Old Friends Reunited, page 2
During the course of my career my main characters had aged from bright, twenty-somethings who were looking for love and their first home, into thirty-somethings who were wrestling with jobs and partners and occasionally children. My last three books had been about some forty-something friends coping with divorce and empty nests. My books sold in huge numbers; people enjoyed them. So up till now I’d done pretty well. People didn’t realise it, but all those books, dismissed as ‘easy to read’, took a disproportionate amount of time to construct.
But now there was more to not being able to finish this book, I could feel it. It wasn’t just my procrastination, my addiction to social media and wasting hours on Amazon looking for kitchen gadgets. Why I suddenly felt the need to make bread or change the sheets rather than sort out my latest plot. I hadn’t been able to get my head around anything properly for quite some time.
Sometimes it felt as though my brain were fogged. Could I still blame William? All those women, all those lies?
Perhaps it was my age. Was that a reasonable excuse? It was a poor one; I was in excellent health, far better than I deserved considering my largely sedentary lifestyle and unpredictable eating habits. I couldn’t remember the last time I had cooked a proper meal for myself; baked potatoes or something on toast seemed to be my staples. And biscuits.
Anyway, I had worked out a plan and I told Vesta all the details. I was going away for a month, possibly more if I could get around her. She could hardly follow me to the south of France and haul me back. Although, looking at her gimlet eyes and determined expression, I wouldn’t have put it past her.
Normally I didn’t like making long-term plans because I never really knew how I would feel when the time came to carry them out. Actually, the same was true for short-term plans if I was honest.
But this felt very different. At last I was going to see Audrie and Gin again.
Audrie had promised she would leave me to my ‘work’. I knew I would find many quiet corners where I could write, imagining the delicious view over the countryside. The words would flow from my fingers in a silver stream. I would be reinvigorated, restored, I would find my way back to that magical place where everything came together and worked. As I spoke, I was losing sight of the idea of a proper holiday, my original reason for the trip fading and some sort of compromise materialising.
There was a moment’s very deep silence while Vesta looked at the backs of her hands and I looked out of the plate glass windows at the London skyline. A scruffy-looking pigeon on the windowsill watched us both.
‘Right,’ she said at last. ‘I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but you have to see it from my perspective. You aren’t being fair to either of us. I know you and Laila were together for such a long time, and I know you had your own way of working. Yes, sometimes you missed deadlines, but she managed to cover for you… But as I keep telling you, things have changed. Things are changing here at Peston-Vance too. I need to work with people I can trust to deliver the goods. And deliver them on time.’
I didn’t like the sound of this at all.
‘I’ve spoken with the boss about this.’
I didn’t like the sound of that either.
Bernard Peston-Vance was my friend. At least, I thought he was. Over the years we’d been to events and conferences and parties together. He’d given me framed awards for sales figures and I’d received hand-written Christmas cards from him, not printed ones from the office. I was on the front page of their website and had been for years.
‘Bernard agrees with me; we need to find a way through this. Your method of working just doesn’t fly these days. It’s not professional. If a publisher asks for a book in January, they want it in January, not when you get around to it. You Left Me Behind is already eight months late. Keep The Faith was a year behind schedule.’
‘It sold a lot of copies,’ I said.
‘Yes, because you’re a great writer, when you get around to it. You were supposed to be speaking at the conference in July last year and you were late for that too. Laila may have been happy to cover for you, but – well – I can’t.’
I watched the pigeon outside; it looked worried and cold.
I felt much the same way.
‘I can work with Bernard then,’ I said rather defiantly.
‘Bernard is retiring,’ Vesta flashed back. ‘He’s announcing it next week.’
‘Retiring? Bernard?’
Bernard Peston-Vance had started this agency. I’d been one of his first clients. He was irreplaceable. He was a gentleman, he even wore suits at the weekends, and he called his wife and every other woman who crossed his path ‘darling’.
‘And strictly between these four walls, I’m taking over from him,’ Vesta concluded. ‘As I said, things are going to change.’
My quiver of unease turned into a cold shudder.
‘Don’t worry, this month – six weeks away – will see the book finished,’ I said firmly. ‘Absolutely. Definitely.’
I don’t think I was fooling either of us.
Vesta pulled a face, her head on one side, and slid a letter across the desk towards me. The envelope was embossed with the familiar BPV logo. ‘If you are not back here with a completed first draft by the end of the year,’ Vesta said, ‘I’m afraid we will have to part company.’
This was ridiculous, it couldn’t be happening. Not so long ago other agents had been cosying up to me, trying to lure me away from BPV!
‘There really is no need for this, Vesta.’
‘I hope not, Bea. Have your holiday, take a break, but don’t forget about the work.’
‘Of course not,’ I said firmly.
2
Even with that hanging over me, I put all the difficult stuff to the back of my mind –because I’d become really good at doing that – and firmed up my plans. I’d forgotten how it felt; there were few things better than setting out on a holiday. When I was younger, I’d always prided myself on being able to successfully pack in fifteen minutes, but if I’m honest I’ve messed this up many times since.
So, the ten days before I left were filled with anticipation, preparations, counting the knickers I’d packed in my case, twice – that never to be forgotten cruise when I only took one spare pair still made me cringe – and checking I had my passport, travel documents and the tourist guides I’d bought and pored over.
I had packed with clothes suitable for a warm autumn holiday in the south of France and of course I had a few urgently requested gifts for Audrie: a large jar of Marmite, shortbread and some of her favourite lemon-scented soap. I had a tiny travel clock from the Buckingham Palace website that Gin might like. What do you buy for someone who was married to a millionaire orthodontist anyway? Or, rather, someone who used to be?
That evening, I fetched an old photo album from the attic and opened it up.
There I was, on a school trip to Warwick castle, lying on the grass when I should have been filling in a questionnaire about John of Gaunt. I looked bright-eyed, optimistic, full of mischief. Had I really been that scrawny? I hadn’t realised. Why didn’t I appreciate it at the time? Marie Helvin and Jean Shrimpton had been my idols. And no thirteen-year-old girl with a passion for Crunchies could ever live up to them.
Bea undoubtedly has enthusiasm but is easily led. She is interested in making up stories but the improvement in her handwriting has highlighted her poor grammar.
That phrase, from one of my school reports, had followed me down the years. My father had even quoted it in his speech when I married William.
There was Gin, triumphantly raising a bottle of Woodpecker cider above her head. Heaven knows where she got that. There was Audrie, cross-legged, legs like toothpicks, squinting against the sun, cigarette in hand.
I sat in my window seat, my new notebook open on my lap ready to jot down ideas I could use in my work, and looked down at the French countryside, laid out far below, sometimes hidden under hazy French clouds. I had a lovely feeling of anticipation, of childish adventure (though let’s be honest, I was far from a child).
The light was always different in France, and so was the air.
And I’d always liked how every place around the world had its own particular smell. To me, America was hot and humid with the promise of nearby doughnuts; Australia was warmth and eucalyptus and sizzling white sand; Italy was roasting coffee, basil and vanilla; the south of France was cheese, freshly baked bread and lavender fields. It was irresistible.
I began to feel quite perky. I never seemed to feel glum or worried when I went to France. The people I’d met there had always been friendly; they responded with kindness to my schoolgirl French and they were interested in where I was going and why. This was what I needed. To be treated like a person in my own right, not just a mum who wasn’t needed much any more, not just a failed wife, not just a producer of ‘hilarious, feel-good up-lit’.
I was looking forward to this trip enormously, I could almost taste it. I could imagine sitting overlooking the glorious landscape (I’d been on Google Earth several times; isn’t technology amazing?) under a parasol, writing and thinking about my book. The long, golden light would stretch over their vineyard, the lovely walls of the chateau reaching up into the clear sky. A couple of their hens scratching about in the gravel, perhaps Audrie’s cheerful, French husband Victor would be mowing the grass with his red tractor mower, his battered canvas cap on his head. I smiled at the thought.
I couldn’t wait to see them. I felt as though I were travelling to a little oasis of calm inside the continuing uncertainty of my life. No one could be miserable with them around; Audrie and Victor were the happiest, most loving couple I knew, with an enviable lifestyle in their wonderful chateau now that the building work was finished. I was anticipating a lot of lazy evenings, relaxing by their pool, a glass of wine in one hand, my new chapters positively zinging with inspiration as the three of us talked and laughed together.
Long lunches under the sun-flecked pergola, perhaps a game of tennis with Gin making up the four as the evening cooled. I made a little excited noise, thrilled at the prospect. I felt like telling someone, the steward perhaps, or the sleeping teenage girl next to me, that I was friends with the people who had been on that television show. That I was setting out on an unexpected adventure, one that was going to make all the difference.
The journey from the airport went smoothly enough. It was only an hour’s drive after all, and I had driven in France quite a bit over the years. But I needed all my wits about me that day as I followed the streams of traffic down the A55, through scrubby, rock-strewn landscapes, under graffitied bridges and terrifying tunnels.
The weather was grey and uninspiring, which was disappointing, but the trees were starting to show the first flashes of autumn colour. The sky above was heavy with rainclouds, sweeping in from the Mediterranean, but that didn’t matter either. I was saying ‘yes’ for a change; I was doing something out of character, and it felt marvellous. Why had I waited so long? Perhaps adventures and spur of the moment decisions were not just for young people.
My route took me past villages and towns, through a myriad of roundabouts until I was spun off onto the wonderfully named road La Bourrasque, leading south to the coast. It couldn’t be far.
I focussed on the road and not on the stunning scenery unfurling ahead of me. I took some deep, calming breaths. I had done this journey a few times before, but William had always been the one driving and I didn’t really remember it; perhaps there were some new roads. Other people could do this. I could do this. I had plenty of fuel, the hire car wasn’t making any strange noises. I’d slowed down for roadworks and toll booths. I’d managed everything and as the journey progressed, I began to relax.
The route I needed to follow was signed to Toulon and Aubagne, the other direction led to incredibly exciting places: Nice, Cannes, Fréjus-St-Raphaël. I could almost smell the Ambre Solaire, imagine the oligarchs’ yachts on the sparkling sea.
My heart was thudding with excitement. I might be in my sixties now; I might have grey hair and age spots on my hands but sod it, I was doing something different. I was challenging myself and I really was having a bit of fun for a change.
In front of me, a craggy rockface reared up, behind it another, shrouded in thick cloud.
The road plunged down to the coast and along the side of an endless beach. Cafés, palm trees in the middle of roundabouts and the wind whipping up white waves far out to sea.
French people, motorhomes with strange number plates, pastel-painted houses with red tiled roofs. The sea shaded from teal to dark cobalt-blue. And then suddenly I saw a marina. There were boats of all sizes, moored behind a breakwater, bobbing and dipping in the wind. It was breath-taking.
I pulled over into a car park and got out, shivering at the unexpected chill. It wasn’t far now but I needed a rest. I realised my hands had been braced to the steering wheel so I massaged some life back into them. That would be nice, I thought, turning up with hands like a couple of claws. I wanted to find a loo, but I didn’t dare wander off in case I got lost or someone clamped the car.
There was a large notice board telling me things I wasn’t allowed to do, and my French wasn’t really up to deciphering it. But according to the pictures, there were trip hazards, there was the possibility of my car landing upside down in the water and potentially people falling off bicycles. There was also a notice about dogs which was so confusing that I wasn’t sure if they were prohibited or compulsory.
As I got back into the car, a few spots of rain clattered against the windscreen. I turned back to the road and followed the route inland again.
I passed through the high, ironwork gates of the Chateau de St Cyr just after four o’clock. By then it was cold and there was a hard wind blowing. Well, that hadn’t been in the plan at all. What had happened to all that sunshine and warmth I’d been expecting?
The first thing I saw was Audrie, stamping up the drive towards me. A small, clenched little figure in a voluminous red raincoat, her hair plastered in rats’ tails around her face.
Something definitely wasn’t right. She wasn’t coming to greet me at the gates with a wide smile and a hug as I had anticipated. In fact, I don’t think she even realised it was me until I stopped my car and wound down the window.
‘Audrie! It’s me!’ I called out.
She stopped and looked a bit blank. Her expression wasn’t one of delighted anticipation; she looked as though she was in an absolutely filthy temper. And as though she had been crying.
‘It’s me, it’s Bea!’ I said again.
Her face cleared and she rubbed one hand over it, wiping her eyes.
‘Zut! Oh yes, of course. I’d forgotten. Hello, Bea.’
Forgotten? Had I got it wrong? Was I too early?
But I’d emailed her to confirm my travel plans ages ago and she had emailed back to say that would be marvellous. We’d had several phone calls to discuss where I would stay. She’d been excited. She’d been looking forward to it. I’d spoken to her the previous evening, for heaven’s sake.
We didn’t say anything for a few seconds, me sitting in the car and Audrie standing in the cold, shivering.
‘Get in, you’re soaking,’ I said at last. ‘Has it been raining?’ I added, awkwardly making small talk, though I already knew the answer.
She tutted at me and rolled her eyes. ‘No, I just threw a bucket of water over myself. Of course it’s been raining!’
Audrie scurried around to the passenger side of the car. She got in with a grunt as she flopped into the seat.
‘Zut! Sorry. I hadn’t forgotten you were coming, Bea, of course I hadn’t. It’s just…’ She gulped a bit and fished in the pocket of her raincoat, pulling out a tissue which she used to dry her face.
She pulled down the sun visor and checked her appearance in the mirror.
‘Mon Dieu, there’s mascara everywhere. I look a ruin. Alors, just pull up there, at the side of the house. We can use the kitchen door.’
I drove slowly up towards the chateau, which was sitting, sullen and dark, the sky grey and bruised above it. The rain started again suddenly, spitefully lashing down on the windscreen. None of this fitted with my unrealistic anticipation of how this might have gone. It was rather disappointing and also very worrying.
‘Are you okay?’ I said as I turned off the ignition.
Stupid question, she obviously wasn’t.
‘No, not really. I’m giving you a terrible welcome, aren’t I? Desolée.’
‘There’s no need to apologise, I can see you’re upset.’
I reached across to give her a hug. Inside her voluminous coat there were some ominous scrabbling and growling noises, and suddenly a small dog appeared from underneath and clamped its jaws on my sleeve.
‘Bijou, no! Sois pas méchante,’ Audrie said, tapping the dog on its nose. It looked at me and bared its teeth. ‘Sorry, Bea, she’s upset too. Look, let’s get inside, chérie.’
I checked my cuff for tooth marks, collected my bags from the boot and followed her into the house, rain dripping unpleasantly down the neck of my jacket.
We went into the kitchen, which was a huge, glorious room, windows all along one side, which would give light and provide a gorgeous view of the garden when it wasn’t raining quite so hard. There was a delicious scent of tomatoes and garlic and thyme.
Audrie dropped the dog onto a chair and turned and swept me up into a huge hug. The dog jumped down, circled my feet and sniffed suspiciously at my shoes.
‘I’m so glad to see you, really I am, you can’t imagine,’ she said.
