Quietly but extremely firmly, I explained I hadn’t been able to make a Christmas pudding in the time available. Christmas pudding needed several weeks to mature, I finished in a tone that brooked no argument.
‘Goodness!’ exclaimed Caroline, fluttering her hands in mock horror – she had temporarily left off pawing Luc. ‘Cooks are such martinets. We used to say the same about our cook at home. Daddy called her the Sergeant-Major.’
Susan promptly descended into fits of squeaky giggles. ‘Oh, you are a scream, Caroline!’
Catching my eye, Emma sprang to her feet. ‘Would anyone like some more turkey?’ she said brightly. ‘Or sprouts? We’ve a helluva lot of sprouts.’
By three o’clock, the witching hour if you’re into the monarchy, everybody had departed, even Susan, although convincing her the King was not on the BBC for another hour because we were on French time took such a concerted effort of persuasion it could have graced the UN Security Council. In the end, an exasperated Luc moreor less shovelled her out of the house, promising her he would watch the King’s Christmas address on television with her back at her hotel. This he seemed to say through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth. But then, given his self-confessed obsession with the French Revolution, he was almost certainly a rabid republican. I was occupied with being despatched to find sufficient bags to transport Susan’s vast pile of Christmas presents, coming up with some supermarket carriers, at which point Susan threw her most impressive tantrum to date. She adamantly refused to be seen entering the Negresco hotel carrying a collection of plastic bags from E.Leclerc.
TheNegresco! This was the first I’d heard of where Susan Mandeville was staying. Not that I’d given it much thought, but to learn she was billeted in what must be one of the most, if notthemost, expensive luxurious hotels not just on the Riviera but in the whole of France – it’s practically a national institution – certainly gave me pause for thought. No wonder Jess was so resentful. In the end, however, I grabbed the dog’s suitcase in the kitchen, emptied it of Bonios, and shoved Susan’s presents in that. The suitcase wasn’t exactly Louis Vuitton and smelt more than a bit on the doggy side, but, mercifully, Susan deemed it acceptable.
By this time, a black people carrier with tinted windows had arrived on the avenue outside. Jules had disappeared after another over-demonstrative embrace of me, saying he would walk home, while Henri was in transports of wonder, declaring over and over again that he hadn’t been in a vehicle like this since his National Service in the Sudan in 1959. As for Caroline, she simplycommandeered the front seat, where she sat bolt upright, her face fixed in a rigid expression of forbearance as if she were Marie Antoinette in a tumbril on her way to the guillotine. With Emma and Josh’s help, Luc eventually got Henri and Susan loaded, the taxi driver preferring to furiously smoke a Disque Bleu on the pavement. Clearly not a man brimming with Christmas spirit.
Waving them off, I climbed the steps back into the now silent Villa Matisse, firmly closed the front door and surveyed the wreck of the salon. Coffee cups, liqueur and brandy glasses and the remains of petit fours on every surface were joined by wads of wrapping paper which Alphonse, having broken out of the kitchen, was now heavily engaged in ripping to shreds. Hauling him to his feet, he reluctantly agreed to be removed, pausing on his way past the Christmas tree, where he gave such a gigantic sneeze all the remaining needles fell off. The dining table looked equally discouraging, a welter of Bûche de Noël-sticky plates, napkins, cheese rinds, cracker remnants and smeared wine glasses. Suppressing a sigh, I decided to get out of my hot dress before I did anything, only to find when I gained the kitchen that Alphonse had left a massive puddle of pee where he’d lifted his leg on a kitchen table leg. No wonder he was looking nervous.
‘It’s okay, mate,’ I murmured reassuringly to him as I wearily mopped away with kitchen towel. ‘None of us remembered to let you out.’
I did that next, opening the back door to shove him out into the garden in case he had something bigger in mind. Well, it seemed he certainly did, the only problem then being what the hell to do with the great steaming pilebang in the middle of the garden path. Oh, nuts to it. If I didn’t get out of the hot dress soon, I’d slit my throat.
Ironically, however, as I tore it off in my bedroom, I noticed it was actually surprisingly chilly in there. I felt the radiator. It was stone cold. I twiddled the thermostat knob. It came off in my hand. I kicked the radiator and then looked down at Alphonse, who was looking admiringly up at me.
‘Know anything about central heating?’ I asked him.
At seven o’clock that evening, I was roused from a semi-comatose state on one of the sofas in the salon – my room now being arctic – by the front door opening to admit Luc and Emma, neither of them looking what you might call full of good will to all men.
‘Oh, we left you with all the clearing up!’ cried Emma, flopping down on the sofa next to me. Luc chucked another log on the fire. Dusting off his hands, he caught sight of the naked Christmas tree now sitting in a positive ocean of pine needles.
‘What the devil’s happened to that?’ he said.
‘The dog sneezed next to it,’ I replied, at which they both looked less frigid. Luc even laughed.
‘Another good reason to rehome him,’ he said with satisfaction.
Emma sat up. ‘Dad, no. You’re not doing that. I’m having him. He’s mine. I’m going to look after him.’
‘And how, pray, are you going to do that when you go back to university?’
Emma glanced at me. ‘I’m not going back to university,’ she said.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Rootling around the mantlepiece, Luc found a glass still half full of cognac behind a Christmas card and downed it.
‘I mean it! I’ve decided! I was going to tell you later, but I might as well say it now.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I hate my course, I hate university and I’m not going back.’
Luc flicked his eyes at me. ‘Emma, can we discuss this later?’
‘Why?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘If you mean you want it to discuss it later when Alix is not here, then you’re wasting your breath. Alix knows all about it and one hundred per cent agrees with me.’
‘Now just a minute,’ I began.
‘You did! You did!’
Very slowly and carefully, Luc set down his empty glass on the coffee table carved chest, straightened up and turned his now gimlet-like eyes on me.
‘Is this true?’ he demanded.
‘No, not exactly.’ I hesitated, not quite knowing what to say that didn’t drop Emma in it. ‘That is,’ I ventured, ‘I simply pointed out—’
‘So Emma is lying?’
