Englishwoman in France (15 page)

He relaxes then, and goes to sit on the bed. Misou settles down on the table beside the laptop and closes his eyes.

‘Sit with me, Starr,' says Louis quietly. I'm glued to the spot, just inside the door. He comes and takes my arm and unglues me. After that it's all very simple. He pulls me down to sit by him. His hand goes to my hot face and I cool down. Then I kiss him cleanly on the lips, then on the flesh of his cheek and his brow. Then I kiss him again and Philip is in my mind. How wonderful he was with Siri. But we never, never kissed like this. Then I forget all about Philip. And Siri.

Now he's grabbing my shoulders and great heat comes from him. His sweat tastes of honey. With my lips still on his I peel off my shirt and his lips move on to my throat, down my body. He groans and over his head I catch sight of his crucifix. Now I wonder whether it's guilt, not passion that makes him groan.

His lips are hard on mine again and there is no objectivity, no observation. I am pulsing with life in a world only alive because of his lips on mine, his skin on my skin. Now we crash in an untidy heap on the narrow creaking bed and smile into each other's eyes as we sort ourselves out and begin again. Slowly, slowly we become one creature without beginning or end shuddering with life: one body and one mind, a universe unto ourselves.

After that we drop into a zone of forgetfulness that some might call sleep. When I snap into wakefulness he is propped up on one elbow staring down at me. I must look a real mess but I feel like the princess in the forest. One kiss and, after three years of sleepwalking, I am now awake.

I look into the face that is now so dear to me. But he is shaking his head. ‘That shouldn't have happened.'

I glance across at the crucifix. ‘Not the kind of thing you should do?'

He pauses. ‘That's one explanation, but it's even more complicated than that.'

‘I've always thought they were strange rules to impose on human beings.'

He smiles. ‘They say they're rules made by man, not by God. But all people need codes of one kind or another to live by. That's what makes us sophisticated, civilized.'

He runs one light finger down the side of my face and my body starts tingling again. I sit bolt upright. ‘I have to go. They'll be waiting for me.' I don't know why I say that. They're in Carcassonne after all.

‘They?' he asks. I am pulling on my shirt. ‘Bathroom across the landing,' he says.

Five minutes later I am back, washed and clean with my hair held tight on the top of my head by the tortoiseshell barrette I bought in the Thursday market. He's pulled on his shorts and the bed is smooth. Misou is prowling, ready to go.

Louis looks at me, his eyes clear and untroubled. The last hour might not have happened. Or it might . . .

This time when Misou and I walk back along the rue de la Poissonnerie we don't look back. Later, we are just crossing the road when a bus passes labelled
Grau d'Agde
. Sitting just behind the driver is the boy. I stare at him and he touches his brow and treats me to a mock military salute, just like Mae did yesterday.

He is everywhere, this boy.

As we pass the Café Plazza, I have to hang on to Misou because he's leaping high, pulling and jumping left and right between the tables, looking for Madame Patrice. I know just how he feels.

B
ack at the house I lay out Misou's things in the inner courtyard and set him up with a big bowl of water. I am full of energy. I have another shower, wash my hair, tidy the courtyard, make a potato salad and a large
salade niçoise
, put the food in the cool shade of the inner courtyard, and lay the table for six.

I'm sitting here at the table with Misou when the others get back from Carcassonne. I glance at Billy – first through the door with an exhausted George on his shoulders – and say, ‘Well, Billy, how was Carcassonne?'

He grins. ‘Very picture-book, but those tiny streets still flow with the echo of blood,' he says. I think again that Mae's very lucky to have Billy, even if she doesn't know it. But he's lucky in her. She's an odd kind of life force.

Olga follows her father through the big door and shouts with delight. ‘A puppy! Auntie Starr has a puppy!' She kneels down and tries to stroke Misou. He looks up at her, his head on one side, and she is lost in joy. I explain briefly that Misou is a grown dog but rather small. Then Mae comes in wearing a low-cut sundress that makes the most of her generous curves, followed by Philip, who takes one look at the set table and Misou and throws up his hands. ‘What now, Stella? What have you gone and done now?' He sounds oddly disappointed that I've made such an effort.

‘I've made supper, Phil,' I say. ‘To save you the bother.'

I stand up and start to bring the food in from the shade of the inner courtyard, putting out plates, two jugs of lemonade and a bottle of local rosé jammed into a full ice bucket. Philip looks from me to
his
kitchen, back to the table. At a stroke I've taken his world from under him. Honestly, I hope you don't think I've done this vengefully because of all his messing about with Mae. It's just because of all this energy I'm feeling. I'm no longer the madwoman who needs to be calmed down, fed fine foods, protected from the world.

The courtyard stills to a tableau. Olga is stroking Misou, talking to him, asking his name and where he's from. Billy is sitting with the wakening George on his knee. Mae is lighting a cigarette, her eyes bright with anticipation of dramas to come.

In the end Philip catches my arm as I come in with a bowl of fresh fruit and a jug of crème fraiche. ‘Where's it from, Stella? Whose dog is this? What are you going to do with a
dog
?'

‘His name is Misou. And I'm taking care of him for someone.'

‘Someone?
Someone?
You don't know anyone.'

‘
Misou!
' says Olga in a strange purring growl. ‘
Misou, Misou, Misou
.' She must think she's talking in dog language.

‘Who?' he says. ‘You don't know anyone in this city.'

Full of life now, I really resent the contempt in his tone. ‘How on earth d'you think
you
know who
I
know in this town? Have you spent any time with me here? Let's be honest, you've spent your time running away from me. That is, apart from putting food out for me, like you would with a favourite cat.'

‘That's not fair, Stella,' Mae bursts in. ‘Phil's only trying to—'

‘None of your business!' I flash back.

She screws out her cigarette on to a plate. ‘Look, Stella, how long do you want us all – Phil, me – to go on pussyfooting around you? We know the thing that happened to Siri is the worst thing that could happen to anyone. And we – especially Phil – have held your hand through that. Don't you think other folks have felt pain for themselves and for you? But it can't go on. You've got the poor lad so that he has to get blind drunk to enjoy himself . . .'

‘Stop!' I hold up my hand as though to ward off a blow. But she's right. I feel like falling through the floor. Phil is shaking his head in protest.

Billy coughs. ‘Starr's right,' he says. ‘Mae, leave it! Mind your own business.'

She turns on him like a viper. ‘You! You slug, you! Why do you never stick up for me? Oh no! Stella's the little starry-eyed girl, isn't she? The interesting case:
A Study In Grief
. . .'

Now Billy stands up, puts George carefully on the ground. He walks to the glass door that leads to the salon where, yesterday, Olga played with her Gameboy.

He turns to her. ‘A word, Mae,' he says evenly, then turns away from her and walks through the door. In a single moment Billy has evolved from the easy-going, mild, over-motherly spouse to the quiet man who'd been top of his year at medical school and, further back, the boy who captained his county team at rugby. Billy's bringing out his own personal big guns: a thing he rarely needs to do.

Mae mutters, lights another cigarette, and marches after him as though to berate him, to chastise him. Somehow we all know it will be the other way round.

Olga looks up from Misou whom she's now hauled on to her knee. ‘Has Mummy been naughty or is it Daddy?' There was a thread of anxiety in her voice.

‘They're just having a little chat,' I say. ‘Nothing to worry about. Look, why don't you take George into the little room to wash his hands? And wash yours too. You can't eat with Misou's hairs on you, can you?'

Philip watches Olga, Misou in her arms, shut the door behind herself and her brother. He turns to me. ‘She's right. Things have really changed with us, haven't they, Estella?' he says soberly.

‘Are you sorry?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Did you really like it, the way it was?'

He looks at me, frowning. ‘Like it was?'

‘I don't mean like it was, when you and me and Siri were together. That was all good, wasn't it? But what about since?' I say. ‘You know, you wheeling me around like an invalid. Apologizing for my eccentricity. Feeding me ever more wonderful food to make up for me being so desolate. Making excuses to people for the grief, the madness and my obsession with the stars. Poor you. It's been hard, hasn't it?'

‘I thought . . . gradually . . .' He's perplexed.

I just have to give in. ‘Look, dearest of dear Philip. I'm truly sorry you've had all this on your plate. Me. You didn't sign up for all this that time at the all-nighter, did you? And you were wonderful – wonderful with Siri, who was not even yours.' Despite my good intentions I can't stop my voice breaking. ‘She loved you.' For a second I can't go on. The lump in my throat is too big.

He moves towards me but I wave my hand in the air to keep him away. I swallow, trying to retrieve the energy of the afternoon. ‘My dear boy. I have to be honest. Those ten years that the three of us had together were the best, the very best in my life. I'll never have that again. Well not in this world anyway. So I really thank you for that gift. But, really, there's no
us
without Siri, is there? So there's no
us
at all. I think it's over with us. I make you miserable and you don't deserve that.'

He looks wretched. ‘What am I supposed to do, Estella? What am I supposed to say? What do you want me to do?'

‘You should do exactly what you think is right for you.' I close my eyes tightly to squeeze back the tears and take a very, very deep breath. ‘For now what I want you to do is to change your ticket and go back to England with Mae and Billy tomorrow. I want you to leave me here. I have things to work out and I know I can work them out here.' I don't know why I say that. But when the words come out of my mouth they sound right.

He looks around the courtyard like it's a crater of the moon. ‘You're staying here? In this town? You don't know anyone!'

‘That's where you're wrong. I do know people here.' Of course that's an exaggeration. I know one woman who may or may not be dead, one boy who may or may not be a vision, and one monkish scholar who I know is real because I've made love with him. Even so, his role in this world is a mystery to me.

Oh, and one very live small dog.

Just on cue, Misou barks from the little bathroom. Olga crashes through the door, face gleaming, dragging George by the hand. ‘I'm so hungry, Auntie Stella, I could eat a scabby horse.'

‘Ya-argh! Olga. What a thing to say!'

‘That's what my Durham Granda says.'

I look up at Philip. ‘Will you do that for me, Phil? What I ask?'

Before I can answer Mae and Billy come through the salon door, Mae looking entirely demure as though nothing has happened. Billy looks across and winks at me. Then we take our places around the table and eat our meal together in a kind of benevolent truce. It's a bit – just a bit – like the old times when I first got together with Philip and I took him north to meet Mae and her new doctor boyfriend whom she was flagging up to us like a trophy. It was clear even then that Billy absolutely adored her and felt that
he
was the one with a very special trophy. I remember now that on that night I had a twinge of envy, regretting the compromise I'd made in teaming up with Philip because, at that time in my life, it had seemed the best thing to do.

But tonight in the courtyard of the Maison d'Estella everyone is mildly witty and polite. Mae is paying due respect to Billy, and Philip is being absolutely charming to me. Olga is watching us all with her beady eye and George is seeing how many times he can nudge Misou with his foot before he barks.

At the end of the evening Mae – now the picture of virtue – shepherds the children to bed. Billy, Philip and I clear the table. When we get back into the courtyard the black stone walls are still humming with the heat of the day. The swifts are doing their mad aerial dance – darting this way and that and depriving the seagulls of their usual perching places at this evening hour. I light candles and put them in the centre of the table and Billy comes out with brandy glasses and a bottle of Armagnac.

Mae reappears in a long silk kaftan, her hair brushed down and her face scrubbed and shiny. In this light she looks eighteen. I remember how much she meant to me when I was young. I sit at the head of the table with Misou sitting on my feet like a muff. Philip gives his half-cough, half-laugh. ‘Well, then!' he says. ‘Here we are!'

Billy lifts his glass. ‘I'll drink to that,' he says.

Philip nods and sips his brandy. ‘I just . . . Well, Bill. The thing is, if I can grab a seat on your plane, I'll be travelling back with you tomorrow.'

Mae looks nervous. ‘Phil, love, you don't think . . .'

I come to his rescue. ‘Absolutely nothing to do with you, love. The thing is Philip needs to get back; he's wasted enough time over me. He needs to go. And I need to stay for a while. We're both happy with that.'