August 2015
Some holidays exist in a bubble—airy and transparent—happy families floating above the stresses of everyday life. Not mine. I’ve spent the fortnight refereeing fights between the children and cheering Paul up. And now this bombshell. I’m furious, even more so because I’ll have to wait until the children are in bed before I let rip.
While I’m moping through the evening in silence, Paul transforms back into his normal cheerful self. He makes supper and neutralises the latest feud between the children by handing Owen his precious work laptop.
“Can I play Minecraft?” asks Owen.
“Sure.” He doesn’t even utter his usual warning about viruses and dodgy downloads.
I’m pouring my third glass of wine when Paul comes back downstairs after reading Mollie’s bedtime story.
“Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself?”
“Come on, Emma!” He takes my hand, but I snatch it away. “It’s an adventure.”
“You always want more, don’t you! More holidays, more stuff and, now, more houses. Why can’t you be satisfied?”
His face tightens. “I did it for you. Because you love France.”
“For me? How dare you say that!” I yell, no longer caring if the children hear. “And making such a huge decision without consulting me.”
“I wanted to surprise you. I thought it might make up for missing out on your year in France and your degree. And it’s an investment.”
“And what about the renovation cost?”
He smiles. “See, I knew you’d worry but it’s such a bargain.”
He’s not listening so I aim my blow lower.
“You should sort out your work problems before jumping into a new project.”
He stiffens and the crease between his eyebrows deepens.
“And when my working life falls apart, then what? I need something else to focus on. Lighten up, Emma!”
I knew his excitement was a veneer—underneath, he was struggling—but that’s no excuse for making a life-changing decision without consulting me.
“I’m going outside.” Paul gets to his feet to follow me, but I stop him. “Leave me alone. I need to think.”
I walk out onto the terrace, where it’s still light, and sit beside the pool. The air is heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the cicadas tune up their unique evening chorus. Paul’s right—I do love France—and not completing my degree still rankles. I try to stay focused on this current dilemma, but my memory flips back eleven years. . .
I was a second year undergraduate when I found out I was pregnant. Zak, my boyfriend, was a post-graduate, ten years older than me, and already established in his career. The oil company he worked for was sponsoring him through a business degree.
Zak and I thought we were in love, so we decided to marry and make a home together before our child was born. To my surprise, my family accepted my decision. My mother found a dressmaker, who cunningly disguised my bump under an empire line so I resembled a bloated character from a Jane Austen novel. My dress was ivory silk to suit my redhead’s complexion and, if it wasn’t for my fiery hair, I’d be a ghostly blob in the wedding photos, standing beside my handsome, dark husband.
On the night before my wedding, my mother came into my room and perched on the narrow single bed where I’d dreamed all my teenage dreams and I waited for her to say, ‘You’ve made your bed, now lie in it,’ and other platitudes. But she took my hand and said, “Zak’s a fine man, Emma. Your dad and I like him very much. We hope you’ll have a happy life together.”
“Thanks, Mum.” I gulped.
“There’s one thing you need to understand. I’m not ready to be a hands-on granny—I’ve just accepted promotion to deputy head. Don’t expect me to drop everything and come running to help.”
“Of course.” Back then, I didn’t know how hard it would be.
It turned out Zak was already married—to his career. He worked in some of the most dangerous countries in the world; if his company needed someone for Chad, Libya, Mali—Zak was their man. When he did come home, we had nothing to say to one another.
When I left Zak, my parents blamed me. Careless words were spoken and I took umbrage at my mother’s moralistic tone. There was fault on both sides and I was too stubborn to admit I needed help, so Owen and I stumbled on alone and never saw my parents.
We slipped into a life of poverty. Sometimes I only had a tin of baked beans and a packet of rice to get us through the weekend, but I was cautious and we always managed—somehow. To save on heating bills, the library became our sanctuary. Owen mixed with other children, but when the storytelling sessions ended and the other mums headed off for coffee, I had to refuse. . .
I lift my eyes and see streaks of red bleed into the evening sky, as the sun drops low on the horizon. There’s a hint of citronella on the air and Paul appears, carrying a candle.
“Thought you might need this to keep the mozzies away.” He sets it down on the table. “Forgive me?”
“S’pose I’ll have to.” I stand up and slide an arm around his back and we watch the sun setting. “I do love France. You were right about that.”
“I wish you’d let me spoil you more, Emma. I want this for you—for us. Work is hell. Your support means everything.”
I think how Paul lifted us out of poverty and supported my son by another man. Whenever I could, I took casual work because I wanted to contribute. Paul understood I needed the dignity of work and, on many Friday and Saturday evenings, he looked after Owen while I went out waitressing for banqueting events.
It’s not his powers of persuasion that have won me over. Sitting here, tuning into the cicadas’ twilight din while the sun sets, has shuffled my thoughts into a new order.
The idea of owning Les Quatre Vents—having a foothold on French soil—has captured my imagination.