Best Laid Plans (17 page)

Daniel did not answer immediately, taking a sip of his wine and inquiring after her choice of main.

‘It’s delicious. And I’m sorry to turn down your offer of a job especially when I’m having such a lovely time.’

‘Are you, Amy?’ There was a wistful note in his voice and she looked up sharply.

‘What is it with you and Bea?’ she asked throwing caution
to the wind. ‘You talk about her a lot.’

‘Do I?’ He seemed astonished. ‘I wasn’t aware of it. There’s nothing going on as such. I mean, we went out a couple of times before Christmas, had lunch together and so on but it tailed off. It was a mutual decision and we hadn’t got as far as having a relationship as such. Why? What has she been saying?’

‘Just that she likes you and she’s sad you’re leaving.’

‘I like her, too. She’s a very nice woman once you get your head around that theatrical look.’

Amy laughed. ‘That “theatrical” look as you put it is meant to look natural and it costs a fortune. But I think I know what you mean. That’s why I don’t bother with makeup, not much, anyway,’ she said, hoping that didn’t sound as if she was fishing for a compliment for the second time tonight.

Luckily it passed him by. She paused, watching as he poured more wine into their glasses, not giving the hovering waiter a chance to top them up.

‘Perhaps we’ll catch up then when you move to Preston?’

‘That would be nice.’

She half expected him to bring out his diary to fix up something definite because the ‘perhaps’ was altogether too vague for her liking but he did not and she most certainly was not going to tie him to a date herself.

The rest of the meal passed pleasantly and she duly noted the lavish cash tip he left. Afterwards he dropped her off at home and she chose not to ask him in because she did not want him to get any ideas; after all he had made it plain that the point of the dinner had been for him to offer her a job, which she had declined.

‘You’ve got my card,’ he said as he pulled the car to a halt. ‘Give me a call when you get over there.’

‘Will do.’ She hoped he wasn’t going to do the gentlemanly thing and escort her to the door because then there would be that awkward moment when they had to decide
whether or not a goodnight kiss would be appropriate.

God, how old was she? And he was hardly your spotty teenage boy, either.

To her relief, he just smiled and nodded his goodbye from the driver’s seat. She then spoilt what was meant to be a dignified exit from his life by struggling to open the car door, so that he was forced to lean over her to direct her towards the right lever. She caught a whiff of cologne, something nice, shocked by how she felt at that sudden incredible nearness.

He noticed her scent too, freshly applied before she exited the restaurant, and commented on it, saying that she smelled gorgeous but then rather spoiling it by adding that Beatrice was right and it was a lovely perfume.

It was not worth correcting him although the mention of Bea – yet again – was not welcome. If there was nothing going on then why on earth did he keep going on about the wretched woman?

‘Bye then, Daniel,’ she said. ‘Good luck with everything and thanks for the meal.’

‘Thanks for coming along. It was great. And good luck with your business, too. If you need any help you know who to call.’

He waited, engine at the ready, until she found her key and opened the door and then he drove off.

Slowly and feeling incredibly frustrated she went up the stairs to her flat.

M
onique’s phone had miraculously started working again next morning and she managed to get through to Mike just before he set off in search of her.

‘I was worried sick,’ he said. ‘And Mum is tearing her hair out. She thought you had been kidnapped or raped or murdered. I knew you’d be fine, sweetheart, but I wish now I hadn’t let you go on your own. I’m not going to let you do that ever again.’

‘Aren’t you, now? I can look after myself, Mike, but it’s nice that you care.’

‘Of course I care. I told you I was worried sick. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you.’

It was a surprising admission coming over the phone and she said she loved him, too, which she suddenly realized she did; his voice across the miles was such a comfort.

‘Don’t come over yet,’ she told him having already decided not to mention the state of the cottage to him. ‘I’m going to stay with Aunt Sylvie for a few days before I come back. She wants to spend some time with me. Is that okay with you?’

‘Of course. Stay as long as you like. Was the cottage nice?’

‘Fine. Look, I’m sorry I have to go. Speak to you soon. Bye, darling.’

‘I love you,’ he repeated and she felt her eyes mist up. Good heavens, twice in as many minutes.

She felt curiously bereft as she ended the call. Her aunt had suggested they meet somewhere and then Sylvie would drive them the rest of the way in her car because she was hopeless at giving directions and driving in Paris was a nightmare that she was not going to inflict on her
beloved
niece. When Monique was ready to return she would drive her back to where she had left her car and Monique could then easily find her way home.

The arrangement was a little complicated but that was the plan although lately Monique had come to realize that making too many plans was a grave mistake. Her own plans for an idyllic life in an idyllic village in France had taken a hammering these past few days.

‘I’m very disappointed in the cottage. It’s falling to bits,’ she said towards the end of their phone conversation. ‘Did you know?’

‘We’ll talk about that later,’ her aunt said airily. ‘Drive carefully.’

Monique drove to the rendezvous without difficulty, parking in a narrow side street just off the town square and hoping that it would be safe to leave her car there for the next few days without getting a parking ticket. She walked through the little market, its stalls full of gorgeous-looking fruit and flowers, smelling divine, and on a sudden impulse she bought herself a fresh peach and bit at once into the plump flesh, the juice running down her chin.

Big mistake. The last thing she wanted was to drip peach juice down her front. She stepped to the side, against a wall, to finish it off carefully before finding a tissue and dabbing at her mouth.

Knowing she would be assessed in an instant by her chic aunt, she had dressed with care this morning, looking out of the window of the hotel first thing and seeing a perfect blue sky. She was wearing a dress that Christine had bought her for her last birthday. It was a Laura Ashley
label, dated late sixties, a very demure floral cotton dress, the bodice diagonally tucked with long sleeves and lace-edged cuffs. She had taken time with her hair, tying it back into a high plait and she was quick to notice sly glances from a few Frenchmen as she made her way through the market. Did she look French? She rather hoped she did.

Aunt Sylvie still managed to subtly out do her, though. She was dressed in a scarlet silk two-piece, nipped in at the waist with a broad black leather belt. As they embraced, she suggested they have a coffee and a cake sitting outside the café under one of the striped parasols.

‘It’s like summer already,’ Monique said as they sat down and Sylvie briskly ordered.

‘It’s the fickle season. We shall have rain tomorrow,’ Sylvie said with a smile. ‘You look charming, my angel. Only the very young can wear something like that.’

Feeling the comment was a slight put down – after all she was not
that
young – Monique smiled nonetheless, for she didn’t want to get this off to a bad start.

‘The cottage is a wreck,’ she began as they waited for the coffee to arrive. ‘I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it’s falling to bits. The shutters are hanging off and you can see right through the roof and the rain has been coming in the bedroom and there’s damp everywhere; it’s just awful. There was something scurrying about in the kitchen,’ she added with a shudder. ‘If we were in England there would be squatters in.’

‘Squatters?’ she frowned. ‘I’m sorry but I don’t know that word.’

Monique waved a hand, not wanting to explain. ‘It looks nothing like the cottage in that photograph you gave me.’

‘You do surprise me.’ She did not look the least surprised. ‘Madame Perret assured me recently that all was well.’

‘She was lying.’

Sylvie looked at her sharply. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’

Monique flinched at the rebuke, recalling suddenly that when she was little she had often been delivered similar ones by this lady opposite. It was a sad but inescapable fact that nobody in her family really liked children and although she was never physically ill-treated, she was virtually ignored. Cuddles had been thin on the ground.

The rebuke coming now very nearly caused her to utter an apology but she held her tongue as her aunt continued, face grim. ‘I don’t like your tone. I hope you’re not blaming me, Monique. I have regular reports from Madame Perret and was under the impression that all was well. Perhaps you were tired and not seeing the potential of it. Houses can be fixed. And it is yours for free. I am giving it to you as a token of good faith.’ The shrug signified that she didn’t know what she was making all this fuss about.

Their coffee arrived accompanied by the two
tartelettes
that Sylvie had ordered; delicious-looking confections, one of sliced peaches, almonds and hazelnut cream; the other lemon with buttercream rosettes, both of them a work of art.

‘Which would you prefer?’ Sylvie smiled at her and it would seem she was forgiven. Forgiven for speaking the truth?

‘The peach one,’ she said at once, taking the little pastry fork and thanking Sylvie in as gracious a manner she could manage under the circumstances. She was annoyed at her aunt’s reaction, for it was obvious that she was going to wriggle out of any responsibility for the cottage, which was extremely underhand of her. How could she explain the photograph? She felt her dream and all her plans fading away and it made her feel sick. After one mouthful, she had to push the plate away.

‘You look pale,’ Sylvie said, changing the subject although there was no way she was going to get away with that. Things needed to be resolved. ‘Are you quite well?’

‘I’m pregnant,’ she murmured and suddenly, saying it
aloud, made it real.

Sylvie clattered her cup on the saucer.
‘Mon Dieu!
This is so unexpected. I …’ an uncertain smile appeared. ‘Have I to congratulate you?’

‘No, no … please,’ Monique stopped her. ‘I haven’t told Mike yet.’

‘Why ever not? He must be the first to know.’ Her smile had broadened, seemed genuine enough. ‘I am very flattered, my dear, that you should tell me before your husband but I think I understand. You do not want to give the news over the phone. Why did you not tell him before you came?’ She looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I see. He would perhaps have not allowed you to travel so far on your own if he knew you were expecting a child?’

‘It’s not that,’ she said, holding a hand over her mouth as a wave of nausea reared up. Why had she blurted it out to this woman when she had not told Christine or Mike or Amy?

Or Sol?

Sylvie caught her mood. ‘What is it? What is the matter? You can tell me. You are concerned, of course, about having it but I am told that it is all a big fuss about nothing. Babies are born all the time and when you see some of the women who have them then it can’t be
that
difficult.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not that. If only it were that.’

There was a silence and she watched a couple at a nearby table, young and in love, wondering for a moment if she and Mike had ever looked like that.

‘You are afraid to tell him and that can mean only one thing.’ Sylvie was now speaking softly for her ears only. Around them, the townsfolk were enjoying the sunshine and the place was bustling. Monique listened to excited French voices and from an open window music blared out. A young woman passed by on a bicycle – smiling and cheerfully relaxed and going against all the rules on health and safety – with a flowing skirt that could catch in the wheel,
a gossamer scarf that would provide no protection if she fell off and to top it all, a tiny child sitting in a basket arrangement behind her.

‘That would be frowned upon in England; it’s dangerous,’ she said and her aunt frowned, too, but not at the woman on the bike and, as they looked at each other there was no need to spell it out because Aunt Sylvie had already guessed.

‘I thought you might have a lover, Monique, and you are afraid to tell your husband because you fear the baby is not his,’ she said. It was a statement not a question.

Amy appeared with a dog in her arms.

‘Meet Oscar,’ she said, putting him down in the hall. ‘Don’t worry, he’s house trained. I got him from the dog’s home. Poor darling, he’s been moved from pillar to post this last year so we’d better make sure he stays put here.’

‘You never mentioned a dog.’ Christine looked at the creature who was now sitting in the hall looking at her inquiringly. They used to have a dog, years ago, when the children were small but after he passed on they had somehow never got round to getting another. There had been brief further forays into animal ownership with the children wanting a guinea pig, a short-lived affair, followed by a cat who had wandered off one day never to return and lately, for the last few years, nothing at all. ‘You might have said, Amy. You can’t just turn up on the doorstep with a dog.’

‘Look at him. Isn’t he just adorable?’

They looked at him. He was brown and white and some sort of spaniel cross, according to the kennels. Also, according to the kennels he ticked various boxes; good with children, good with cats, affectionate. He was four years old and in need of a home and, after the impulsive visit to the kennels Amy had succumbed to his charm.

‘I can’t take him back. Please, Mum, don’t make me take him back,’ Amy said, sounding about six years old again.
‘He’s been ever so good and it was no picnic having him in the flat. He’ll love living here with all the open space.’

Christine was wavering. Why not? She would have had another dog after they lost theirs but it was Frank who put his foot down. ‘Whose dog is it?’ she asked. ‘Is it yours or mine?’

‘Both of ours. I’ll be living here too, remember.’

‘But perhaps not forever. We need to be sure about this, darling. We can’t just take on a responsibility like this without giving it a lot of thought.’ She looked at the dog, who was still sitting but with his head now cocked. ‘Suppose you get married and move? What then? Will you take the dog or leave him with me?’

‘Mum! You’re creating difficulties when they haven’t yet arisen. We shan’t be fighting a custody battle if that’s what you’re saying. Oscar can stay here if – and it’s a big if – I ever get married and leave. I’m here to help with the business so I can’t see a problem for the foreseeable future.’

‘Who’s going to walk him?’

Oscar pricked up his ears and stood up, his tail beginning a slow uncertain wag.

‘We aren’t going to argue about that, are we? Look, can I get my stuff inside? Andy’s waiting in the van.’

‘All right.’ Christine bent down and fussed the dog, running her hands over his silky coat, looking into those big brown eyes and knowing that the deed was done. Oscar was staying put. Already she was contemplating a trip into town to get various things for him and she would make a special doggy corner for him in the utility room. He would soon know his place.

‘I know he won’t replace Dad,’ Amy said quietly. ‘How daft. But he will help a bit.’

There in the hall with Andy still patiently waiting outside, they gave each other a hug, Christine feeling the slight tremble of Amy’s body against her. She wanted to say something, to try to explain just why she had been so
disappointed all those years ago. She had wanted a boy first time around and Amy had turned out to be a girl, and a daddy’s girl at that. That initial disappointment had lodged inside and she saw now that she had never given her a chance. She had never quite forgiven her daughter, either, for the childhood accident that had scarred Mike for life. She had never seen so much blood and she still recalled that anxious trip to A&E carrying him in her arms and dragging a sobbing Amy along with her.

It was an accident but it was Frank who swept up the little girl in his arms when they arrived home fussing
her
instead of the wounded soldier. Holding Amy in her arms now, comforting her, she wanted to say something, to try to offer an explanation but there was no need. Amy knew exactly what was what but she smiled as they gently disengaged themselves.

‘Best start unloading or we’ll be here all bloody day.’

They jumped as they heard Andy’s cheery voice – big burly heavily tattooed Andy who took no prisoners – and went outside. Christine quickly saw that Amy had brought along a lot of boxes, stuff that had sat for a long time up in the loft at Snape House, most of which was probably destined to go up there again, moveable rubbish, most of it.

Oscar wandered outside with them. He looked very happy as he set off to explore the garden, busily making his mark everywhere. After they had finished unloading the van, Christine put the kettle on. She was not in the removal business for nothing and she knew that, once that van was empty the next thing on the agenda was a cup of tea.