You Me Everything Page 18

  When I head back outside, I find Becky trying to muster the energy to read The Book With No Pictures to Poppy, while Seb instructs James and Rufus in the art of the pogo stick.

  “You’re a natural.” I smile as he manages three jumps before tumbling into a trough of lavender.

  I sit down next to Becky and offer Poppy some bread. “Fank you, Aunty Jess. You’re a good girl.”

  “Listen, I had an idea,” I tell Becky. “Why don’t you and Seb go on a night out somewhere and I’ll babysit.”

  She looks at me, and her expression melts into one of gratitude and disbelief. “Oh, this is why I love you so much, Jess.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’d leave you with three kids, as well as William. But you are an angel for offering.”

  “Becky, they’ll be fine. I haven’t lost my touch,” I argue.

  “Of course you haven’t. But Poppy would just cry for us all night, James would decimate your makeup collection and I’d spend the evening worrying about what I’m putting you through.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t need to.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she concludes, but I can tell she’s already decided it’s not going to happen. “There is one thing I do need to do though.” She looks up at the door and sighs.

  “What?”

  “Go and make up with Natasha.”

  Chapter 48

  It’s clear that Chloe would rather be having her toenails surgically removed than be on a walk with us. Not that she’s complaining, exactly. Complaining would involve talking, and she’s barely said a thing as she trails behind Charlie and me. William, on the other hand, is determined to make conversation with her.

  “Shall we have a chat?” he suggests eagerly.

  She curls up one side of her top lip. “What about?”

  “Hmm. How about the Black Death?”

  I spin round and smile at her. “That’s quite an offer, you must admit.”

  William scowls at my disloyalty. “Sorry, sweetheart,” I say. “But Chloe probably doesn’t—”

  “What do you know about it, then?” Chloe asks.

  He straightens his back. “Well, it started in 1346 and was spread by rats and killed a third of the people in Europe.”

  “Did you know it made your spleen melt?” she offers.

  He is beyond impressed. “Whoa.”

  Charlie and I exchange a smile. “So what should we talk about—smallpox, perhaps?” I suggest.

  We’ve strayed away from the grounds of the château, into the neighboring meadow, where the grass is long and luxuriant, the air filled with the heady scent of wild orchids. We eventually arrive at a gate that separates two fields, and Charlie stands aside.

  “Go on, kids, you two first.” William and Chloe scramble across effortlessly, and Charlie invites me to go next.

  I’m midway over when I realize he has a close-up view of my backside. But the hesitation proves to be my downfall, and I lose my footing, stumbling into a straddle with an accompanying “OOF!”

  “Everything all right?”

  I nod and smile speechlessly as the kids stride ahead. Eventually, we reach an open field laced with lush, green oak trees, and I become aware of Charlie leaning into me. When I look up he whispers, “You look gorgeous today.”

  “Stop it—you’re making me blush,” I reply, sticking to my lifelong instinct to diffuse all compliments with a joke.

  “I’m serious,” he perseveres, looking way too determined again, particularly given the proximity of our children.

  I cough and try to change the subject. “Is Chloe enjoying the holiday?”

  He takes the hint and straightens up. “She seems to be, when she’s not complaining about being bored senseless.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “I think she’d prefer to be in Orlando, if the truth be told,” he says.

  “Orlando is brilliant.”

  “You’ve been?”

  “Once. William and I went when he was six, with my ex, Toby. I hadn’t expected to like it, but I was hooked instantly. I’m a sad Disney freak. Toby hated it. I don’t think everyone feels at home in the sort of place where they break into song on every other corner, do they?”

  “I must admit, I can relate to that. So why didn’t it work out with him?”

  “Aside from our differences over the Magic Kingdom, you mean?”

  He awaits something less flippant.

  “It fizzled out, mainly,” I say. “We were never head over heels in love. It was all very amicable.”

  “Had William not minded you seeing someone who wasn’t his dad?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Adam and I split up when William was very little, so he’s never known any different. And Toby was never really a father figure to William. What about you and Chloe’s mum?”

  “Chloe definitely has a problem with the fact that we’re not together.”

  “Ah.”

  “Unfortunately, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about that.” I don’t say anything, but he continues talking. “Gina—that’s Chloe’s mum—works as a flight attendant. I’d trusted her 100 percent despite the rumors you hear about affairs among airline staff. One day my car battery went flat, and I had to borrow hers to get to work. I opened the boot and found an empty bottle of champagne. When I asked her about it, she said she’d had a lunch with the girls a week or so earlier and had brought it back with her.”

  “Sounds feasible.”

  “Then I discovered her second mobile.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I know, what a cliché.”

  He goes on to tell a tale of woe featuring a string of sordid revelations: a pilot who revealed she’d slept with half the airline, Jacuzzi parties in hotel stops and even, according to another member of the cabin crew, an incident in the cockpit that involved her playing with a set of controls that had nothing to do with the plane. She finally confessed to an affair after a friend who worked at his law firm spotted her in a pub in Chester, kissing another man.

  “What hurt most was that she’d lied,” he says. “I knew deep down that things were going on, but she continued to deny it, until the truth was overwhelming. She pushed me to my limits.”

  “Until you were left no choice but to end it.” Then I glance away, deciding I don’t want to explain that I’ve been there myself.

  “Actually, I was prepared to forgive her.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but she wanted to go anyway.”

  I suddenly want to say something to lighten the mood. I lean in and whisper, “She sounds like a complete cow.”

  He laughs. “Thank you. That makes me feel a lot better.”

  The slope of the ground begins to rise steeply, and my thighs burn as we march upwards. “We should reach the lake just over this hill. Come on, kids.” Chloe and William have slipped behind and have stopped talking about airborne diseases to grumble about why we’re putting them through this ordeal. The final strides up the hill make my legs burn. Charlie reaches down and grabs me by the hand, helping me up. “The view’s tremendous,” he says.

  And it is: verdant rolling countryside, a glittering lake, water like glass until a bird swoops down to the surface, setting off a ripple of perfect circles. The air is hot and quiet, there is no breeze and the only movement is from the silent beat of a butterfly as it flutters past. I’m momentarily mesmerized by the creature, by its silky cerulean wings shimmering in the sunlight.

  Then I register the figure at the jetty on the edge of the lake.

  Adam is lying on his back, wearing only a pair of shorts, his head propped up on a T-shirt or sweatshirt, or something. His chest is bare, and he is reading a paperback.

  The sight of him prompts a rush of memories that nearly sweep me off my f
eet: of the days when we’d cycle to the park together in the summer and lie under the shelter of the sky, reading side by side, pausing between chapters to wrap ourselves in each other, stealing kisses.

  “Hey, it’s Dad!” William shouts. “DAD!”

  He skips down the hill towards Adam, who pulls himself up and starts laughing at the sight of his son hurtling in his direction. William throws his arms round his father like he hasn’t seen him for months, and Adam squeezes him back, before inviting him to sit down. I watch them for a few private moments, as my head rushes with senseless, unwelcome thoughts about what might have been.

  Chapter 49

  Nobody becomes a parent expecting to be thanked for it.

  So when William produces a small, fragrant bouquet of lilacs for me the following day, I’m almost speechless.

  “You bought me flowers?” I take them from him incredulously. “When did you get them?”

  “When I was with Dad this morning. But they were paid for out of my own money,” he adds hastily.

  “But why?” I feel so touched by this that he almost looks worried.

  “He said you’d like them. He said they were your favorites and that it’d be a good way of showing that I loved you.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s so gorgeous.” I can’t resist throwing my arms round him and pulling his bony torso briefly into me. He rewards me with a perfunctory squeeze.

  “Can I go now?”

  “Go where?”

  “Nowhere, you’re just nearly strangling me.”

  I’m not sure where Adam got the idea these were my favorites—I haven’t bought enough flowers to have anything as luxurious as a favorite, at least not recently. William shoots off to his bedroom as I go to the sink and find a blue-and-white enamel jug in the cupboard. I fill it with water and arrange the lilacs, before taking it to the table.

  For all Adam’s faults, he was forever giving gifts, small tokens of love and friendship that showed he was glad you were in his life. He didn’t limit it to me either. I remember us being in London about a year after we’d started seeing each other. We stopped in to browse round Liberty in Soho, and he picked up one of their classic ties, in dark blue printed silk.

  “This has got your dad’s name written all over it,” Adam decided. It was true that my dad loved a good tie. He’s still got a huge collection that takes up far too much room in his wardrobe.

  “Look at the price, Adam,” I said. “I’ll put it on his Christmas list.”

  “No, it’s okay. I’ll get this,” he decided, and marched off to the cash desk before I could argue.

  Sometimes this could be infuriating—I’d be losing sleep over how we were going to stop the gas being cut off, and he’d roll up with a new bracelet for me that he’d seen in some antique shop. And while part of me wanted to hit him over the head, the other part simply loved the bracelet and everything it represented.

  Adam is hosting a barbecue at his cottage for us all tonight, except Natasha, who’s gone out with Joshua. He arrived to pick her up half an hour ago, sweeping her out of the cottage in a cloud of overpowering cologne while he regaled her with a story about how he’d gallantly just corrected a former colleague’s punctuation on Facebook, saving him further embarrassment.

  I head to the bedroom to get ready, and though it shouldn’t be hard, I can’t find anything I want to wear. The prospect of sitting next to Simone in her hot pants doesn’t help.

  I settle on a flimsy floral cami, which I find still stuffed in my suitcase, and, failing to locate an iron in the cottage, I am forced to contemplate other ingenious ways to get the creases out of it. It’s as I’m running Natasha’s hair straighteners over the cotton fabric that there’s a knock on the door.

  I unplug them and open it to find Charlie on the step.

  “Oh, hi! How are you?” I say, forcing myself not to look at my watch to check how long I’ve got before we’re due at Adam’s.

  “I’m good.” When I look up, his eyes are so heavy with desire that it makes me feel slightly on edge. It’s as though he’s been thinking of me and rushed straight over. Which I’m of course flattered by, but his gaze is so intense, it makes me shift away an inch.

  “What are you up to?”

  “Well, at the moment I’m trying to work out if I’d be able to iron my top with a pair of hair straighteners.”

  He is silent for a moment as his brow crinkles, genuinely perplexed. “Hair straighteners?”

  “Just kidding,” I mutter lamely.

  He cranes his neck to look behind me, scanning the room. “Anyone else in?”

  “Everyone.”

  His expression is sharp with disappointment. Then he leans in and touches my fingers, clasping them into his hand. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  “READY!” William declares, bursting into the living room.

  I snatch away my hand as Charlie fixes his eyes on me. “Oh. You’re going out.”

  “Only for a barbecue at Adam’s place.”

  “Ah. I was hoping we could persuade William and Chloe to go and play soccer or something so you and I could have a drink.”

  “Oh, what a shame. We could do that another night,” I suggest.

  “I’d like that,” William pipes up.

  The pulse in Charlie’s temple becomes more pronounced.

  “Right. I’ll leave you to it then. Have a good evening.” And he forces a smile that fails entirely to hide his disappointment.

  Chapter 50

  The smoky scent of summer fills the air outside Adam’s stone cottage, as old friends chat over blackberry-colored wine and the children play Frisbee for at least five minutes without wanting to kill one another. We sit around three mismatched wooden tables pushed together, some of us on benches, others on the kind of chairs you sink into, with curved backs and creamy canvas cushions.

  William is stuck fast by his father’s side, yapping away as Adam idly turns burgers. My eyes are drawn to the two of them in the soft amber light, and I find my imagination fast-forwarding ten, maybe twenty years. I picture them shooting the breeze, adult to adult, father and son—and for this to be the norm in their lives, not just what happens during one exceptional summer.

  “There’s a zip line park near Loussou we could go to tomorrow,” Seb says, passing me a guidebook.

  I leaf through it as we try to determine how long it would take us to drive there, when I become aware of Adam behind me. He picks up my glass and starts topping it up.

  “Just a small one for me.”

  “Why?” he asks, filling it to the brim.

  “Oh, if you insist,” I sigh, taking it from him as he sinks into the chair next to me.

  He’s wearing a pale cotton shirt that clings to his chest, sleeves rolled high up his tanned arms. My head swims with the memory of his hand on mine in the woodshed, and an uncomfortable warmth spreads up my neck.

  “Thanks for the flowers,” I say, politely.

  He smiles. “They were William’s idea.”

  “Oh? He said they were yours.”

  “It was a joint effort.”

  “Well, it was a lovely thought. It’s nice to feel appreciated.”

  Then he pauses, lowers his voice and says: “You look nice tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to reply, despite the fact that I am secretly sweating. Having to sit this close to him suddenly feels stifling. “It’ll be the top I’ve just ironed with a pair of hair straighteners.”

  He bursts into laughter, and I feel so grateful that I join in too. “You always were resourceful.”

  “Hi, everyone!” We stop abruptly and turn to Simone. Her navy dress is dotted with tiny snowdrops and cut from a soft fabric that clings seductively to her breasts and skims her tanned thighs. Adam excuses himself to go and greet her. She stands on the tips of her pale ballet pumps, s
lides her arms around his neck and plants a languorous kiss on his lips. I fix my eyes on my wine.

  As the sun sets, Adam brings plate after plate to the table: kebabs sprinkled with fragrant herbs, chicken marinated in garlic and lemon, thick sausages made of pork and duck. There are bowls of chips and colorful salads glistening with sharply scented vinaigrette, and platters of crusty bread.

  We eat until we’re past the point of feeling full and savor every mouthful.

  Despite the heavenly setting, I feel strangely agitated around Simone. Guilty, almost. And I find myself making up for it by trying to involve her in the conversation, complimenting her on her dress, her shoes, how nice of her it is to randomly recommend another of the antiaging creams that her mother swears by.

  Compared with the others, I haven’t drunk a great deal on this holiday—I rarely do. Growing up around Dad was the best anti-binge-drinking campaign I’d ever need. But tonight, my usual glass of wine turned into another and another, all of which amounted to quite a lot more than I’m used to. This becomes acutely apparent when I enthusiastically agree to the children’s requests to join in a wheelbarrow race—and Becky and I find ourselves giggling, facedown on the grass with our respective ten- and seven-year-olds at the start line.

  I can’t claim there’s any dignity in lolloping across a field with your child clutching your ankles and shrieking, “FASTER!” like you’re some kind of geriatric donkey. But it is funny, the kind of distraction from real life—or at least my life—that’s been missing lately.

  We take it easy for an hour or so after that, picking at what’s left of the feast, before the kids become restless again and decide they’d like more audience participation. Adam leaps up, requiring little encouragement. “I think it’s time for a game of something. Cricket or boules, William? Your choice.”

  William doesn’t hesitate. “Boules. Mum’s brilliant at it.”

  I cough into my Bergerac. “I’m not sure I’m brilliant.”

  “I’m sure that’s what you told me once,” William protests. “That you were brilliant.”