‘Oh, just out and about.’ There was no way I was going to tell him about my date with Jules; he was undoubtedly the type who would take a very dim view of downstairsfraternising with up. ‘Nobody was in need of my services,’ I said diffidently.
‘Well, somebody is now.’ He disappeared for a moment, and the television was turned off. ‘Could you make me something to eat?’ he said, coming back into view. No ‘please’, I noted. ‘I haven’t eaten a square meal since… well, since when I can’t remember.’
‘Certainly.’ I thought quickly. There was inevitably a lot of stuff remaining from yesterday evening, although I’m not as a rule very keen on cobbling together leftovers. But at least it wouldn’t all go to waste. ‘Do you like curry?’
‘Whatever.’ He gave a shrug as if he couldn’t care less and glanced back over his shoulder at the now silent television. ‘Now, can you explain to me why people keep on hugging and kissing each other every second of every programme on British television?’
It was a slight exaggeration, but I knew what he meant. However, I imitated his shrug.
‘No idea.’
‘Emotional incontinence has gone viral.’
‘When would like to eat?’
He thought a second, then glanced at his watch. ‘Make it an hour,’ he ordered before disappearing again, this time along the landing in the direction of his bedroom.
Again no ‘please’ and certainly never a ‘thank you.’ No, Luc Mandeville was certainly not a charmer.
In my room, I quickly took off the lovely blouse Nicole had lent me, pulled on a navy-blue fisherman’s sweater and, grabbing my apron, knocked on her door to return the blouse to her. She was sitting at her desk wearing headphones.
‘No, please to keep him,’ she said, swivelling round and taking them off.
I couldn’t do that, I protested. But she was adamant.
‘I have no use for him and he looks very, very lovely on you. Please, I give you him as acadeau.’ Her face suddenly illumined. ‘A Christmas present!’
There was no way I could get her to accept a refusal, so I settled for asking her if she’d like to have something to eat, but it turned out she’d made herself a sandwich earlier.
‘But M’sieur Luc, he is coming home hungry.’
Didn’t I just know it.
The kitchen was quiet, clean and tidy. For a teenager, Nicole was certainly out of the ordinary when it came to clearing up after herself. Putting on some chopped onions and a couple of chillies to sweat and stripping the chicken carcasses, I glanced up at the wall clock and decided to risk a quick call to Carl. He’d be expecting me to phone this evening. But I needn’t have worried. Once I got through to him, he was so full of his first afternoon on the ski slopes that I think he’d forgotten I had said I would.
‘To stop, you do a thing called a snowplough, Mum.’ Did I know that? (You bet I did. A snowplough had nearly crippled me for life.) We chatted briefly; he said they were all getting ready to go out for the evening. All? Then I remembered Giancarlo’s two daughters from his two marriages were joining the party, Carl’s half-sisters. That would be nice for him. The first must now be around ten or eleven, the other much younger. Carl is just coming up to the age when he is starting to find girls interesting, orat least he has begun to notice girls exist. The older girl would probably boss or mother him, though, neither of which he would appreciate. The call ended, leaving me once again missing my son so desperately it hurt. Except this time, no matter how hard I tried to distract myself with cooking, I could not stop it hurting.
In the warm, beautiful room with its pools of amber light spreading from the lamps Nicole had left burning, I could see Carl as if he were there beside me. He would be intrigued by the Villa Matisse, I knew. Not simply for its faded luxury and air of celebrity glamour but more for the cast of quirky characters that inhabited the place. Carl adores drama; he loves make-believe. He’s very into acting at school. He finds people interesting; he likes imagining he is someone other than himself. The pain grew and grew until, despite the nice day I had just enjoyed with Jules, I felt overwhelmed by a crippling sense of loneliness. No, not loneliness. It wasn’t loneliness. That was not right. It was alone-ness. I felt alone, alone as if I was the last person on the planet and everybody else had left or died long ago.
I sat down suddenly at the kitchen table. Not for the first time I bitterly regretted ever coming to the Villa Matisse.
Chapter Eight
On Monday the 21stof December, four days before Christmas, I woke earlier than usual, just before seven o’clock, partly because I was rather cold, which was unusual because up till now I’d found the Villa Matisse overheated – and not just in terms of temperature – but also because the night had been one of jangled dreams. One minute I could see Carl’s face and hear him calling, ‘Are you there, Mum?’ over and over again as if he could not see or hear me. The next it was Luc Mandeville, his face fading away but one of his sarcastic smirks lingering like the smile of the Cheshire Cat.
With a sigh, I turned over onto my back. There was no point in trying to get back to sleep at that hour, but nevertheless, I lay there for ages, staring sightlessly at the ceiling while gingerly re-examining my black mood of early yesterday evening. It seemed to have dispelled, but only partly, because a troubling sense of disquiet still lingered in the back of my mind. My train of thought felt out-of-sync, jumbled. I couldn’t think clearly. I didn’t feel like me. I wondered whether it was because, contrary to my usual strictures, I’d allowed myself to be drawn into the private lives of the occupants of the Villa Matisse. Whatever, it felt disturbing. But who was it who said we all go a little mad sometimes? Then I remembered: NormanBates inPsycho. Well, that was an encouraging thought, especially in the light of Luc Mandeville’s mother.
All at once I realised what was the real matter with me. I had a bloody hangover; I’d drunk too much yesterday evening. And because of that, I’d made a complete idiot of myself. I’d been overfamiliar with Mandeville, intrusive about his personal life when I had no right to be and well… condescending, patronising even. The paranoia induced by the morning-after-the-night-before syndrome increased to the point where I cringed to think how I’d behaved with Mandeville. And he was my employer! My whole body felt on fire with embarrassment. I’d never be able to look the man in the eye again. I doubted very much he’d want to look in mine given what a total prat I’d made of myself. I lay there feeling worse and worse, overwhelmed by a temptation to pull the sheets over my head and stay there forever. Nobody would notice my absence, then, at a suitable juncture, I could creep away under cover of darkness and never grace the portals of the Villa Matisse again. Nobody would miss me; they would all be relieved I’d gone. Alix Bailey, who fancies herself as a professional chef but has a little problem – she can’t hold her drink.
With a sudden movement, I wrenched myself out of bed; this would not do. Hangover paranoia or not, it was far too uncivilised an hour for self-analysis. Besides, I was aware of the unpromising beginnings of a cracking headache. I opened the curtains. It was still dark outside, ink-black dark; there were no security lights outside the servants’ wing of the house. Probably minions weren’t deemed worthy of protection from burglars or vagabonds.The Villa Matisse seemed totally silent. I could hear nothing. Nobody was around or, if they were, they were being very quiet about it. With a little shake, I told myself I’d be fine once I got going. That is, if today there was anything happening at the Villa Matisse to get going with…
In the bathroom cabinet, I found a packet of Nurofen –Neurofenebecause we were in France, but they’d do – and swallowed a couple with a scoop of water from the cold tap. My mouth felt dry and dirty even after I’d cleaned my teeth about ten times, so I gargled with some mouthwash I also found in the cabinet. This improved matters, if leaving my mouth stinging and doubtless with ruined taste buds forever. Nothing loathe, I treated myself to a boiling-hot shower, following it up by a deluge as cold as I could tolerate. I felt better. Nevertheless, I still needed coffee and orange juice and possibly a new personality.
Fifteen minutes later when I entered the kitchen, I found the usual suspects: Nicole, Billy and old Tom, the latter sitting at the table with a pot of tea and a mug in front of him, wearing his English country gent’s gear plus flat cap and leafing through a glossy magazine that looked like the French equivalent ofCountry Life.
‘Will you just look at the bleedin’ prices of the houses round ’ere,’ he was saying. ‘There’s one advertised for money that could buy a whole bleedin’ town from where I come from.’ His previous clipped army officer tones were not in evidence.
Nicole was at the sink washing up, and Billy, standing next to her, was leaning back against the draining boardwith a mug in his hand. Over Billy’s cat-on-the-head black hair, he had pulled on a pair of felt reindeer antlers on an Alice band. Both were completely ignoring Tom, but it didn’t stop him droning on.
