This Cynthia seemed uncharacteristically happy. She held Émile’s arm as they wandered past the new fountains under a pale grey sky. James flipped up his collar against the cold, though he admitted it was as mild as a Sydney winter.
“You should see it in the summer, James, when it’s full of children playing in the jets of water,” she said. “Look; see the ferris wheel? It’s a winter addition.”
They headed for the Promenade des Anglais, where Émile and his mother had made a booking for lunch at one of the clubs right on the beach. They wandered along the avenue of palm trees, and crossed to the beach, so Mediterranean. It was a puzzle to James, this beach. The smooth grey stones clicked and tumbled against each other in the small waves. He could never understand the appeal, not when there were such wide golden beaches in Australia, with their clean sand and the bluest skies in the world, where you could catch a decent wave. For a moment a pang of homesickness rose in him. He regretted not kidnapping Stella from her stall and taking her with him to Bondi Beach. A golden dream.
Feeling like a sulky teenager, he followed Émile and his mother to a table overlooking the beach chairs, all lined up along the stones. They each sipped on a festive, bright orange Aperol Spritz, even though the day was as cold as winter in the south of France.
The clouds lifted as their buckets of moules arrived, and, warmed by the rich soup, James began to thaw. The sun came out, transforming the grey sea to jewel-like azure. Côte d’Azur.
Despite the jetlag, James sat up and listened with greater interest to his mother’s news, postponing the conversation they needed to have, the real purpose of his trip.
“We were haggling over a piece of furniture at L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue,” his mother laughed indulgently, patting Émile on the arm. “Émile couldn’t understand why l’Australienne would need to have a chandelier.”
For once James raised one eyebrow and looked across at the Frenchman with some shared understanding. Émile shrugged in that French way and turned to his mother and smiled, as if to say, “Who could deny this woman anything?”
“Emile needed it for his business, but I wanted it. It’s magnificent, James. Wait till you see it. You’ll understand.”
Again, Émile shrugged indulgently.
“Well, it wasn’t fair. He started yacking away in French to the vendor, bla bla bla. I’ve studied French for years, as you know, and I can certainly get by, more than that, but this was completely incomprehensible. The two of them were at it, a hundred miles an hour, the fastest French you can imagine, and all in slang. The vendor knew me. I’ve bought quite a few things from him, as it turns out, and all I could understand was the ‘l’Australienne’ from time to time. Then there was this long silence.”
His mother turned to her food, forking out a mussel or two or three like a local and tossing the shells in the bucket, enjoying the suspense she’d created.
“So who got the chandelier?” James asked, mopping up some of the soup with his bread. It really was delicious.
“We did,” she said, smiling across at Émile to continue the story.
Émile used both hands, shrugging again, in that “what was I to do” sort of way. His accent was thick, though his English was good.
“There was this beautiful woman. A beautiful chandelier. An antique like this, it is rare, yes, but there may be another. But a beautiful woman...,” he smiled at Cynthia with his eyes, as if he truly appreciated her. “She is unique, non? L’Australienne. She is, ‘ow you say, un vrai trésor, the treasure.” It was his turn to eat a mussel or five, dabbing his chin with the thick white napkin from time to time.
“I thought I was so clever,” his mother continued. “I’d brought euros; thank you, James, darling.” She halted to lay a hand on his forearm. So charming, he thought. So, she appreciates her expenses account. Our big talk is going to be even more difficult now.
Émile was listening, wrapt. Both men nodded at her to continue.
“I just kept pulling out more notes. I was determined. And I got it, and Émile was just standing there watching, and then I realized...”
“She ‘ad bought it, but she could not move it. Puis... so...”
“Émile has a wonderful truck. Wait till you see it, James. And he was such a gentleman. He offered to transport my ‘find.’ And, would you believe it, we were going to almost the same place! You’ll see it soon. I can’t wait to show you! Oh. Gelato? Marvellous for cleansing the palate.”
An attractive young waitress hovered, offering coffee. She was particularly attentive towards James. With Émile and his mother comfortably leaning towards each other at the end of the meal, Émile’s hand caressing her arm on the edge of the table, James, jetlagged, felt far from home. He closed his eyes for a moment, and Stella jumped to his mind, her quick, clear eyes, the curve of her brow. The taste of her lips.
When he opened his eyes again, the waitress was still there, so eager to please. He surprised himself. In previous years he would have had no hesitation. He would have asked her what time she finished work, asked her to show him around her favourite places in Nice in exchange for a drink, or dinner. But this time? He was here for a greater purpose, with a longer term goal.
James and Émile tussled to pick up the tab.
“Non. This is for me. You are in my country, n’est-ce pas?”
They ambled back to his mother’s Peugeot, watching seagulls hunched against a cooler afternoon breeze.
James had planned to stay in Nice, but his mother had insisted he accompany her to her place near Aix en Provence and see a little more of her home away from home. As they begin their journey towards the hills, Émile at the wheel, the long flight and large lunch took their toll, lulling James to sleep.
...
It was late afternoon when the hum of the engine stopped, and James lurched awake. Where was he?
Picturesque stone houses with pastel shutters, cobbled streets, ornate street lamps, red chimney pots, pigeons, a fountain. It was a small town, pretty as a jigsaw puzzle. Émile manoeuvred them into a parking spot half on the curb in a narrow back lane, while his mother shook out a large old key.
“Voici, voici! Come and look, James. Come and see my chandelier!”
Émile stood back, letting his mother usher him through a laneway into a courtyard. She shook the key again, then inserted it with a flourish into an ancient ornate pale blue door. The building was old, several stories high, some of the floor tiles the same pattern of white with tiny black corner pieces that Cynthia had chosen for her Bowral house. These originals had the charm of the patina of age. They’d seen generations come and go. Forgiving.
Everything was old in this house. No angle was perfectly square. This was how his mother looked now, a little imperfect, her edges softening, more comfortable in herself.
“We’ve done so much work, James,” she was saying. “You wouldn’t recognize it. It had been some kind of boarding house when I found it, and terribly run down, but I just fell in love with it, and you can see, can’t you? You can feel it. The bones are so good. I just adore every room, so special, so charming. See the windows? The fireplaces. It’s so French. So cosy, yet elegant. I absolutely love this place, and Émile has helped me so much.” She stopped and patted Émile on the arm, smiling up at him.
Tall and quiet, Émile nodded a little and gestured for the tour to continue.
Cynthia bustled James through and up an ornate staircase and up again.
“This whole floor is for guests. You have your own bathroom and small kitchen. See? You can be quite independent. There are several rooms as well as the sitting room. Enough for you, Nic and Will to stay, or any of you with...” she looked up at Émile, then said it outright.
“I’m waiting for grandchildren, Émile. I’m ready.” His mother stared at James hopefully. She’d learned not to ask about Helene, but she was clearly holding her tongue, desperate to ask if there was someone new in his life, someone special, yet not wanting to offend or upset him so soon af
ter his arrival.
If only she knew the real purpose of his visit. He was dreading raising the subject, intruding into her lifestyle with the crass talk of living beyond one’s means. Now was not the time, not while he was jet lagged and she was so keen to show him more of her life.
There was an awkward silence.
Émile had brought James’s bag, and they ascended another set of stairs. He placed it in one of the rooms beside a cast iron double bed. This room was on a corner of the house, with sets of french doors, tiny balconies on two sides and a view to the hills. Conversation had stalled.
“Le chandelier,” Émile offered, when they were both clearly seeking a way forward.
“Yes, yes. Come down now, James, and let me show you our best room...”
At the foot of the stairs, she turned sharply right and through a little doorway into a room full of light, with a large marble fireplace, sets of windows along two sides, and, best of all, an ornate entrance, stepped in from the edge of the building to offer shelter against the elements.
Surprisingly, it was completely empty, except for the chandelier, beautifully positioned in the centre, under a large white ceiling rose.
“Émile hung it for me,” she said. “He’s very clever. Looks like it’s been there forever, doesn’t it, James, darling? It belongs. You can see why we both fell in love with it.”
James nodded. It was true. It was exceptional. The space was beautiful, and the chandelier crowned it. The question was, what was it all for?
He was bone weary.
He looked at his watch and his mother took the hint.
“Well, then. You’ll want to freshen up after your journey. Such a long way, James, my darling. You must have a rest. Émile and I like to have a quiet time in the late afternoon, and reconvene at about 6.30pm or so, then wander along and find a restaurant. You’re welcome to join us, or you can make tea and toast in your suite. There are eggs and cheeses in the fridge. If we don’t see you by 7pm, we’ll see you in the morning.”
She rushed up to him and gave him a hug, smelling of lavender. He was so tall now, he felt like the adult, and his mother, the excited child. He was dreading putting a pin in her balloon, being the spoilsport, putting a stop to this lifestyle she so clearly adored.
He hugged her back, still holding his tongue. Then he shook the hand of the doting Émile, deftly avoiding the double or triple kiss with this stranger, before retreating to the peace of his tasteful room.
Showered, he slipped between the linen sheets and slept like the dead.
...
James awoke to birdsong, profoundly content. He stretched, leaped out of bed, strode to the French doors and threw them open, to see three black birds swoop past the chimney pots and then dive, disappearing into a grove of deep green pines.
There was a chill to the air, but already a promise of warmth to the day. No clouds. No wonder the world was in love with this part of France, Provence, with its fields of lavender, and vineyards that had supplied the Roman empire for centuries if not millennia.
The French doors were double glazed and had sealed perfectly, keeping the space warm enough.
The building was clearly centuries old, but it seemed in good condition. Was this where some of their funds had been going? Into maintenance and repairs? Was the mysterious Émile some kind of a builder?
As he went to head downstairs, he found a basket beside the staircase, with a paper bag holding a croissant, and a note and spare key.
“Out. Back for lunch with fresh supplies. Mother.”
Supplies of what? He headed down the stairs and found his way to the empty front room. Bread and fruit, or more chandeliers?
Even at this time of day, the beautiful room was flooded with light. It must face south.
As he slipped out onto the crooked street, he wondered what his mother’s plans for it might be. Would she just fill it with more expensive old furniture? What would she do when the house was full of antiques? Buy another?
The air was fresh. It was nearly lunchtime and the croissant smelled fantastic, whetting his appetite after the skipped dinner and breakfast. It was perfectly crunchy and soft, slightly sweet and salty, as only the French could make them.
A black cat with golden eyes regarded him, and he stooped to tickle it under the chin and offer it some crumbs as he found his bearings. Uphill to the cathedral, or downhill to the bridge and river, past the bar on the corner?
He was in a long main street, quite narrow, with a couple of cheese shops, three touristy kitchen shops, some menswear outlets and a drapers, a bakery which smelled superb, a newsagent and tobacconist, a creperie, a tea shop, two cafes, one on each side of the street, and at least seven restaurants. Surely there couldn’t be enough custom for them all...
From every position down the narrow streets there was another picturesque view of mountains, stone houses, fruit trees awaiting spring, statues. It was a painter’s paradise, and he wasn’t surprised to pass a shop selling artists’ materials and several small galleries.
He saw his mother and Émile in the distance carrying a bulging string bag, before they noticed him. His mother was cradling three sticks of bread, leaning into Émile, laughing, while he had his arm over her shoulder, bottle of wine in one hand.
It struck him he’d never seen her so relaxed, so happy, certainly not in Sydney, nor in Bowral, where nothing in her old-styled but new house had ever totally pleased her.
They spotted him and separated, Émile gesturing with the wine bottle and his mother wiggling the bread. They were like guilty young lovers, shy in public. He knew he should feel happy for them, even though the shock of losing his father never quite went away. He waved back.
He passed a doctor’s surgery, a chemist, bookstore, charcuterie and several more cheese shops. Did anyone do anything but eat in this town? It must be quite a centre, though small. If there was a supermarket, it wasn’t not obvious. There were several church spires, but no traffic lights.
He was marvelling at some of the ornate juliette balconies and window boxes, some even sporting exceptionally late roses, when he was nearly bowled over by a child coming around the corner on a scooter, a dog scampering behind, ears flapping. Keep left? Keep right? Where were her parents? He remembered again of the runaway child back in Sydney and the moment he’d saved Stella. Stella. For a moment he felt alone, too alone, hunching his hands in his coat pockets. But perhaps he would bring Stella here one day, if...
A couple of old people in berets walked past, walking slowly in grey coats. They looked him up and down as he did the same to them. The French cared what they wore.
“You like our village?” Émile asked James as they met up, and he nodded, taking the heavy bag of cheeses as he turned and they headed back together.
“You should see it tomorrow, market day!” said his mother, her face alight. “The square at the back of our place fills up completely! It’s unrecognisable, full of stalls and people and movement and sound. You’ll absolutely love it!”
Back at the house, out came the big key again and his mother opened the main door with a ceremonial flourish. Warmish sunlight was streaming in through the windows.
“Bring in the little table, would you, Émile? Let’s picnic!”
James’s mother’s idea of a picnic was very civilized. Émile had reappeared in the doorway, carrying an ornate gateleg table with turned legs. Moments later, he returned with first two and then a third spindle backed chair, followed by a blue and white linen tablecloth and a wooden board.
His mother laid out several of the cheeses and a loaf of bread on the board as Émile disappeared again. James paced the room.
“We need to talk, mother,” James said.
“Oh?” Her childlike joy in the moment receded, overtaken by the familiar imperiousness he remembered so well.
“It’s all very well...” he began.
He was interrupted by Émile’s return, this time with a tray, laden with the wine, three crystal glasses
, a knife, a bowl of mixed olives, a clump of semi-dried grapes, a perfect pear, still with a leaf or two, and an array of confiture, each jar more golden than the last.
It was like something out of a Dutch still life painting, with the low winter sunlight flowing in through the old-fashioned windows and spilling onto the rich red of this tiled floor. Octagons? Hexagons?
“Later, darling,” she said. “Let’s not spoil our time together.”
“A votre bonne santé,” said Émile, congenially, and they toasted, clinking their glasses.
James was reminded of Stella. What had she said of her own mother? “Rich in the things that matter.”
Stella. His sudden longing for her was visceral. What was she doing? Was she missing him as well? Or was she with that Damian who kept messaging her? The prospect tortured him. Should he have risked leaving her; going away like this? He must text her. Whatever she’d said about not wanting to hear from him till the end of March, it was too long. Too long for him to wait. Hopefully she felt it too, this need to be together. He wanted her to know that she mattered to him. What time would it be in Sydney? Evening.
He pulled out his phone. He would do it. He stepped back to take in the whole scene, photographing the perfect provincial “picnic” in the centre of the beautiful room, chandelier and all, his mother and Émile poised with their glasses in the air.
He sent it to Stella. No explanation. No actual text. Anonymous. Surely that wasn’t breaking the rules.
Chapter 30
James wrenched his mind and body from desire for Stella back into the beautiful room, back to his mother and this stranger.
“So, tell me about yourself,” James said to Émile.
“Je suis l'étranger, un vrai vagabond,” Émile nodded, squeezing his mother’s arm and looking across at her. They toasted each other and drank again. At the edge of their joy, James was alone.
“It’s true, James,” said his mother, laughing. “He’s a stray. I picked him up. He’s been very useful.”
“A ‘stray’?”
House of Diamonds Page 22
