‘Hi! Hi! Give me a moment. I’ll go somewhere where I can hear you.’
As she passes Roberto, he calls her back and holds the fire-exit open so that she can step into the alleyway running along the side of the building.
‘Hi! Sorry about that.’ Emma is suddenly conscious she is bellowing into the phone.
‘Emma?’ Her mother’s voice is thin and tinny in her ear. ‘Why are you shouting? And why haven’t you got back to me?’
This is not what she needs, especially on top of the wine. ‘Did you call earlier? I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’ She hates that she is already trying to placate her mother.
‘No, I emailed you. I’m sure I did. Mathias certainly seemed to think it had gone.’
She leans her head against the brickwork of the alley wall. A headache is lurking behind her eyes. ‘What did the email say?’
‘It gave you all the details you need for my birthday. You have to book it now.’
‘Book what?’
‘Your flight, and you need to pay for your accommodation.’ Her mother is talking to her like she is a simpleton.
She tries to gather her thoughts. ‘Didn’t you say somebody or other was hosting it?’
‘Mathias– his name is Mathias. And you cannot expect him to pay for everything. The upkeep on the chateau is enormous.’
‘How much are we talking about?’
‘Your share is just for the weekend, so it will only be seven hundred euros.’
‘You’re kidding?!’ The words are out before she can stop them. And for once, she doesn’t want to put them back.
‘I don’t know what you’re making such a fuss about. This is a prestigious private chateau, not some B&B.’
She can hear that her mother is still trying to keep a lid on her temper, trying to persuade her.
‘It’s not like you’re short of money.’
That old chestnut. Emma has never told her mother the amount of life assurance she received when Will died, and her mother never tires of trying to find out.
‘It would be good for you to meet some new people.’
Emma is surprised her mother’s new friends even know she has a daughter.
‘People will think it is most odd if you’re not here for my big party.’
Not as odd as my mother not coming to my husband’s funeral.
‘Look, Emma, I haven’t got time for this– for goodness’ sake, it will be wonderful. You’d think I was asking you to go to the dentist.’
You didn’t even come to Will’s funeral.
The repetition of this thought keeps her strangely calm. Normally, as her mother’s voice becomes more persistent, she caves in, knowing what can come next. A habit ingrained over years, over decades, one she cannot seem to break.
But now she thinks of the cloying, heady scent of Madonna lilies and she says, ‘I’m not coming, Mum.’
The phone goes quiet, and thoughts flash through Emma’s mind as she concentrates on the pinpoint of unnatural silence in her ear. How has she finally found it possible to defy her mother? Was it the time spent with Clem, the woman who told her she did not have to be like her? Is it the drink talking? Maybe it was speaking Spanish again and thinking of her father?
Precise words pierce the silence. ‘Youarecoming. Don’t be so bloody selfish.’
‘I’m not coming.’
