Out of My Depth (24 page)

The trouble, although he never dwelt on it, was that he and Amanda could have been happy together but, somehow, they weren’t. They were strangers. He had never quite fathomed her out, even though he tried extremely hard. However he tried to cheer her up, he only ever managed to annoy her. He had read in one of her magazines, once, that if things were all right in the bedroom, they were all right full stop. This seemed to make sense to him at the time, because if he and Amanda weren’t getting on, sex was out of the question. So he made it his business to try to initiate things whenever he felt it might be a good moment, but she almost always pushed him away. This led him to believe that their marriage was not a particularly happy one. Nothing he did ever excited her any more, in or out of the bedroom. She was worse than ever at the moment, and Patrick had no idea why.

He was almost at the front of the queue now, or he would have been, had there been a queue. A woman was being served who, Patrick knew for certain, had arrived after him. He watched her tasting the slivers of cheese she was being handed, and tossing the rind into the little bin by her feet. It looked to him like a good way to shop.

Patrick knew that several of his colleagues had had, or were having, affairs. He never had, and he knew that he never would. It wasn’t in his nature, and he never met women who interested him anyway. He knew that Amanda half expected him to be bonking his secretary, and that this was making her more edgy than ever. He wished he could get her to believe that he had no interest in cheating on her, and that what he wanted was to make her happy, because if she was happy, all the family would be happy. But he could never find the right words to get it across to her. They were probably destined to carry on living like this until one of them died. He wondered what Amanda would do if he died first. Whether she would remarry.

‘Monsieur?’

The cheese seller was smiling at him. She was a pretty woman, early twenties, with a wide smile and long brown hair in a ponytail down her back. She was dressed for her trade in a white overall and a little white hat. Patrick knew he had an impatient audience, and he became flustered.

‘Er,’ he said. French was not his strong point at the best of times. ‘Erm.
J
e voudrais du fromage. S’il vous plait.'

She said something fast and a few people around him smiled. He looked at the cheese ranged in front of him, and pointed at a goat’s cheese.

‘C’est bon?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘C’est fort,’ she warned, and cut him off a sliver. He tasted it. It tasted of goats. Lots of goats. Lots of unwashed goats. (Did goats ever get washed? Probably not.) Lots of unwashed goats at the height of summer. He coughed, and his audience laughed, but not unkindly.

‘Quelquecbose un peu . . .’ He tailed off.

‘Plus doux? She sliced a piece from a hard cheese and handed it to him, telling him it came from the Pyrenees. He tasted this one nervously It was perfect. It was exactly what he had been looking for. Gentle, but flavoursome. Soft but memorable.

He tasted cheeses, and bought big chunks of them, a piece of each one he ate. For a few moments, everything in the world seemed harmonious. The people around were apparently friendly, and seemed to be entertained by his buffoonish manner. Each cheese he sampled was better than the last, and before long, he had so many purchases that the lovely young woman had to load them into three flimsy carrier bags for him. Everyone else seemed to have a basket. Susie, he thought, must have baskets. To be carrying these bags must mark him out as not being local. That, and everything else about him.

Patrick sat down at the café with his bags of cheese at his feet. He ordered a large white coffee, and leaned back, trying to stay in the shade because the heat was not agreeing with him. He pulled his T-shirt away from his armpits, conscious of spreading sweaty patches. It was extraordinary, this heat. The people in this square — some of them walking purposefully, others idling and gossiping — seemed to be living in a different climatic zone. A couple of hard-core women even had long sleeves. Yet he was sweltering. Sun, cheese and coffee; the three things doctors had advised him to avoid. He had ordered the coffee out of habit. Stupid to have chosen something both hot and dehydrating, which was also a peril to his brainache. He may as well have gone the whole hog and had a Pernod.

Freya spotted him before he saw them. He heard her high, clear voice across the square.

‘Look!’ she said. ‘There he is! There’s Dad!’

He sighed and closed his eyes. Was it very bad of him to want his solitude to last just five more minutes? They were all at his side in no time. First Freya, then Jake and little Sam, and finally Izzy and Tamsin. Tamsin, he noticed, was carrying an authentic looking shopping basket.

‘Nice basket,’ he said. ‘Did you bring it with you?’

She laughed. ‘Of course not. I bought it. Then bought stuff to put in it.’

‘Dad,’ said Jake. ‘What’s that?’

Patrick looked at the table. ‘Pernod.’

‘What’s Pernod? Can I try some?’

‘No. It’s a grown-up’s drink.’

‘You mean alcohol.’

‘Yes, Jake, I do mean alcohol.’ He looked at Izzy and Tamsin. ‘It comes with a little jug of water, so how bad can it be?’

‘Can I have an Orangina?’ asked Freya, sitting down next to him.

Patrick rolled his eyes. ‘Yes!’ he said. ‘I can hardly sit here drinking by myself, can I? Everyone, grab a seat and let’s see if we can find a waiter.’

The children drank sticky drinks through straws. Wasps hovered with intent. The women ordered beers, even though it was still early, because they were on holiday Freya showed him her pocket money purchases, which seemed to be mainly tat, and Jake said loftily that there was nothing that interested him in this town.

Tamsin had bought honey and fruit. Izzy seemed to have limited her activities to knowing where Sam was, and helping Freya make her purchases.

‘Thanks, Izzy,’ Patrick said, holding up his glass. ‘Much appreciated. Frey, did you say thank you to Izzy?’

‘Thank you, Izzy,’ said Freya.

‘You already said it, sweetheart,’ Izzy said, brushing Freya’s hair back from her face. Patrick looked at the way Izzy was looking at his daughter — fondly, uncomplicatedly, caringly. Freya pulled her chair closer to Izzy’s. ‘Freya did brilliantly with her French,’ Izzy added. ‘I didn’t need to help her at all. Just to encourage her.’

Tamsin looked interested. ‘Do you do French at school, then, Freya? In our day we didn’t start it until about ten at least. It’s wonderful if you do it sooner. Finally Britain starts moving in the right direction.’

Freya sucked the last of her Orangina through a straw. ‘No, not at school. We start that in year six at school. I do languages on Saturday mornings.’

‘Really?’ Tamsin asked. ‘How many languages?’

‘Two at the moment. French and Italian. But some of the others are starting Japanese soon so I might have to do that as well.’

‘Wow,’ said Tamsin. ‘Loads of kids in Australia learn Japanese. One of my waitresses taught me a bit. Konnichiwa. Watashi wa Tamsin desu. It’s my party trick when Japanese tourists come to the bar. You must really enjoy languages to give up your weekend for them.’

Freya shook her head. ‘Not really. Sometimes it’s fun. It’s at a little college which does all sorts of coaching, and lots of the girls from school go because it’s important to get ahead for all the SATs and exams. Everyone says you have to have all A stars at GCSE or the Oxbridge colleges won’t even consider you for interview. I quite like French. Mostly I think I’d like Saturday morning at home more.’

And you’re, what, seven?’

Freya nodded.

Izzy was intrigued. ‘What other out-of-school activities do you do?’

Freya started to count them off on her fingers. ‘Ballet, tap and modern, piano, violin, and I do extra maths and English, as well as French and Italian.’

‘And you do gymnastics club,’ Jake reminded her.

‘Yes, gym club. Jake does judo, trombone, orchestra, piano and drama, and extra maths and English and he does French too, and German.’

Tamsin laughed, appalled. ‘Freya!’ She looked at her closely. ‘You’re not joking, are you? When do you get to slob out in front of the telly with a chocolate biscuit? When do you veg?’

Freya looked at her father. ‘Sunday afternoon, sometimes?’

Patrick laughed. ‘What Freya is trying to say is that occasionally her mother goes out on a Sunday and the three of us partake of some guilty pleasures. Like biscuits and telly and laziness. Otherwise, their lives are pretty full.’ He thought about the sense of joyous release that infected the three of them when the door shut behind Amanda. They never mentioned it, but they had a lot of fun without her. He wondered whether it would be like that if he was on his own; if they visited him at weekends, without their mother.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Tamsin, ‘but I think that’s fuc— absolutely awful. What about the pleasures of childhood? What about just messing around in the garden or the park, or lying on your bed reading a book? What about playing?’

Freya looked at her father. Nobody answered.

‘I have to agree,’ said Izzy. ‘I know Sam’s only three.’ She saw him running off towards a small boy at a nearby table, and kept her eye on him, ready to run and intervene if necessary. ‘But I wouldn’t get him extra coaching unless he had big exams coming up and he was really worried about the subject. And that means when he’s fifteen at the earliest. But really, we got through without cramming. I don’t see why he can’t.’

Patrick snorted. ‘You try living in bloody Clapham. They all want to go to ballet, judo, whatever it is, because all their friends do it.’

‘I don’t want to, Dad,’ Jake said immediately. ‘I really don’t. I hate trombone and it’s heavy to take around with me, and it makes a horrible noise. I feel stupid playing it and when the orchestra plays in assembly everyone laughs at me because it sounds like farts. And I hate extra tuition. There are boys at school who don’t have it. They do well in exams. And I really, really hate German.’

‘Well, if you don’t like it, stop it,’ Patrick said, instantly. As he said it he knew he had invited great wrath to fall upon his head, but he didn’t care.

‘Can I stop extra maths?’ Freya asked quickly. ‘And tap and modern?’

‘Of course you can, sweetheart. I thought you loved it all.’

‘Patrick,’ said Izzy, taking Freya’s hand, and fixing Patrick with an amused look. ‘Did you really just sit there with a straight face and tell your seven-year-old that you thought she loved extra maths? Do you know anything about children?’

He waved a hand. ‘Amanda organises that side of things. But they only do it if they want to do it. That’s the rule.’

‘Does Amanda know that rule,’ Tamsin asked, ‘or did you just make it up?’

Patrick caught her eye and smiled. ‘It’s the newest rule.’

Freya beamed at her father. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ she said. ‘If I can stop doing tap and modern and maths, I really really love you.’

He spread his hands. ‘What can a father say to that?’ He leaned back, feeling pleased with himself.

‘Do you get very tired, you two?’ Izzy asked the children.

‘Mmm,’ they said together, nodding in unison. Jake continued, ‘We always have homework and stuff. It’s nice to be on holiday.’

Tamsin leaned forward. ‘You sound like a stressed chief executive, or the Prime Minister. You two should make the most of this weekend. Just mess around and don’t think about maths or judo or tap and modern for one instant. Be children. Have fun.'

Patrick was tense as he pulled out of the parking space and started the drive back. He had had a marvellous time, and he was pleased to be bringing his cheese back for everyone’s perusal. Susie had been delighted when he handed a bagful over to her, after she eventually found them laughing over second drinks at the café. All the same, she had immediately rushed them home, Lunch was, apparently, scheduled, and they were not supposed to dawdle.

He tried not to analyse anything. He probably shouldn’t be driving. In fact, he knew he shouldn’t, after two Ricards. He felt slightly wobbly, and he had his son in the back. Freya had insisted on riding home with Susie, Izzy and Sam. Patrick was ferrying Tamsin and Jake. He was responsible for them and he was breaking the law. He slowed down as he passed through a tiny village, and concentrated on the road as hard as he could. He felt slightly dizzy.

‘Patrick?’ Tamsin asked, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Are you OK?’

‘What? Oh, God, yes, fine,’ he said, going down into second gear.

‘What’s the matter? You’ve almost stopped the car.’

‘It’s nothing.’ He turned and looked at her. As his eyes met her clear brown ones, he remembered about her mother. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said quietly. ‘Tamsin, I’ve had too much to drink. I shouldn’t be driving.’

She took a deep breath. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I’m stupid not to have noticed. You had a lot of pastis, didn’t you? You definitely shouldn’t be driving. Stop a moment. We’ll swap. I only had one beer and a coffee.’

He stopped. They were outside the mairie of some village or other. ‘You’re not on the insurance,’ he told her.

‘That’s fine. I can drive. I think I’ll manage the wrong side of the road thing. The police aren’t out in force, are they, not out here in the back of beyond. We’re only a few miles from Susie’s place, and anyway I’d rather be done for driving uninsured than have you . . .’ She tailed off.