‘Tell you what,’ I said to lighten the atmosphere, as they too both seemed rather down and grumpy, all their engaging enthusiasm over decorating the Christmas tree evaporated. ‘Why don’t I make us a nice picnic and we slope off somewhere nice for a couple of hours? It’s warmer today and none of us have got anything much to do here.’
They both immediately replied at the same time, which meant I didn’t quite get what each said save it was clearly a refusal. Nicole repeated she was sorry, but she was going to the mosque. Billy simply said that he actually had, like, a lot of work on today for his, like, other clients.
‘Sweeping drives and making everything spick andspan, ready for Christmas. A nice idea, though,’ he added warmly.
‘Okay. No worries.’ I glanced round the kitchen. ‘No Madam Mop today, then?’
‘She doesn’t come on Mondays.’
‘And Tom?’
‘He hasn’t turned up, but you don’t want to take him out for a nice picnic, do you, Alix?’
I laughed at Billy’s expression of horror. ‘I’m not that desperate,’ I said lightly.
Except that was precisely the problem – I was.
The remainder of Monday and then Tuesday and Wednesday were grim, Tuesday in particular. Waking up to the prospect of having nothing to do and nobody to do nothing with is not a sensation familiar to me. At home I’m always madly busy, what with work and Carl and trying to fit in as much social life as I can manage for both of us. There’s never time to be at a loose end. I have sometimes wished there was, just to have a break from the relentless round. Stupid idea, because the less you have to do, the less you want to do, although I’ve no idea why this should be so. I pondered the time I’d come here to Nice with Selfie Man and all the interesting, pleasant things I’d done on my own once we had parted company. I’d walked, I’d explored the town, gone to museums and galleries, pottered round the Cours Saleya and even taken a bus up into the mountains. Of course, it had been summer then, but the present cold snap was quickly over – ‘They’re saying it came from Russia,’ Billy told me on Tuesday morning; yes, let’s blame the Russians,that’s what they’re there for – and besides, sightseeing is actually much pleasanter when it’s not hot. After all, I’d hoped to have enough free time from the job to go and see stuff; I’d banked on it. In the event, however, nothing appealed. Even the Matisse Museum had lost its charm, perhaps because I was living in a Matisse museum.
I thought of my father in Cyprus, his threatening to jump ship and clearing off for hours, bird-watching as he claimed bizarrely. He was obviously miserable too. And I hadn’t phoned him as I’d suggested that I might to my mother. I could phone him now, but even if he answered, I didn’t feel up to jollying him out of his personal gloom. In my present mood, I’d probably do more harm than good. Besides, who was paying attention to me –me? Nobody cared about my gloom. Nobody was jollying me up.
Oh, I know. You don’t have to tell me. Being steeped in self-pity is disgusting.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday morning, Christmas Eve, at the Villa Matissedawned mild and heavily overcast. Stepping out for a quick power walk to get myself moving and thoroughly alert before getting down – at last! – to some cooking, everywhere looked colourless and drab, the distant Mediterranean a motionless metallic grey. It’s singular how dull the Côte d’Azur can appear without the sun, the vibrant ochres and blues of the architecture drained and flat, like party balloons losing their air. The tubs and window boxes of scarlet geraniums strike the only lively note but seem oddly gaudy, unseemly, like someone wearing a red dress to a funeral. It started to drizzle as I left the Villa Matisse by the front door, the hibiscus shrubs promptly closing up their trumpet flowers as if signalling their disgust. Walking briskly along the elegant avenue, besides looking damp and depressed, everywhere looked uncharacteristically familiar; I could have been in a suburban road in the English Midlands, the sort lined with sub-Lutyens manors and mock-Tudor mansions with immaculate BMWs sitting on gravel driveways. It should have made me feel comforted, at home, not that I have a sub-Lutyens manor or a BMW, you understand. Carl and I live in a messy flat converted from a Georgian three-storey house on a busy street in a nice but unremarkable Midlands town. But I felt better nonetheless, principally because at last I had something todo. Aside from a trip out yesterday shopping for the Christmas food, I’d done nothing for two days, which had left me feeling not simply bored and dissatisfied and sorry for myself but weirdly ashamed. I couldn’t remember when I had last spent such an unproductive length of time.
By mid-afternoon yesterday, however, I was back online. Everything was prepared and ready for Luc’s return with his daughter this evening, a beautiful boeuf bourguignon bubbling in the Bocuse, various other tempting treats and delicacies lying in wait. I’d even made some ice cream by hand, there being no ice-cream maker at the Villa Matisse, to go with some gratifyingly successful salted caramel brownies. (I’m not the greatest pastry chef but I do try.) Best of all, Nicole had reverted to her previous cheerful, helpful self, doing as much as she could to assist with everything. From creeping me out, the Villa Matisse felt warm and welcoming, Christmassy even, at least in the kitchen. There’d been no word from Luc. ‘Oh, I expect he’s got his hands full with Madame Caroline,’ Billy had said before he toddled off at lunchtime, the only low note and uncharacteristically leery of him. Now, as Nicole and I sat down for a break with a cup of tea and a sneaky testing of the brownies, it occurred to me that Billy was almost certainly right, and Luc and the marvellous daughter would be arriving with Caroline de something in tow.
‘Nicole!’
‘Emma!’
‘How lovely to see you!’
‘Et toi aussi, mon amie!’
Conventional greetings maybe, but as the two young women embraced it was clear that they were genuinely fond of each other. Breaking the hug, Emma Mandeville turned to me.
‘Hi!’ she cried, her hand extended. ‘You must be Alix.It’s great to meet you.’
‘Hello.’ As we shook hands, I glanced at Luc to where he was dumping a vast array of carrier bags bulging with Christmas presents on the kitchen table.
‘Hello, Alix,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ I mumbled, feeling suddenly oddly shy with him. I turned back to Emma Mandeville to cover it. ‘How was your flight?’ I asked her.
‘Good, thanks, wasn’t it, Dad?’
‘Oh!’ I couldn’t help my surprise. ‘You flew out together, then.’
‘Yeah, met up at Heathrow which was, like, rammed. So was the plane. But that’s Christmas, I guess.’
‘I expect so.’ I was trying to get my head round the fact that it seemed Luc had not been with Caroline after all. Emma started sorting through the bags on the table.
‘Caroline got me and Dad an upgrade, though. She pulled strings. Good, but honestly, that woman flies so much there ought to be a clause in the Kyoto protocol just for her. She’s Public Enemy Number One when it comes to global warming. Now, must put Gran’s prezzies under the tree. That is,’ she said, appealing to me, ‘we havegota Christmas tree, haven’t we?’
‘Um… well, yes, sort of,’ I stammered, my head spinning with the Caroline stuff.
