Breaking and Entering (7 page)

‘Well, I'd better have a Pernod, I suppose.' He hated the stuff, especially before a meal. But the alternative was Perrier, and he needed something stronger than mere water. He was nowhere near relaxed yet; felt overdressed among this casual crowd, and aware that they were still attracting glances. There was no doubt about it: neither he, nor most of the people here, had ever seen hair quite so flagrant.

‘I'm having
Pineau de Charentes
,' Penny said, pronouncing it all wrong. ‘I don't know what it is, but it's a different P from yours and Pip's, and that's one of the rules. We've all got to have different Ps, right on through the menu.'

Daniel found to his surprise that he was willing to obey. He usually made the rules himself, at least on matters of food. ‘Ps in French or Ps in English?' he asked. Whoever made them, rules always needed clarifying.

‘Ps in French,' said Penny, ‘since the menu's all in French. But you'll have to do the translating.'

‘Well, we could all start with
potage
,' he suggested. ‘But each have a different kind.'

‘What's
potage
?'

‘Soup. And as it happens there are three soups on today – fish soup, vegetable, and leek.'

‘No, that's cheating,' Penny said. ‘They're still all soup. I want pâté anyway, and Pip won't have a starter. She'll never manage three courses.'

‘I will!'

‘I'll give you some of my pâté, then.'

‘What is it?' Pippa up-ended the pepper-pot, showering pepper over her hands.

‘Sort of liver-sausage stuff.'

She made a face. ‘I hate liver.'

‘It's not liver. It's cold, not hot, and squidgy.'

‘Can I have chips with it?'

‘No, they don't begin with P.'

‘Yes they do,' said Daniel. ‘
Pomtnes frites
. And you can have peas as well –
petits pois
. And do you like fish?'

Pippa shook her head, still nervous when he spoke to her.

‘That's a pity. Because fish begins with P.'

‘No it doesn't,' she corrected him. ‘It begins with F.'

‘Yes, F for fish. But P for
poisson
. When you want to order fish in France, you ask for
p
–
p
–
poisson
.' He stressed the initial Ps, remembering how he'd been taught himself, at his nursery school in Lusaka – well, hardly a real nursery school, just a group of other children's mothers, who'd had less to do than his.

‘
P
–
p
–
poisson
,' Pippa repeated solemnly.

‘That's right! You've got a really good French accent. Now say chips.'

‘Chips.'

‘No, in French.
P
–
p
–
pommes frites
.'

‘
P
–
p
–
pommes frites
.'

Daniel lit a cigarette, reached out for the ashtray. The child was a natural, or at least a skilful mimic. What other talents might she have, he wondered, and would they ever reach fruition? It was like his Africans again: potential going to waste. ‘You ought to get someone to teach her, Penny. She'd pick it up in no time.'

‘Someone
is
teaching her,' Penny retorted with a grin. ‘And perhaps you could teach me, while you're about it. It's so frustrating being in France and not understanding a word.'

‘Right. Jump in at the deep end and have a go at ordering the drinks –
un Pepsi, un pastis, et un Pineau de Charentes, s'il vous plaît
.'

‘Hold it! You're going far too fast! I'll never remember that lot.'

‘
I
want to do it,' Pippa shouted. ‘Let me, let me!'

‘Okay.' He slowed his voice. ‘
Un P
–
P
–
Pepsi, s'il vous plaît
.'

Pippa's brow was creased in concentration, the pepper-pot forgotten, her whole attention focused on his lips. ‘
Un P
–
P
–
Pepsi, s' il vous plaît
.'

‘Perfect. Now all we have to do is find a waiter.' He waved his arm, annoyed when no one noticed. He preferred the sort of place where his drink arrived without him even asking.

‘
I'll
wave!' Pippa clambered up on her seat and started semaphoring wildly with both arms. She seemed to have lost her initial shyness, though she subsided pretty quickly when a swarthy man strode up to her and bowed in mock-servility.

‘
Qui, mademoiselle
?' he drawled.

‘
P
–
p
–
poisson
,' struggled Pippa.

Daniel and Penny laughed. ‘No, that's fish,' said Daniel. He noticed how the child's face was as expressive as her mother's. She looked totally deflated, her triumph turned to shame. ‘Don't worry,' he assured her. ‘You were very clever to remember the word at all. Now start again, okay?
Un P
–
P
–
Pepsi, s'il vous plaît.
'

‘
Un P
–
P
–
Pepsi, s'il vous plaît
.'

Penny sat fidgeting with her bracelets, cheap plastic bangles in shades of pink and mauve. ‘They'll go mad at her nursery school if she keeps repeating all her Ps like that. They'll think she's started to stutter.'

Daniel didn't answer. He had stuttered himself as a child, though not until the age of seven, when he'd been sent away to boarding-school. He banished the dark memory, ordered his and Penny's drinks, then began rehearsing conversations in his head. He ought to be making an effort to entertain this girl, but was unsure where to start. It wasn't easy to embark on idle chit-chat, with the shadow of her husband's desertion looming over them both. And anyway he'd never had the gift of the gab, nor André's knack for polished opening gambits. He could ask about her life, perhaps, but questions might sound nosy – a form of inquisition – and they'd probably all lead back to Phil, and cause her more distress. He often felt uptight himself when people started closing in with their ‘Where do you live's?' and ‘What do you do's?'; usually felt his answers were inadequate. But why should he assume that Penny was like him, when she was patently a different type entirely: much more free and forthright, more inclined to open up. She might jump at the chance to talk about herself, especially now, when she had no other adult company.

‘Er … do you work at all?' he enquired. Jobs were fairly safe, and she'd just mentioned Pippa's nursery school, so she might well work, with her daughter off her hands.

‘Actually, that's rather a sore point. You see I've been doing really dreary things like dishing out the pizzas in a takeaway, and cleaning my sister's house for her, then feeling sort of restive and frustrated. I'm not qualified for anything much, so I suppose I shouldn't complain. But I can't help wishing I could find a job that's – you know – more inspiring. I've always wanted to go to art school, but Phil says it's too late.'

‘Too late?' he echoed. She looked about eighteen, though with a child of four, that wasn't very likely.

‘Most people go straight from school, so I suppose he's got a point. The maddening thing is, I was accepted myself when I was only sixteen and a half – offered a place on the foundation course at Wimbledon School of Art. I was over the moon about it. I'd spent all my spare time drawing, filling loads of sketchbooks to impress them at the interview, but …' She shrugged, slipped one bangle off her wrist and started twisting it round and round between her fingers. ‘I'm afraid the interview was as far as it ever got. The course itself never happened – like a lot of other things. I mean, you probably won't believe this, but I've never been abroad before.'

He did find it hard to believe. Surely everyone went abroad these days, if only on package tours? He'd spent half his childhood traipsing from pillar to post, and still travelled for his job: long-haul trips to Kenya at least three times a year.

Penny removed a second bangle, laid one on top of the other on the table. ‘My mother was widowed in her thirties – left with four small girls, but not much else. So we never really went away, except to stay with relatives, or odd trips to the seaside. Then I married very early, and Phil had this thing about the Norfolk Broads. He'd stayed there in his childhood, you see, so it had very happy memories for him, and he liked playing at being a ten-year-old again. He also bought a share in a boat, which tied us down, in a way, prevented us ever going anywhere new. I wonder if Khadisha likes boats,' she added, with an unconvincing laugh.

‘
I
like boats,' said Pippa, grabbing the two bracelets and slipping them on her own wrist.

‘Yes, I know you do, pet. Remember that day you fell into the river and ruined your new shoes?'

‘I'm hungry,' the child said fractiously, dismissing boats and shoes.

Daniel opened the menu again, reminded of his duties. They hadn't even ordered yet and he'd been remiss about the translating. ‘Well,' he said, flicking swiftly through the
entrées
. ‘There seem to be a lot of Ps to choose from for the main course.
Poulet
– chicken.
Pot-au-feu
– that's a sort of casserole with beef and vegetables.
Pore, pigeons, pieds de cochon
.'

‘What's that last one?' Penny asked.

‘Pig's feet.'

‘You can't eat feet,' said Pippa.

‘You can,' said Daniel. ‘People do in France.'

‘With shoes and socks on?' Pippa asked, her eyes opening even wider.

‘Well, I'm not sure about the shoes.
We
couldn't have them anyway, because they don't begin with P.'

‘Pigs are my favourite animals.' Pippa had regained her confidence and was almost flirting with him now, head tipped to one side, pink tongue-tip poised between her lips.

‘Well, in that case,' Daniel said, ‘perhaps you shouldn't eat them.'

‘I'm having chips, not pigs.'

‘Yes, that's right –
pommes frites
. But you can have something else as well.'

‘Ice-cream!' she yelled, eyeing the exotic-looking contents of a tall glass sundae dish, which had just been whisked past on a tray.

‘I'm afraid that begins with G –
la glace
. But if you wouldn't mind a peach with it, and some delicious raspberry sauce, then you could have a
P
–
P
–
Pêche Melba
.'

‘What's a P–P– …?'

‘Look, pipe down, you two,' Penny ordered, raising her eyes to heaven in a pretence of irritation. ‘Here come the drinks – at last!'

Daniel subsided, astonished at himself. He was talking to a child and actually enjoying it; teaching her, diverting her, had even made her laugh. And all without a drink. He sipped his Pernod, which tasted almost tolerable, consulted the wine list again. They'd be limited to P-wines: Pouilly Fuissé, Pomerol … No, wait a minute, he'd promised something fizzy – well, not exactly promised, but it would still be rather fun. He ran his finger down the list of sparkling wines, dismayed to see there wasn't a single one of them beginning with a P – only champagne, and that would break the bank. Perhaps the whole idea was over the top, and they should stick to fizzy water. After all, these girls had nothing to celebrate. Even apart from the crisis in her marriage, Penny's life seemed sad and rather constrained: the cloistered childhood, the talent unfulfilled. He presumed her widowed mother had insisted that she earn her living the minute she left school, rather than ‘waste her time' on art. How different their two backgrounds were: five females in her household, and a dearth of education, whereas he'd been pitchforked into prep school with no women but the butch and brutish matron, and had still been knee-deep in his studies at the age of twenty-four.

Almost absent-mindedly he took a large swig of his drink, instantly recoiling at its kick. He had forgotten quite how powerful Pernod was. It might be wiser to lay off the wine, with a busy afternoon ahead, or he'd be floundering through the rest of the day in an alcoholic haze.

He cursed himself for remembering work, aware now of the fact that they'd been sitting here a good twenty minutes and hadn't even got as far as ordering their food. He was normally back in the office by two – if he left at all. On busy days, lunch was just a coffee at his desk. Thank God he'd told his colleagues he was calling on his mother, having already filled them in on last night's little crisis. If he was still shovelling in peach Melba at half past three or four, they'd assume poor Madame Hughson had taken a turn for the worse.

Pippa looked up from her Pepsi which she was gulping through two straws. ‘Where's Daddy?' she asked suddenly.

Despite the surrounding hubbub, the silence was disquieting. Penny hadn't answered, but her face had changed again – defensive now and bleak.

‘You said we were going to see him,' the child insisted, crumpling one of her straws.

‘Yes, we … are. Quite soon.'

‘Where is he, then?'

‘I told you, darling, he's having a little holiday.'

‘But why didn't we go with him?'

‘He … he had to leave earlier than us. But we've come to Paris to find him.'

Daniel watched the child's expression – confusion and anxiety. The green eyes met his own again, appeared to be trying to make sense of him.

‘Does
he
know where my Daddy is?' she whispered to her mother.

Penny chewed her lemon-slice, then sat studying her glass.

This second silence was longer. Images from the earthquake in Armenia started seeping slowly into it from some corner of his mind. He and Georges and André had been discussing the disaster before they left for lunch, but only now did its full impact really hit him – the demolished homes and devastated families. One of the child-victims had been photographed in close-up; a kid of roughly Pippa's age, sobbing for its parents.