You Me Everything Page 6

  A few weeks later, in the dying hours of one January night, I found myself on the sticky dance floor of a nightclub with music thrumming through my sternum and darkness and light blinking in my brain. Becky’s tongue was mostly latched onto a bloke in a Sex Pistols T-shirt as I hovered awkwardly on the sidelines, wondering if I should try to drag her away.

  When I became aware of someone next to me, I looked up and felt my chest erupt. Adam was not a showy dancer, but he moved with instinctive rhythm and a lack of self-awareness. Heat radiated from him as I held my breath, trying not to look at his sleepy eyes, full mouth, the outline of those broad shoulders as they moved underneath his T-shirt. Becky pushed me towards Adam as the opening bars of “Common People” by Pulp pumped out of the speakers.

  He always said afterwards that that was the first moment he saw me—I mean, really saw me: hurtling straight at him while Jarvis Cocker pounded out a line about dancing and drinking and screwing. All three of which suddenly felt like the greatest inventions on earth.

  We didn’t say a thing to each other. Not a single word. He simply took me in his arms as my body throbbed with the music and something else far more potent. For the rest of the night, we danced and we kissed. We did try to talk but couldn’t really hear a word over the sound system, until after the club closed and we walked hand in hand looking for a taxi. It was a bitter, black evening, and I was on fire.

  “I’m doing English lit,” he told me, clearly convinced this was news to me.

  I was embarrassed that I had to spell this out. “Yes, I know. Me too. I’m in a couple of your classes.”

  He was surprised, but I thought I also detected a touch of concern that he was going to have to see me again. I always have been a catastrophist when it comes to Adam.

  But when I walked into our lecture theatre the following Monday, I felt a tap on the shoulder and turned to find him smiling at me. “Hi. Can I sit next to you?” he asked.

  And that was the start of everything.

  * * *

  —

  In the first three years we were together, I really was happy. Broke, but definitely happy. We both were.

  With no real family ties of his own, Adam followed me home to Manchester after we graduated, before we moved into a small, sparsely furnished flat in Salford. It overlooked the spot where MediaCityUK now sits, the buzzing state-of-the-art metropolis that houses the BBC, ITV and a host of glittering bars and restaurants. At the time, it was a car park. But we didn’t need a view. We had each other, and that was more than enough.

  I embarked on a yearlong course to qualify as a lecturer, while Adam, who’d strolled away from university with one of the highest marks in the course, became a graduate trainee at an energy company. We had a great social circle. As well as reigniting old friendships from my childhood, I met new people at my program. Meanwhile, Becky and her boyfriend Seb, who I’d assumed would stay in Edinburgh, were instead offered jobs in Manchester and relocated.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before Adam’s enthusiasm for his work began to wane. I only recognize this with hindsight; at the time I barely noticed it. I’m not even sure he did. Life in those days was all about the two of us. It was a heady time, when I’d wake every day to a freshly made cup of tea and the warmth of his mouth on my neck.

  “Why don’t you come back to bed?” I murmured one morning from underneath the sheets. He was clean-shaven and ready for work, looking sharp and tasting sublime.

  “Because I’m meant to be in at 8:45 a.m. for a staff meeting.”

  “Okay,” I said, forcing my arms to my side.

  “I could be persuaded to be late though,” he whispered, kissing me on the lips.

  “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “Well, the trains are terrible these days.” He grinned as he took off his jacket and crawled back onto the bed and into my arms.

  He didn’t even rush away afterwards, refusing to dart off and miss the dreamy postcoital chat we would always steal between kisses. The one in which Adam would always want to talk about the future. Hardly ever the present, and certainly not the past, for reasons that only became apparent later.

  “Where shall we go and live after you’ve finished your course?”

  “Oh, somewhere glamorous . . . Burnley?” I suggested.

  He laughed. “I can’t wait.”

  “Though . . . New York could be good too,” I offered.

  “God, it would. What about France? Or Italy?”

  “They’re all expensive.”

  “Yes, but we could buy a wreck of a house together and do it up. Somewhere that had been neglected for centuries and just needed a bit of TLC. I’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would, Adam,” I told him, truthfully. “Though I’d miss our friends.”

  “Oh, we’d be all right anywhere as long as we had each other,” he said dismissively.

  “You old romantic,” I murmured sarcastically, but actually, I’d thought he meant it.

  Chapter 14

  The labyrinthine streets of Sarlat hold a timeless fascination that, in the height of the summer, everyone seems to want to discover. The medieval town buzzes with activity, its caramel courtyards and elegant central square filled with the scent of freshly baked bread, potent cheeses and thick black coffee.

  William and I find ourselves there on our third day of sightseeing, threading through the throngs, past mansions and café terraces.

  “This is a little market, apparently. At certain times of year they sell nothing but truffles,” I say, looking up from my guidebook as we stumble across a covered corner of the town trading in gourmet fare, arranged in endless small baskets on large trestles. William throws me a skeptical look, and I must admit, of all the things in my life I’ve ever felt the need to purchase, truffles aren’t high on the list.

  Yet somehow, it’s surprisingly easy to sleepwalk into spending the equivalent of twenty-two pounds on a piece of fungus, before stepping out and realizing you might as well have bought half a tennis ball for all the culinary use you’re likely to make of it.

  This becomes immaterial anyway when we stop for a coffee and two gooey gâteaux aux noix in one of the pretty street cafés, where I manage to leave my purchase under the table in its little brown paper bag. I realize my error ten minutes after we’ve left, but when I drag William back, the table has been taken by two debonair-looking gentlemen, whose dog is merrily lunching on my tuber.

  Given that nowhere on my audio download did they teach you how to say, Your poodle is eating my truffle, I decide not to make an issue of it and instead slip away.

  There are several other attractive towns we could visit afterwards, but it is painfully obvious that even William—whose earliest party trick was reciting the wives of Henry VIII in order—has little appetite for another medieval church.

  “Have you got my iPad in your bag?” he asks idly.

  “You mean my iPad. Yes, it’s here.”

  He perks up. “Shall we go and get lunch?”

  “You mean shall we go somewhere with a Wi-Fi connection so you can play Clash of Clans?”

  “Well, can we?”

  “Come on,” I concede, resting my arm on his skinny shoulder blade as we meander down the cobbled street.

  “What about this place?” William says, clearly desperate to get to his game. But the café does look nice—they all do—with huge umbrellas the color of double cream, shading rows of little tables from the sun.

  I can’t deny that Adam’s absence from these day trips has started to bother me. His vaguely promised activities have yet to materialize and are showing no signs of doing so. Instead, he’s been permanently dashing from one part of the estate to the other, picking up supplies or attending meetings with unspecified but very important people.

  William hasn’t complained about this, which worries m
e in itself. He’s become too used to low-level disappointment and lack of effort from his father. And while I understand that it’s peak season, after driving 825 miles I don’t think it’s too much to have hoped for. This is particularly the case when I’ve left my mother back home, with Dad doing everything he can, as she loses grasp of her old self little by little.

  None of this gives me comfort for the future. I keep trying to imagine scenarios that involve Adam stepping in to do the things other dads would do as their sons grow up. Driving William to university, or helping him move into his first flat. Somehow, I just can’t see it.

  I already feel like I’m letting Mum down, to the extent that I actually found myself fibbing when I spoke to Dad on the phone last night.

  It was the first phone call I’d made home since we arrived, though Dad and I have exchanged innumerable texts. He keeps asking if I’m “relaxing,” to which I reply: “Yes, absolutely!” It’s easier for both of us to keep up the charade, I think. But last night I needed to hear the sound of his voice, even if I’ve heard him tell me a dozen times that nothing will change dramatically just because I’m here. He’s probably right—my mum’s body and brain have been ravaged over years, not weeks.

  By the time William and I return to Château de Roussignol, it’s gone three o’clock and Adam is nowhere to be seen. I bump into Simone, who tells me that he’s been called to a meeting in Salignac but should be back later. “Would you like me to give him a message?”

  I think carefully before answering. “It’d just be good if he could let us know when he can do the activities he’s promised William.” Her smile flickers as my son looks up expectantly.

  “I’m sure I heard him say earlier that he had something good planned,” she says brightly, and I can almost see her nose growing several centimeters longer. “In the meantime, I’ve organized a soccer match for the older children that starts soon—William, why don’t you join in? And Jess: there’s aqua aerobics in the pool if you fancy that? It’d be right up your street.”

  “William’s not really into soccer, are you, sweetheart?” I turn to look at him and realize the color of his cheeks has deepened slightly.

  “I’ll give it a go,” he mumbles. “You go to the aquathingy, Mum. I know you like that kind of stuff.” And I know when someone wants to get rid of me.

  * * *

  —

  Not long afterwards, I am standing in the pool waiting for the aqua aerobics session, and I’d estimate that I am approximately half a century younger than the average participant.

  There are only five others, but they’re in their seventies and eighties, except for the sweet lady directly in front of me with a humpback, who could possibly have seen the Boer War. Once the class starts, the most athletic move we undertake involves bouncing gently up and down on the spot to a French cover version of “Eye of the Tiger.” This is all done while a woman, who is positively juvenile at about sixty, stands at the side of the pool in a retina-burning pink combo, sweating profusely and looking as though she might keel over at any moment.

  I quickly decide I’m going to slink out of the pool. But when I’m halfway out, the teacher presses pause on her music system and starts shouting at me in French.

  “Pardon?!” I offer.

  “She wants her float back.”

  I spin round to see the guy from the cottage opposite ours, the one half of Hampson Browne. He points to the blue polystyrene in my hand. “Oh, sorry. Pardon!” I repeat, placing it on the side of the pool, before skulking away.

  “I’m not sure you quite looked at home with that group.”

  I sit down on the lounger next to him, where I’d left my towel. He’s surrounded by papers but has lost his office pallor after a couple of days in the sun, and it’s had a dramatic effect. He looks almost outdoorsy.

  “I’ll stick to running in the future,” I say, pulling the towel up my chest self-consciously.

  “There’s a good trail if you head around the lake. It’s about three miles, so not too much.”

  I wonder exactly how unfit I look. “Great. I’ll go round twice then.” He laughs. I feel like an idiot. I am an idiot.

  “Well, I need to go and see if my son has finished his soccer match,” I say, standing up. “It’s nice when they lift their heads up out of a computer game, so I’m making the most of it.”

  “Let me guess: teenager?”

  “Not yet—he’s ten.”

  “Well, you’ve got lots of fun to come. I say this as the father of a fourteen-year-old girl.”

  “I feel your pain. Though I met your daughter yesterday, and she was absolutely charming.”

  A hint of fatherly pride appears at the side of his mouth. “She’s not bad, Chloe, is she? Especially when she smiles or has an actual conversation, which happens every couple of weeks or so.”

  “I’m Jess.” I offer him my hand, and he reaches out to shake it.

  “Charlie. Very nice to meet you. So I can tell you’re British, but where is it you’re from?”

  “Manchester,” I say, which leads to ten minutes of small talk about how much development is currently happening in the city and which gigs we’ve been to at the Etihad Stadium . . . before we manage to work out that his office is very close to where I live.

  “That’s a lovely area,” he says. “Good for families.”

  “Yes, William and I like it.”

  A beat passes. “You’re not married?”

  I shake my head.

  “Me neither,” he replies. And my stomach flips. Partly because of the way he looks at me. Partly with surprise that I’ve still got it in me to like it.

  Chapter 15

  On Saturday morning, it’s raining. I curl up on the sofa in my pajamas, clutching my knees to my chest and nursing a coffee as trails of water snake down the glass. It echoes my mood, the things I can’t just forget despite being in a pretty place, surrounded by glorious flowers, food and wine.

  There is a sharp bang on the window, and I look up to see Adam. Before I have a chance to move, William is out of his bedroom and inviting him in.

  “Fancy a dip?” he asks William.

  “Okay!”

  “Right, you’ll need trainers, shorts and a towel.”

  “Trainers?” I ask, bewildered. “Why does he need shoes in the swimming pool?”

  Adam turns and grins at me. “Who mentioned a swimming pool?”

  * * *

  —

  Two hours later, the rain gives way to what must count as the coldest Dordogne day since records began. Under the dubious care of a guide called Enzo, we plod a short distance up a mountain pathway and find ourselves in front of a waterfall that’s flowing fast enough to cover our faces in a mist of white spray. We’re wearing wet suits, shin pads and helmets, none of which belongs on a holiday as far as I’m concerned.

  “Did you remember William has a history of asthma?” I say to Adam.

  “He’ll be fine,” he replies, dismissively.

  I frown. “How do you know he’ll be fine?”

  He beckons William over. “How long is it since he’s needed an inhaler? He was in nappies, wasn’t he?”

  I decide not to answer, watching as Adam checks the fastening on William’s helmet. “But, look at it. Seriously, Adam. This can’t be suitable for a ten-year-old.”

  He turns to Enzo, who’s shorter than I am, with darkly tanned skin and shoulders like a Lego figure. They have a conversation in French that I completely fail to follow. “Enzo confirms that it’s fine,” Adam tells me.

  “Enzo can’t be trusted,” I mutter under my breath.

  Enzo grins at me. “You trust me, no worry. I look after your son.”

  I nod and bite the knuckle on my thumb.

  “Mum, I’m not scared,” William pipes up. “Besides, you’re coming with us, aren’t you? You’ll
be able to keep an eye on me if you’re worried.”

  This is the other issue. I don’t want to be coming with them. I’d rather be doing virtually anything than this: filling in a tax return, paying off a parking ticket, having a Pap smear. Any of those would be tremendous fun by comparison. Because while I know that scrambling up rocks and sliding on your back down waterfalls is some people’s idea of heaven—the kind of activity you see people doing in muesli adverts—it really isn’t my sort of thing.

  I glance at William, who doesn’t look at all unsettled by the prospect of full-body plunges into icy water, or the potential for injury or—as the disclaimer form I’ve just signed highlighted cheerily—DEATH. Judging by the way his cheeks are flushed with quivering excitement, the likelihood of my persuading him to drop everything to come and do a nice brass rubbing at the nearest fourteenth-century cathedral seems remote.

  “La première chose à faire, c’est d’entrer dans l’eau comme ça, tout doucement, pour éviter une crise cardiaque,” Enzo says.

  Adam bursts out laughing.

  “What’s he saying?” I grimace, tapping Adam on the shoulder as Enzo sinks into the first pool.

  “He said get in. But it might be cold.” Adam sits down in the water, up to his waist, and doesn’t flinch. I follow suit, subjecting my lady bits to an experience so horribly freezing and deeply unpleasant that I’m convinced it’ll be days before I thaw out.

  “Vous me remercierez de vous avoir avertis,” Enzo declares, as I look at Adam for a translation.

  “He says you’ll thank him for this.”

  Before I get a chance to ask for what, Enzo starts swinging his leg backwards and forward like a psychopath, kicking icy water in my face—sending it up my nose, into my eyes, taking my breath away. When he finally stops, I realize that if I wasn’t in such shock I’d be weeping. William and Adam, who’ve also been drenched, are both squealing with laughter.