be, someone here might not like him, and someone might not approve of me having a lover.

  Then again, there’s mine and Peter’s relationship to consider and there will have to come a point when he is included. And perhaps if he were to meet all my family he might begin to understand the strength of my commitment to them and why sometimes I’m torn, and spread myself too thinly. I watch James as he talks football and loft conversions with Richard – he’s been welcomed with open arms, and he fits in so well. He gently touches Anna’s arm as she stands up from the table to get more wine and the look of love between them makes me think of Mike . . . then Peter once more.

  ‘You okay, Mum? You look sad.’ Isobel is onto it immediately, like a dog with a bone.

  ‘No. I’m fine, I’m having a lovely time.’

  ‘Good.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘Glad you’re happy . . . Have you got everything – garlic bread?’

  ‘Yes, and it’s all delicious – but if you were the perfect hostess you would be able to move the sun a little to the left,’ I laugh.

  ‘Is the sun in your eyes?’ Anna steps in, mothering me again.

  ‘No, darling, if it was I would move, I’m not infirm yet.’

  ‘That reminds me, I’ve been thinking that in the next few years you should probably think about having the house adapted,’ she says, taking a bite of garlic bread.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, you’re going to be there on your own now until . . . well, you’re very old. A friend of James’s is a builder, and I was thinking of asking him to come and have a look at the house, see if he can lower the steps, get a rail for the bath, have some kind of alarm put in, you know?’

  ‘No, I don’t know. What kind of alarm?’ I’m horrified.

  ‘If you fall you can press a button and the police or someone will come . . . or better still it could be linked to my phone and I could come out to you.’

  ‘Anna, I’m sixty-four, not ninety-four, and as long as I’m still doing Pilates and walking Lily round the park every day I see no need for any kind of emergency alarm. And as for a rail . . . why not get a stairlift and one of those beds that sit you up and push you out and I’ll buy a dozen pairs of crimplene slacks and some slippers to wear while I sit by the fire and pray for the end.’

  ‘I knew she’d be like this,’ Anna says to Isobel who looks awkward.

  ‘We just worry about you, Mum,’ Isobel says apologetically. ‘And we’re not talking soon, just sometime in the future.’ I can see she’s obviously being railroaded by Anna into suggesting this.

  ‘Mum. Think about it. What if you fell over in the bath?’ Anna asks.

  ‘What if you fell over in the bath?’

  She rolls her eyes, which annoys me, and I’m already deeply irritated by this conversation. ‘You’re on your own, Mum.’

  ‘You’re on your own too when the girls are with Paul and James is working away.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘Why? Anyone can fall over in a bath. I’m pretty fatalistic about these things, Anna. If I can’t take a bath without risking my life I don’t see the point in living. Look, I wasn’t going to say anything until it was definite, but I’m thinking of moving house anyway, so there’s no point
in making any adaptations for my oncoming physical demise.’ It’s something I’ve vaguely considered and now, with the girls planning to turn my current home into a geriatric retreat, I’m seeing it in a more definite light.

  ‘You want to move house?’ Anna is shocked.

  ‘Yes. I fancy a small town house. Something fresh and modern, smaller – I want to fill a wall with my canvases, pale grey walls, sexy lighting . . . you know?’

  ‘Sexy lighting? You’ve been talking to Corrine again, haven’t you?’ She’s shaking her head vigorously.

  ‘No, the idea to move is all mine – I do have them sometimes. And I prefer my thoughts of sexy lighting and grey walls to yours about a bloody alarm and a stairlift.’

  ‘I never even mentioned a stairlift, I just worry about your safety.’

  ‘And I worry about yours, always have, always will – but I am not going to get a friend of a friend to put an emergency alarm and a stairlift in your house in case you fall out of the bath.’

  ‘Oh, that’s not what I said and you know it. I hope that Peter hasn’t been filling your head with ideas about selling up and moving in with him. It’s funny how you’ve met him and now you’ve got all these mad ideas about moving.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with Peter, and I don’t feel like I want to move in with him, but, Anna, if I did I would.’ I look at her and she looks at me, surprised that I am being so forthright, but I need her to know I’m making my own decisions and choosing what I want, not her or Isobel or Peter, or anyone else for that matter.

  ‘If you did move in with him we would hardly see you – what about Emma and Katie? They’d miss you. And if it was his house we couldn’t just come and stay, the girls would be heartbroken.’

  ‘They’d be fine and it isn’t an issue because I’m not planning to move in with him. If I were we’d have to deal with it – and when you get to know Peter you’ll know that he would welcome you into his home with pleasure. I hope you’ll be the same with him.’

  ‘Anyway, it’s nonsense, you can’t leave our family home and sell it to a . . . stranger,’ she says, continuing in the same vein, not answering me or acknowledging my comment about Peter. ‘It’s where Isobel and I were born, it’s where we come when we need to get away . . . it’s home,’ she’s saying, her eyes now damp.

  I remember the little girl of seven on the sofa, clutching her teddy, covered in a duvet, her temperature through the roof and school out of the question. ‘I’m glad I’m home, Mum, I always feel better at home.’

  ‘Oh, darling, home is about the people not the place. I can get a lovely new house and you can come over anytime and get away from it all there. I’ll still have wine in the fridge and my shoulder will still be here for you to cry on.’

  Anna’s not convinced and I know it will take some persuading for her to come round to the idea, but I’m feeling stronger these days – it’s my life and I have to reclaim it.

  Later, as I get ready for bed, I think about the evening at Isobel’s – the sun going down, the wine, the lovely cheesecake Anna made. I long to share summer evenings like today with Peter and despite all my conflicting thoughts and concerns I want him to meet my family. I want him to see how proud they make me and to enjoy the conviviality of us all around the table as the wine and the sun goes down. I also want to put a stop to the girls’ talk about having the house adapted and let everyone know that Peter is now my lover. And I don’t need a stairlift, or an alarm, I need racy underwear and cellulite cream. I want to do this, I have to seize the moment with Peter, bring him in to the fold and start the next phase of my life.

  It’s early September but it’s still warm and the forecast says it’s going to stay warm well into next weekend. I could leave it until next summer, but I want to do it now and who knows how many summers we have left?

  The following morning I call Isobel – she’s the easy one and I need her there if I’m going to do this. ‘I’ve been thinking – I’d like to do an afternoon here next weekend. I wonder if you and Richard are free on Saturday?’

  Isobel sighs. ‘Sorry, Mum, we’re seeing friends Saturday.’

  I’m immediately disappointed.

  ‘On Sunday then? It’s just . . . I wanted to invite Peter along and I thought it might be nice if . . . ’

  ‘Okay. Sunday sounds good, but can I get back to you? I’m busy at the moment . . . will check with Richard.’ She giggles and I hear Richard talking to her in the background. Oh God, I’m playing up to the stereotype of the mother-in-law calling to talk about Sunday tea in a week’s time while they are trying to have some time together uninterrupted. I put down the phone feeling a bit lonely and rather stupid.

  ‘I don’t want to be that mother,’ I say to Peter on the telephone that evening. ‘The girls think I’m turning into some lonely old soul who sits around all day bored. I’m only doing four days a week at the shop and I don’t want to do more because I want to spend time with you, but they think it’s because I can’t cope.’

  He laughs. ‘Darling, they clearly don’t know you. You’re as strong as an ox and can cope with anything.’

  ‘An ox? Really, dude?’ I say in my granddaughter’s voice, and he laughs loudly.

  ‘I am not likening you physically to an ox, I’m saying you’re as energetic as you were at seventeen.’

  I smile. It’s nice to have another life, a secret life to share with someone special.

  ‘Everyone sees me as the poor widow, but I think it’s time I showed them that I’m not done yet.’

  ‘You mean you’re finally going to tell your children that I wasn’t just there for ice cream last week?’

  ‘Perhaps not quite in those terms.’

  ‘I think it’s a great idea – as you know I am an optimist and I just know life has a way of working out.’

  ‘Yes, and the stars will align,’ I say, thinking of Mike and smiling. Recently I’ve been able to remember the holidays and the Christmases and all the lovely times we had together without collapsing in a heap of tears and tissues.

  ‘So I thought it might be nice to do an afternoon/evening at mine next weekend. A barbecue in the garden?’

  ‘That sounds good. I’m a dab hand at barbecues, I have a secret recipe for the best marinade . . . ’

  My heart sinks. I really don’t think the best way to introduce Peter to the girls is for them to arrive at mine and find him in the family garden slapping steak on ‘Dad’s’ barbecue. I also wonder how the girls will feel seeing him in Dad’s home, with Mum? I make a mental note to do a seating plan. Yes, I know I can only ‘manage’ this so much, but if Peter sits in Mike’s chair at the head of the garden table I might as well cancel my summer buffet now.

  ‘I don’t want you working on the barbecue,’ I say lightly, trying to come up with a reason that won’t hurt or embarrass him. ‘You will be a guest, I want to show you off – I want my girls to say “He’s gorgeous, Mum”, and I want my granddaughters to be surprised and in awe. I want Emma to say WFT . . . or something like that.’

  ‘I think you mean WTF.’

  ‘Whatever. Kids have their own secret language these days – wish we’d had that. Mind you, Margaret would have banned it,’ I laugh.

  ‘Or worse, deciphered it,’ he says. ‘The Bletchley code-breakers would have had nothing on her.’

  ‘I can only imagine what she’d think if she heard my granddaughter and her friends when they think no one’s listening. It’s like Sodom and Gomorrah,’ I say, repeating my mother’s well-worn phrase.

  ‘Gone but not forgotten, Margaret will be forever with us,’ he says. And I smile to think how much of her is still with me and it comforts me to know that when I go my girls will have something of me. We all just pass it down and it starts all over again with a new life, a new love, and I think about me and Peter and I think about me and Mike. I still have my moments, I always will, but Peter has helped me through this, in the same way Mike helped me when Peter left. And I stand in my kitchen hold
ing the phone talking to the man I love, looking out at the clear, starry night and marvel at our amazing universe and how life has a way of working out.

  ‘So, I’m not ready to sit by that fire with my knitting just yet – and I need my family to understand this. We still have the same hopes and dreams and passions as anyone else . . . we’re just a bit more wrinkly.’

  ‘Good for you, Mrs Carter, now you’re talking. It’s got nothing to do with age, I keep telling you it’s never too late.’

  ‘Thank you for reminding me, for coming into my life and showing me who I used to be, and who I can be again.’

  ‘It’s right in front of you, I just needed to point it out. Now – shall I book a nearby hotel for your summer soirée?’

  ‘No, you bloody well won’t – you can stay the night, and I don’t care who knows it.’

  When Isobel confirmed she and Richard were free to come over Sunday I mentioned it to Anna while we were at work.

  ‘I hope you can come,’ I say. ‘It was lovely at Isobel’s and it made me appreciate how much we all mean to each other. I know it isn’t the same without Dad, but I’ve been . . . well, I feel optimistic about the future, and I’ve invited Peter. I’d like you all to meet him properly.’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be nice, assuming he won’t be covered in ice cream this time.’

  ‘He wasn’t last time, you do exaggerate, Anna.’

  She’s joking, but Anna’s ‘jokes’ can sometimes be a bit near the bone and she’s a little edgy today so I don’t push it.

  ‘No, really – I’m glad you’re getting your life back and you want to have us all over, and your friend Peter seems quite nice,’ she sighs, clearly with other things on her mind. ‘It’s just that I’m a bit mithered at the moment. Our Emma won’t talk to me . . . I worry she’s getting too close to that lad from the estate. I told you about him before, bit sullen, not exactly polite and I think he’s having an influence on her. This morning I only asked her if she was okay and she was so rude to me. Ended up with her storming out and me sobbing . . . I nearly didn’t come in today.’