Something Stupid

by Victoria Corby

  I’d rung my mother from the train to tell her which one I’d finally managed to catch and she was at the Gare du Nord waiting for me, looking ridiculously young for someone with two children in their twenties. Her hair had been restyled into an enviably smart layered bob and had gone from its former dark blonde to a fetching tortoiseshell effect of several different colours. She looked surprised when she saw I had a companion; even more so when she heard who that companion was. ‘James’s Cressida?’ she hissed in a whisper.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ I hissed back. ‘It’s complicated.’ I hugged her saying, ‘You look great, Mum.’

  ‘Thank you, darling.’ She looked at me with a faint air of disapproval, obviously wishing she could say the same. To her lasting regret neither of her daughters has her air of chic. We just haven’t inherited her way with a belt, a lipstick, the perfect height of a heel. Or her come-hither look either.

  ‘I had to get up at five,’ I pointed out defensively.

  My mother looked appalled; in her book if you saw five in the morning at all it was because you were on your way to bed after a good party. Though even if she had got up at five her hair would still be immaculate, all her make up in place and she’d have remembered to polish her shoes. I hadn’t. ‘And where are you staying, Cressida?’ she asked brightly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ floundered Cressida. ‘I only decided at breakfast that I was coming. I mean, Stefano and I usually stay at the Bristol but I don’t want to stay somewhere I’m known - or where I might meet one of his friends.’ She looked helplessly at me. ‘What do you suggest?’

  I in turn looked at my mother. ‘I wish I could have you to stay in the apartment, but my spare room’s not big enough,’ she said to my uncharitable relief. I don’t see my mother that often and I didn’t want to have to share that time with Cressida. ‘But there is a nice little hotel around the comer that looks comfortable and clean and not too expensive. I often meet Madame Blanc, the owner, at the charcuterie, I know she’ll look after you properly. We can take you on our way.’

  It certainly wasn’t the Bristol. The bathroom was so small that the bidet was attached to the wall by a stretch hose and was wheeled away under the sink when not in use, and the panels of blue silk that covered the walls were hiding plaster that was steadily crumbling away. But, as my mother said, it was clean and the elderly bateau lit bed was comfortable though it was a good thing that Cressida isn’t very tall; I couldn’t have lain straight in it. But she seemed quite satisfied - compared to ‘Bosun’s View’ it was the height of luxury and chic, smiled and said it was lovely in slow but intelligible French which pleased Madame Blanc no end; she approved of les Anglais who made an effort with her language.

  Any hopes I had of leaving Cressida to get on with telephoning Stefano and shopping for her all important underwear were dashed at her miserably uncer­tain expression as she listened to my mother’s explanation on how to find the nearest bank to change some money. My mother’s ability to give lucid directions - on a par with my ability to read a map - had a lot to do with Cressida’s woebegone confusion. Only the sort of person who is mean to puppies could have walked away and left her to cope on her own. I heard myself say with gloomy resignation that I’d come back for her after I’d unpacked and had a chance for a chat with my mother, and then we could find the bank and a telephone together. From Cressida’s incandescently grateful expression you would have thought I’d just saved her life.

  We had already dropped my suitcases off on the way so Mum and I walked back slowly from the hotel while I tried to explain why I’d ended up with James’s ex (and I hoped it was staying that way) love in tow. I was a bit curious about that myself. Since the hotel really was only just around the corner I’d nowhere near finished before we arrived outside the high wooden gates which open on to the courtyard of Mum’s building. Traditionally these are guarded by a concierge, who sits at her post and beadily inspects each caller. Mum’s concierge lives in a ground-floor apartment and the lace curtains twitch each time a door opens. You can feel a glare of concentrated malevolence checking that you aren’t performing some major sin such as putting rubbish in the bin on the wrong day or not using the designated bags. We climbed up three flights of stone steps to the apartment - one of the reasons that Mum’s got a smaller waist than I have. She took me straight into a little kitchen decked out in Provencal prints and all the most modern equipment, for Mum’s become quite French enough to know that the first thing you do with a visitor, any visitor, is to offer food and drink.

  I was delighted to have a nice messy French bread sandwich. It seemed ages since I’d snatched a piece of toast while Horatio wound himself around my legs, puzzled but pleased by an early breakfast. Cressida had been too busy on the train telling me about the iniquities of Stefano’s mother and sisters for me to be able to get to the buffet. They sounded so appalling that I stayed glued to my seat in reluctant fascination. In front of Stefano they were absolutely charming, praising Cressida’s exquisite English looks and saying what a credit she was to him. When he wasn’t there it was another matter. There were constant references to the sainted Angelica, Stefano’s first wife, who, according to the old Contessa, was the pinnacle of every womanly achievement except that of producing babies. Cressida, naturally, hadn’t even got on the foothills, and boy did they let her know it.

  ‘Poor child, what a load of harpies,’ said my mother sympathetically as I finished telling her all of this. ‘But surely she wouldn’t have left this Stefano only because of them?’

  Actually by the time we were passing through Lille I’d come to the conclusion myself that there was a heavy degree of gold-threaded embroidery going on here. The family sounded extremely tiresome but not marital break up material. Besides when the chips were down most men supported their wife rather than their mother and Stefano certainly didn’t strike me as a man securely tied to Mama’s apron strings.

  My mouth was too full of bread and saucisson for me to reply so I shook my head vigorously and swal­lowed hard. ‘I was wondering if you could talk to her and try and find out why she’s done a bunk.’

  My mother stared at me hard for a moment and I worried that she might have taken one of her sudden offences, then she laughed. ‘On the grounds that I’ve had loads of practice at doing bunks?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I admitted, though actually I had been thinking of her more in the light of an older, more motherly figure in whom Cressida might like to confide; luckily I realised in time it was being thought of as ‘older’ and ‘motherly’ that Mum really would find offensive.

  ‘If she wants to talk to me she’s welcome to,’ said my mother lightly. It occurred to me that Cressida probably wouldn’t see herself as being in the same boat as Mum. Whatever it was that had driven her to leave in such a hurry, and it had to be more than not liking Stefano’s family and a sudden urge for an in-depth study of self-assertion, I didn’t think she suffered from the same eternally itchy feet as my mother.

  We caught up on the most important bits of each other’s gossip over our coffee - to my relief two partners seemed to be satisfying my mother’s need for variety perfectly. I filled her in on my news - most importantly that no matter what she might have heard I was not having a hot romance with my ex-stepbrother.

  ‘What a shame for you,’ she said, leaning back in her chair and blowing a smoke ring into the air.

  ‘Don’t you start as well,’ I said grumpily. ‘I’ve already had Katie telling James that I’ve been panting over him since I was fifteen.’

  ‘Katie has never known when a discreet white lie is just the ticket,’ said my mother with a reminiscent look in her eyes. Obviously Katie still wasn’t completely forgiven for a certain indiscretion committed when she was six. Mum got up, brushing a stray crumb or two off her skirt. ‘Come on, get yourself unpacked and then we’ll go and find Cressida.’

  Mission Contact Stefano was a bit of a non-starter, a resounding failure in fact. Madame B
lanc did not allow her guests to telephone abroad from the hotel so we spent ages buying single packets of mints or one three-franc stamp and paying with hundred-franc notes so we’d have loads of small coins for the telephone only to discover that all the telephones we could find took telephone cards. We found a tabac, bought a card, went back to the telephone boxes, which having been empty were naturally now full, with queues. When Cressida finally got to the head of one, she couldn’t reach Stefano on any of the numbers she tried. His mobile was switched off and she didn’t want to leave a message with the bland-voiced woman at the answering service to tell him that in fact she hadn’t run off with her former boyfriend but had gone for other reasons. She felt much the same about the answering machines in Derbyshire and the flat in London.

  After the fourth try she began to look moist-eyed and trembly-lipped so my mother hastily asked if she would mind if we went along to a favourite shoe shop where they were keeping a couple of pairs for her while she made up her mind which she wanted. Cressida was indeed most happy to have her mind taken off her troubles by a visit to a shoe shop. We staggered out an hour later leaving half the stock of the shop, tried and rejected, on the ground behind us. The other half was seemingly in boxes hanging from Cressida’s arms. We dumped the parcels at the apartment and then to show that we weren’t complete Philistines went to see the Impressionists at the Musée d’Orsay. Cressida even man­aged to forget her nail-biting preoccupation for a while as we each tried to decide which of the pictures we’d take home if we were allowed to take one off the wall and became positively heated in favour of our own choices.

  Cressida got the same stalemate when she tried to telephone again after we left the museum. While I was choosing a postcard of Les Deux Magots to send to Daniel I flippantly suggested that perhaps she should send Stefano a postcard too. Maybe a Renoir or, if that was too exciting, a nice calming Monet instead. ‘Do you think I should?’ Cressida asked seriously, looking as if not having to speak directly to him was decidedly appeal­ing. ‘He might find it a little insulting, mightn’t he?’

  ‘Very, I should think,’ said Mum, giving me a quelling glare. ‘Never mind, Cressida, you’ll find him at home soon.’

  Unfortunately she didn’t. She had declared herself starving so we removed to a cafe and ordered coffee and patisserie, sitting at a table on the pavement, not for the pleasure of being outside under a lowering grey sky but so that Cressida and I could feel ourselves being thoroughly French. My mother, not needing to make these gestures, sat with a resigned expression on her face and the collar of her coat pulled up around her ears. After nibbling a quarter of a chocolatine Cressida declared that she was full up and, assuring the waiter who was hovering in the most solicitous way that it had been perfectly delicious but she couldn’t manage another bite, she headed off for the telephone box on the comer of the square, brandishing her phone card as if it was a talisman. No wonder she keeps so slim, I thought enviously as I licked the last crumbs of my tresse à vanille off my fingers. ‘Oh, good, she’s got through,’ I said to Mum as I saw Cressida’s head begin to start moving in the way it does when someone is speaking. But seconds later she had replaced the receiver and was coming back towards us with a white, shocked face.

  Mum got up and put an arm around her, guiding her to a chair. ‘What did he say to you?’ she asked.

  Cressida shook her head. ‘There wasn’t any answer, so I rang Viola. I thought she could give him a message.’ Her eyes began to fill with tears and she sniffed delicately. ‘Stefano’s already spoken to her. He says that I’ve damaged what is most precious in the world to him and he’ll never forgive me for what I’ve done.’ A single tear traced its path down her cheek. The waiter, who had hovered straight back the moment Cressida retook her chair, dashed forward holding out a handful of paper napkins. It was only a stern look from my mother that prevented him from gently dabbing at the tear himself. Cressida took some and wiped her eyes, smiling a watery thank you. The waiter looked as if he had just won the Loto. ‘I don’t know what to do! I can’t talk to him if he’s going to be like that, can I?’ she asked, eyes swimming again.

  My eyes met Mum’s. I began to wonder how serious Cressida’s precipitate departure from Hurstwood House had been. Rather than a final coup de grâce for her marriage, had it been more along the lines of a cry for help? She seemed prone to dramatic gestures. So did Stefano, come to that. They were well suited. Mum patted her on the shoulder. ‘It’s not uncommon for men to behave like that when they believe their wife has run off with someone else,’ she said gently. ‘So far as he’s con­cerned you’ve just thrown away your marriage and so he’s lashing out.’

  Cressida sat up, looking encouraged. ‘Do you think that’s what he meant by the thing he holds most precious in the world?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said firmly. ‘You just have to look at him to see how much he adores you. He’d forgive you any­thing - except having an affair with James.’

  Cressida looked as if the sun had just come out from behind her own particular cloud. ‘Anything?’ she echoed, eyes shining. ‘You really believe that?’ She sucked on her nail, her exhilaration dying a little. ‘I wish I could be sure of that, but maybe I’ve left it too long,’ she said soberly with another of her lightning changes of mood. She smiled bravely as if about to step into the dentist’s chair. ‘We’ll see after I’ve spoken to him, won’t we? But I expect I shan’t be able to get him until after the weekend now, he seems to have switched off his mobile and he’s not at home. I’ll have to ring him on the office phone on Monday.’

  There didn’t seem to be anything else to do. I hoped that in the meantime Stefano wouldn’t get too impatient at the lack of news and kept his hands off his wife’s supposed lover. James sounded as if he was fervently hoping much the same when I rang him later on from Mum’s flat before we went out for supper. I tried my hardest to be charitable - well, fairly hard - and to attribute his grumpy reaction after hearing my news to tension at being followed everywhere by the detectives, who were apparently still sticking to him like a pair of well-trained gun dogs. At least, as I pointed out, once Stefano realised that Cressida was in Paris and his detec­tives could confirm that James was in London all the time, he’d know that James wasn’t having it off with his wife. Not necessarily, James informed me coldly. There was no reason to think that Stefano was going to be any more logical and reasonable than he’d shown himself already. I told him not to look on the dark side. He said that it was all right for me, swanning around Paris enjoying myself, to make silly and puerile remarks, but he was up against it and couldn’t afford to indulge in such rank stupidity. The conversation went sharply downhill from there on.

  ‘You two haven’t changed much,’ said Mum as I put the phone down with unnecessary force, ‘though a couple of years ago you’d have been calling him names, so maybe Jane was right and you are mellowing towards each other.’ She smartly left the room to change before I could commit matricide.

  Mum sensibly chose a little neighbourhood restaurant with a largely female staff, so Cressida’s lachry­mose behaviour during dinner didn’t have too drastic an effect on the service of meals to the other diners. She picked at her food and talked of Stefano to such an extent that I thought I’d scream if I heard his name mentioned once more. Fortunately Mum adroitly diverted her by planning a massive shopping expedition for tomorrow and Cressida was able to forget her woes temporarily in the pleasurable anticipation of doing serious damage to her credit card. I stayed out of the discussion about exactly which shops were to be hit, I was too broke to do anything more than window-shopping. Besides I was doing some serious thinking.

  Halfway through dinner, luckily after I’d finished my magret de canard so my appetite wasn’t spoiled, I had one of those stray film-like memories, exact in every detail. I could see Cressida in the telephone booth as she tried Stefano and then rang Viola. She had been standing side on to me and her rings had been flashing and catching the light as she tapped out th
e numbers. I’d thought vaguely that maybe even in a respectable area like this one it wasn’t wise to flaunt two huge diamond rings. I was sure she had only dialled once. Well, nearly sure. I became less certain each time I thought about it, but now I was wondering if she’d ever actually tried to contact Stefano? It was pretty odd that a man like him should make himself incommunicado. No, not odd, downright unbelievable. Apart from anxiously awaiting news about Cressida, and presumably reports on what James was doing, businessmen like him, with fingers in loads of rather dubious pies, need to be able to be contacted at all times. Surely he wouldn’t just rely on his message service? So why was she lying about trying to contact him? Probably to get me off her back. Maybe she was fright­ened to speak to him. But why? All she’d done was go to a seminar Stefano would dismiss as a waste of time, hardly a capital crime, and spend a lot of money, which I shouldn’t think was anything unusual. I reckoned he’d happily forgive her both once he knew that she wasn’t shacked up with James.

  So why did she prefer him to believe that she was committing adultery rather than speak to him?

  CHAPTER 12

  ‘Gosh, you don’t get much room in these trains, do you?’ asked Cressida as we eased ourselves into our seats on the TGV to Bordeaux.

  ‘There’s more space than on the average aeroplane,’ I said, doing an automatic check through my handbag for the umpteenth time to see if I had all the necessaries: ticket, voucher for the car hire, driving licence, passport in its pocket and not in my bedside drawer at Mum’s.

  ‘Is there? I never fly economy,’ said Cressida. There was no answer to that. Possessors of Gold Cards just don’t understand how users of the ordinary variety can find the difference between fares of vital importance, even when the said Gold Card has stopped working in French credit card machines. ‘Eet ees zee swipe,’ the assistant had explained with a dazzling smile, which didn’t leave us any the wiser. But it was now my credit card that was paying for the pair of us since Cressida had run her other card up to the limit buying an eye-catching lined raincoat. She was cold, she’d said.