Wish You Were Here (21 page)

‘Of course, I would enjoy to do it.'

‘Splendid!' declared the Brig, who'd just appeared. He settled himself down at the table, too. ‘I do find restaurants so damned uncomfortable these days. And they nearly always have a battery of steps for me to fall down.'

‘I'll shop for you, if you like?' I offered. ‘I'd like to do that.'

Jean-Claude smiled. ‘Ah, but you are forgetting I won't know what I am cooking until I have gone to the market. Until I have seen the meat and smelled the fish.
Alors.
You make the lunch,
cherie
. Let us do all of the cooking today, so that Michel and Thérèse have the whole day off.'

‘Perfect!' I said happily. I liked cooking, too. So did James. Adored it. Maybe we'd do it together? His eyes told me we would.

‘That would be really nice, darling,' he said.

So, with Michel kindly taking Lizzie to the airport – she left with regret and promises to be back soon, muttering darkly about there being no way she was spending more than a day placating Maria – James and I, having looked at
the map, and James having been assured by Thérèse it was the best place to go today, prepared to set off for yet another exquisite hilltop village, this time that of Mons.

Amelia appeared through the front door just as we were loading up the car. Her eyes were bleary from sleep and she picked her way gingerly in bare feet down the steps and across the gravel drive, but she looked pleased.

‘Where are you two off to?'

‘Sightseeing and food shopping in Mons.'

‘You crazy kids.'

‘Want to come?'

‘Nah. Have fun, though.'

I smiled, knowing she was pleased to see her parents together and looking happy. As I threw in a couple of straw baskets I'd found in the pantry, I caught a glimpse of Max, who'd moved further down the garden to sit under the walnut tree with a book. He was watching us go from under the brim of his hat. That must never happen again, I thought, as I slammed the boot shut. Never. Nevertheless, a glance in the rear-view mirror as I drove to the end of the drive told me he'd watched the car all the way down, and I felt an unmistakable tingle of excitement. It was a long time since I'd been watched by a man. Aside from traffic wardens, of course.

‘We'll probably leave at about four, Camille says,' James was telling me as I turned down the lane, excited at his own plans, oblivious to my world. ‘Otherwise, the traffic builds up. We'll have drinks by the sea first, and then supper, which she's booked.'

‘Lovely, darling.' I turned from behind the wheel and smiled at his evident pleasure. I always drove on holiday,
and James map-read. The other way round, and I felt sick in minutes and we ended up lost and having a flaming row.

‘Turn right here,' he told me. ‘And I imagine we'll be back quite late, so don't wait up,' he said, casting me a furtive look.

‘No. I won't,' I assured him with a smile. ‘You know Max is going, too, don't you?' I said, hoping he did. Hoping it wouldn't burst his bubble.

‘Yes, in an official capacity,' said James pompously. ‘His company is organizing the concert and, since he's here, he thinks he ought to put in an appearance.'

‘I can see that.'

‘Oh, yes. Me too.'

I was glad he could see it. I, on the other hand, could also see Camille, surrounded by adoring men. I was convinced Michel was not immune to her charms – my own thoughts on that, I heroically kept to myself – and, of course, James was beyond hope and she wanted Max to witness this. As we'd cleared the breakfast table, Sally had told me that Max had felt the pressure to go, but that she hadn't been invited.

‘Perhaps there are only a certain number of tickets?' I'd suggested. Rachel, I'd noticed, originally the first to be invited, seemed to have been forgotten. Naturally, she hadn't said a word. ‘James says it's sold out.'

‘Except you'd think the star of the show would be able to wangle one more, wouldn't you?' she'd said crossly.

Or even the organizer, I'd thought privately, but I didn't say. I couldn't meet Sally's eye as it was.

James and I parked easily halfway up the hill to the village, remarking as we got out how in England we'd have to
search high and low for a space. We walked arm in arm up the steep little cobbled street, dodging pots of geraniums and bougainvillea littering front steps, cats sunning themselves and neighbours strapped into pinnies discussing the business of the day. The sun was high in the sky now and, as we climbed, it cast a rich, warm glow on the scattering of red roofs which began to reveal themselves in the depths of the dizzying valley below, in the vast dramatic expanse of the dusty plane peppered with olive groves. As we strolled ever upwards in the sunshine, passing a clutch of old men playing pétanque in the mottled shade of trees, sipping their pastis, it occurred to me that I hadn't been happier in a long while. Before we embarked on the market, we stood for a moment, still arm in arm, on the terrace at the top of the promontory, by a cooling fountain, gazing down at the panoramic view, the abyss freckled with tiny farms nestled amongst groves and vineyards, banking right up at the sides to oak- and pine-forested slopes, then through the valley floor to the sparkling sea beyond.

‘I could stay here for ever,' I told James, as we stared, surprising even myself. ‘Never go home. I love it.'

He laughed. ‘People always say that when they're on holiday.'

‘We don't.' I reminded him.

‘That's because we always go to Scotland.'

‘True. We should do this more often.'

‘I know.'

But we both knew we wouldn't. That this was a one-off. A treat to be savoured. Knew, that with crippling bills – shoring up the house before it slid down the hill had hit us badly – and a mortgage, we'd be in Clapham, and
periodically Scotland, for the rest of our lives: watching anxiously as James's private practice dwindled and younger men leaped ahead, hoping we could limp on until he retired and drew his ever-decreasing National Health pension, which was, oh, only another fifteen years or so. As if the sobering thought had struck us simultaneously, we turned, as one, away from the seductive view, the other world it presented, and with a certain forced jollity now, strode away to the market to squeeze the melons.

Salad Niçoise, James had decided, with fresh tuna, which he was sure we'd find easily. Also, some delicious plump black olives from a barrel, freshly laid eggs, green beans, tiny new potatoes and tomatoes you could smell at twenty paces – oh, and some asparagus tips, too. This was to be a salad unlike any you could make at home.

The market was well under way and bustling with critical intent, for, unlike the one for tourists the other day that was full of handbags and dresses, this was for serious gastronomes only. Every local French housewife worth her salt was here; the place positively bristled with them. They sniffed and prodded the abundant displays of brightly coloured peppers, vibrant green courgettes and creamy chicory heads which looked, to our eyes, spectacular, often dismissing them and certainly bartering energetically, before they deigned to make a purchase. James and I got into the swing immediately, food shopping and cooking being one of our great shared pleasures. Cheeses being his speciality, he beetled off, nose twitching, to some creamy, blue-veined Roquefort he'd spotted.
Saucisson
and other charcuterie were also on his agenda, whilst the fruit, veg and fish were mine. As I went slowly past a string of stalls, squeezing
and smelling, not ignoring misshapen, lumpy tomatoes, knowing looks were not a guarantee of ripeness or flavour, buying a fat bundle of white-and-mauve asparagus here, an irresistible orb of purple aubergine there, I wondered if I'd ever tire of a market like this. Ever stop marvelling, as I entered the fish stalls, at the baskets of scallops heaped on the floor beside the tables, the tiny pale shrimps in buckets, the vast, pale-pink langoustines, bright-red mullet, clams, plump soles, oysters like silver medals in their creamy, corrugated shell beds, soft crabs, boxes of winkles, everything ripe for bouillabaisse, which, personally, I'd have made but I had wanted James to choose the menu. Would I tire? I thought not. This was what I loved about food, what I missed: the instinctive sensory pleasure, not having to rate it out of ten. Eventually, I found what I looking for and seized upon the perfect tuna. Having examined the pink gills and bright eyes, I deemed it unmistakably this morning's catch and ordered a large slice.

Before we left, with our bulging baskets, happy with our purchases, we stopped for a drink, in the square, under the trees. I had a coffee, dark and bitter, and James had a beer. Together, we sipped and watched the world go by: two people content not to speak, just to be. The previous night flashed briefly through my mind but, already, it seemed like a dream. Something that might never have happened. Perhaps it hadn't? Perhaps I'd imagined it all. I manoeuvred my legs into the sun, making sure my face was shaded by the umbrella.

‘Have you noticed how much slimmer the people here are?' I said after a while as the crowd flowed by.

‘It's
the diet. Less McDonald's.'

‘And the way of life. The fact that they shop for fresh food every day. That's exercise in itself. No Ocado deliveries here.' I smiled. ‘Are we turning into Francophiles, d'you think?'

‘You always have been. All those formative years. It's in your blood.'

I sighed contentedly. ‘It speaks to me, James, this country. I don't know why. I feel at home here.'

There was the smallest of pauses. ‘Then we must come back more,' he said lightly.

I didn't answer. As I drained my
café noir
I narrowed my eyes at the church at the far end of the square, huge and looming, dominating proceedings and refusing to be ignored, as French churches do. I nodded towards it.

‘Shall we pop in? Take a look?'

‘Why not? Or – tell you what, darling, you go. I'll watch the bags. Don't be long, though, we need to get back and get this fish out of the sun.'

‘Oh. OK.' He was right, I supposed. It was a lot to cart around, but it would have been nice to go together.

‘I'll get the bill,' he told me as he waved to the
garçon
.

I put my sunglasses on and wandered off, pushing back through the market and pausing only to make an irresistible purchase of tapenade, the gleaming Provençal olive spread, to ladle on to crusty fresh bread and pass around before the salad. After I'd climbed the steep phalanx of steps, worn smooth by generations of pilgrims, and crossed the ancient threshold into the vast, brown chasm, candles flickering at the far end by the altar, the cool, the gloom, the peace and the emptiness enveloped me. I felt,
not sadness, as Lizzie always said she did with a shiver, if I was with her, already making for the exit, but tranquillity and calm wash over me. I sat in the nearest pew and said a little prayer. Then I went to the tray of tiny candles. Popping my two euros in the box, I took a taper. As I lit a candle, I shut my eyes. Prayed hard. But not a small duty prayer this time, not a thank you for getting us here safely, a proper Please God one. I prayed for longer than I expected, because I had quite a lot to say. There was a bit about forgiveness, obviously, but then other things. Things I didn't even know were on my mind. Things no one had asked me about in a long time but which I felt a sudden compulsion to share. To divulge.

After a while, I sensed a presence beside me. I opened my eyes and raised my head. It was James, with the bags.

‘Thought you weren't coming in?' I said.

‘Changed my mind. What did I interrupt?' His eyes were kind. Soft, grey eyes I loved. ‘What were you praying so hard for?'

I smiled. Linked my arm through his. We made for the door. ‘For us. For the rest of our lives. For some sort of guidance through this crazy, uncertain world in whatever way,' I glanced up and gesticulated, open-palmed, to the heavens, ‘that He sees fit.'

Jean-Claude
cooked for France that night. James and I thought we'd acquitted ourselves pretty reasonably at lunchtime, the tuna having been seared to pink perfection and served on a bed of pale-green endive so springy it fairly exploded in the mouth, with soft-boiled eggs, plump anchovies and olives accompanying, but it was nothing to the meal Jean-Claude produced and I wished my husband had been there to witness it.

Escargots were first flamed in cognac then added to sautéed ceps and shallots and served with a cream, mustard and tarragon sauce. Then came a perfectly pink rack of lamb with a fragrant herb crust. It was accompanied by a truffle and Madeira sauce, dauphinoise potatoes, tiny shelled peas and blanched artichokes. All this was followed by a sublime chocolate fondant, surely the ultimate test for any chef. Mum acted as sous-chef, chopping and washing ingredients as he quietly got on with the main event. He issued a few low instructions to her, but he also thanked her every time she put a row of prepared vegetables in front of him, I noticed. I'd been perched at a stool in the kitchen, having my nails painted by Tara. She liked this man, and he liked her, I could tell. Watching them took me back to the days of Philippe: not just the cooking, which they loved to do together, but the way Philippe would look at her when she stopped to stroke a dog in the street or
gave money to the beggars who gathered at the foot of the steps to Montmartre. It was the same tenderness Jean-Claude had on his face now as she dithered, on the point of putting the snails in front of him, then dashing back to the sink to give them a second wash. She was happier than I'd seen her in a long while. Not that Mum ever presented anything other than a cheerful façade to the world, that wasn't her style. But as she shimmied around the kitchen in the pretty dress she'd found in Fayence, popping out proudly to announce each course to the assembled family on the terrace, who cheered and clapped each announcement – Mum dropping a low curtsey as if she'd cooked it all herself, then executing a pirouette, arms above her head, to make her granddaughters laugh – I saw a light in her eyes I hadn't seen for years.

There was certainly a less formal atmosphere that night, without Camille, and without being waited on by Michel and Thérèse. Spirits were lighter and more frivolous. I liked it. In fact, I wished we didn't have the de Bouvoir family watching over us all the time. Wished we could have more nights like these – but then, I reasoned guiltily, we wouldn't be here at all if it wasn't for them. It was also something of a relief, I realized, not to have Max here. It gave me a respite from my feelings, anyway. I wondered if he'd disappeared on purpose. Sally had said it was a spur-of-the-moment decision to go to the concert: had he deliberately given us both some space? It would be a kind gesture, and very like him. I sank hastily into my wine.

At the end of the meal we all clapped like mad and raised our glasses to Jean-Claude who, flushed and smiling, appeared from the kitchen, framed in the French
windows. He'd barely eaten a thing, so intent had he been on getting each course to the table, hot and perfect. After a self-conscious little bow he finally sat down beside me and gratefully accepted a cognac.

‘That was unbelievable, Jean-Claude,' I told him. ‘And I mean that from a professional point of view, not just as a grateful and greedy holidaymaker.'

‘I told you.' He smiled. ‘All Frenchmen can cook.'

‘Don't give me that. You're professionally trained.'

He smiled and swirled his cognac around in its glass, avoiding my eye. ‘Perhaps,' he admitted at length.

‘Where?' I demanded, turning in my chair to face him properly. ‘And what's with the bric-a-brac – lovely though it is,' I added quickly.

He laughed. ‘Only so very recently you applaud my artistic tastes. Admire my finds in
brocantes
. Now you prefer my culinary skills?'

‘You've clearly got taste in spades,' I told him, ‘be it antiques or haute cuisine, but even I could source a few bedsteads and lamps. I certainly couldn't cook like that. Come on. Give.'

He sighed. Shrugged. ‘I trained with Thierry Dupuis in Paris. I work for ten years under Hugo Monfleur in L'Escale before finally opening my own restaurant just off the Rue Saint-Honoré seven years ago. I gain two Michelin stars in three years.'

My mouth dropped open. ‘You're kidding.'

‘I'm not.'

‘What happened?'

He spread his hands, palms up, in a hopeless gesture. ‘I got divorced. The recession bit. I owed people money. I
had to sell the restaurant to pay my wife. I opened another, in a less elegant part of the city, in Jardin des Plantes, and it didn't work.' He shrugged expressively. ‘These things happen. It's happening all the time, all over Paris. London, too. You open, you close. Oh, and did I mention that the maître d' had his fingers in the till? And, because I was so busy in the kitchen, I didn't notice until it was too late? Until we closed, in a blaze of bad publicity, orchestrated by my ex-wife, who works for
Paris Match
, and who saw to it that the magazine covered my fall from grace?'

I stared as he gazed, narrow-eyed, into the distance. Hurt eyes. Right. A glimpse of this man had been apparent these past few days, but I'd had no idea. I'd noticed him tasting dishes with critical relish, thoughtful as he savoured a mouthful of soup; it was something I recognized. And I'd seen him assiduously picking over
moules
in the kitchen, considering himself unobserved, but now I got the complete picture. And to have had a restaurant in such a prestigious part of Paris. I wondered if I'd heard of it.

‘La Terrasse,' he told me when I asked.

I had. One of the premier establishments on the Right Bank, very much in the vanguard of a new wave of French cooking: I had no idea it had closed.

‘But it is a mistake to cook and also to own and manage. I couldn't do it. Couldn't trust anyone, but couldn't do it all on my own.'

‘You do need a good manager,' I agreed.

‘
Exactement.
But everyone is in it for themselves these days, siphoning off what they can. You have no idea.'

I looked at his tired, much-travelled, handsome face as he massaged his brow with his fingertips. I visualized him
years ago, as a young man, in the heart of Paris. A chic, cultured, good-looking man. Walking in the Tuileries Gardens perhaps, with a glamorous wife in a Chanel coat, two small children in private-school uniforms. I knew he had two boys, grown up now. A little dog maybe: the ultimate Parisian family. Living the dream. Then the fall from grace.

‘Oh, I know shit happens, Jean-Claude. I'm in the same business, remember? I see restaurants open and close all the time, sometimes by dint of my pen. So then what? After the divorce. Your wife kept the house?'

‘She did. In the Marais. Her father was a divorce lawyer, which helped, and anyway, I just wanted to get away. I left her nearly everything. I'd had an affair, after all, so of course I felt guilty. And when the second restaurant closed, I felt such a failure. Very … how you say – humi—?'

‘Humiliated.'

‘Exactly. So I came down to the south. Decided to move right away from Paris. I wanted to get away from food. Find a different life.'

‘But you miss it?'

‘I didn't, for two whole years. It was a relief. But, you know, when you create for a living, and then you stop, at first you relish the peace, but then, you itch. Your fingers, you know?' He waggled them ruefully. ‘Because it's not a job. It's not an occupation. It's in the blood. Like breathing. For me, cooking is like breathing. So you see, the oxygen, it is gone. And cooking for you tonight … ah,
mon dieu
!'

I saw something in his eyes which only came from talking about something – or someone – you adored.

‘Would you ever go back to being a chef? Now?'

‘In
Paris,
non
. I'm done with that city. For ever. But down here, in the south …' He shrugged expressively, his head disappearing into his shoulders. ‘Who knows? I think it is unlikely, because I don't want to work for anyone else, and to open again on my own – with what?' He spread his hands in an eloquent, empty gesture. ‘Buttons, as you say in England? Everything boils down to money,
ma cherie
.'

‘I know.' I did. I sighed. ‘And what happens when Mum goes back? To England.'

My mother came to sit beside us, glowing with pride for her man. He took her hand.

‘I hope she won't go too quickly. I've asked her to stay on for a bit with me, in Valence. Have a bit of a holiday. Maybe help with the shop.'

‘Oh. Right.' Controlling as I could be about my children, I could hardly tell my sixty-something mother it was out of the question. And how happy she looked.

‘You didn't come through Digne, did you, darling?' Mum lit a cigarette, beaming. ‘James said you took the autoroute, but it is complete heaven. A charming, bustling little town with a terrific café society – a bit like Aix, but much smaller. Not nearly so crowded. I thought I could go off to the markets while JC is manning the shop and look at things he doesn't do yet, maybe branch out into linens, antique tablecloths. A bit of lace, that sort of thing.'

Jean-Claude squeezed her hand fondly, but he made a face. ‘Except the rest of the south of France has already branched out that way. But we will see.'

‘Or maybe dried herbs? In bags? No reason why it has to be exclusively antiques?' she suggested.

Jean-Claude and I roared. ‘Herbes de Provence, Mum?
Yes, that's novel. What, in little sacks? I'm sure no one else has thought of that.'

She pouted good-naturedly. ‘You tease me, but you wait. I'll think of something. Something to give him an edge.'

I envied them for a moment: their adventure, their happiness. Knew it could end in tears, this holiday romance of Mum's, as all her affairs did, but there was something different about this man. For a start, he was no longer married. A first, for my mother.

The evening slipped on. The children, entirely of their own accord, washed up, and then sauntered off for a swim. Mum and Jean-Claude had an early night and I sat with my in-laws, playing bridge, something I hadn't done for years. It took me back to the days when I first went to Scotland, when James took me home. We'd been going out for some time – might even have been engaged – and I'd been dying to meet his family. He'd cautiously described his sisters on the long drive up, explaining why they hadn't made the move to London, or Edinburgh, or indeed any town at all, as most young people did, why they were so resolutely at home with their father, trying not to make them sound odd. I'd been intrigued. We'd played bridge after supper that first night, and I'd weighed them up. Rachel, I could just about understand: quiet, but with an inner strength, which James told me stemmed from her religious beliefs. But she also seemed to have a strange and misplaced sense of duty, which certainly Drummond didn't expect or encourage. It was as if she, as the elder, less attractive sister, was happy to have an excuse in her widowed father to stay where she was, for ever. Sally, I could never fathom. Already a size sixteen, in dresses that looked like tents, she
seemed to grow daily, with every huge meal she cooked and ate furiously. I'd never seen anyone shovel food in so fast; it was as if it were a daily challenge. There was a terrible moment on the last day of our visit when she couldn't get out of a dining-room chair, a carver with arms. We'd had to help her. But I'd always known there was a very attractive woman in there. It was as if Sally were determined she would never emerge. And yes, she was silly and unpredictable – hysterical, sometimes – but she could be bubbly and charismatic, too. Why would she stray no further than the surrounding glens? Never work further than Perth? I'd asked James on the way home. Surely she could come and stay with us? Perfect her culinary skills at one of the London colleges? She was still young; it was never too late.

He'd laughed hollowly. No, no, Sally was better off where she was. And anyway, that would leave Rachel on her own. Sally was fine. And she'd certainly seemed it as she'd clucked excitedly around me on that first visit, thrilled to have a visitor, a potential sister-in-law, showing me every inch of the huge, dreary house, the sterile, windswept garden, where nothing grew except a few hardy shrubs; she was proud of everything. But I'd sensed an underlying nervousness, too. And she'd seemed almost to have to steel herself to go into Kincardine, the tiny town twenty minutes away – twenty minutes to the nearest pint of milk. Now, though, as she laid down the dummy hand opposite me on the bridge table, pretty stacking rings glittering on her tanned fingers, the metamorphosis wasn't just amazing, it was extraordinary. Yes, she was still excitable and watched over carefully, I realized, by Rachel, who had
always kept an eye on her, interrupting her sometimes when she was getting out of control, when her voice rose too shrilly, smoothing over conversational faux pas – but there hadn't been many of those this holiday. She'd been much calmer. Better company. What had happened to spark the transition? To make her slim down, leave Scotland, have her first proper boyfriend? Something must have, I was convinced. I watched the sisters as I played cards with them, both so impenetrable and guarded in their own ways.