Thirty-seven
M attie had been excited about coming home and had chatted all the way in the cab and into the house, but she fell completely silent when she entered the garden and surveyed the tableau before her. In the sunlit, rejuvenating garden sat the pretty blue bench, with its welcoming cushions, under the flowering wisteria. Beside it was a table with three lovely flower-patterned teacups and small plates, which Marc-Antoine had found this morning in a second-hand shop around the corner from his office. The musical call of a wood pigeon provided a soft soundtrack to the scene.
‘My darling children,’ Mattie said at last, ‘it is the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time. You have made an old woman so very happy.’ She held out her arms, embracing them both tightly. Releasing them after a moment, she said cheerfully, ‘You do realise you are going to have trouble getting me to go back into the house now, don’t you?’
Emma laughed. ‘We can stay out here all afternoon if you like.’
And they did, sitting together on that very comfortable bench, eating divine strawberries and macarons, washed down with fragrant Lady Grey tea—the champagne, they’d decided, could wait for Charlotte—and talking about everything and nothing, while the wood pigeon kept up its nostalgic tune.
When Charlotte arrived a couple of hours later and was ushered by Marc-Antoine into the garden, she caught her breath, feeling as though she’d wandered into a painting. An unfinished one, yes, with ragged edges and brush strokes that weren’t quite defined yet, but with a vitality that you could already see. The focus of this painting was the bench, and the two women sitting on it, their heads close together, completely absorbed in looking at a large old photograph album they held across their laps. Mattie’s silver hair was loosely held back with a tortoiseshell clip, and beside her, Emma’s hair was shining with mellow lights in the sun.
Charlotte almost felt reluctant to intrude, not wanting to break the spell of this lovely moment. She met Marc-Antoine’s glance and saw that he was smiling. ‘I daren’t take a photo,’ he whispered, ‘but it’s certainly worth one, isn’t it?’
Mattie and Emma looked up, their eyes widening as they saw what Charlotte was holding. Then there were warm greetings, and happy exclamations over the flowers and what Arielle had said about them, before Marc-Antoine went to get a couple of chairs from the kitchen, as well as champagne, and a non-alcoholic sparkling wine for Mattie, who wasn’t allowed alcohol just yet. ‘Time for a toast,’ he said, pouring the wine into four flute glasses, and handing one to each of them. Raising his own glass, he said, ‘To good health!’ and they toasted it.
‘To joy!’ said Emma, smiling, and they all clinked glasses again.
‘To hope and new beginnings!’ Charlotte said, her thoughts fizzing like the champagne, and they all drank to that.
Then Marc-Antoine said, firmly, ‘We definitely need a photo,’ and Emma and Charlotte arranged themselves behind Mattie on the bench while he put the timer on his camera phone.
‘Another toast!’ Emma said, as he scurried back to join them before the timer went off.
‘To flowers and squirrels!’ said Marc-Antoine, and they all laughed as they raised their glasses, so that the camera captured their faces filled with silly, wonderful merriment.
As they trickled back to their seats, Charlotte knew this was the right moment. ‘Arielle made a suggestion,’ she said, looking directly at Emma. ‘What if I call Eric first? I knew him, long ago, and he knows I was Corinne’s friend, so it might help to break the ice. I’ll just say that you are Corinne’s daughter. But I will tell him I met up with Pascal. He’ll know then that I know he and your mother were together once upon a time. What do you think?’
Emma held her breath. She could read in Mattie and Marc-Antoine’s expressions that they thought it was a good idea. But they wouldn’t make the decision for her. She had to take that final leap herself. And suddenly, she knew she was ready. Exhaling, she pulled out her phone and sent Charlotte the numbers.
Marc-Antoine put an arm around her, and Mattie took her hand, while Charlotte tapped out the first mobile number, putting the phone on speaker.
It rang, and rang, and rang. And then, just as they thought it would ring out altogether, a voice spoke. ‘Hello. Eric Perrin here. Who is this?’
His voice was deep, mellow, with a trace of some regional accent Emma couldn’t place. Marc-Antoine’s arm tightened around her as she gave an involuntary shiver.
‘Hello, Eric,’ said Charlotte.
How could she sound so composed , Emma thought, my throat would have seized up!
‘This is Charlotte Marigny. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met long ago, when we were kids, in the Morvan.’
There was a moment of silence before he said, ‘Charlotte! I remember. You were Corinne’s friend.’
Had his voice sounded different when he said her mother’s name? Emma thought she’d heard an inflection, something … But he hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t stammered. He hadn’t been uncertain at all.
‘That’s right,’ Charlotte said. She seemed a little uncertain herself now, as if she hadn’t expected his directness or his lack of questions. ‘A friend of mine showed me some photos of a visit she’d made to your neighbour’s bee farm and I recognised you. So—well, she passed on your number, and here we are.’
There was the hint of a smile in his voice. ‘Here we are.’
‘How are you?’
‘Well,’ he said. ‘You?’
‘Very well.’ Charlotte rushed on. ‘Look, Eric, I know this is completely out of the blue, but Corinne’s daughter is over from Australia, staying with her grandmother in Paris, and we’ve been talking about old times. I’ve been in touch with Pascal too, and—’
‘Corinne’s daughter is here?’ Eric interrupted sharply, the tone of his voice changing. ‘But what about Corinne?’
Charlotte hesitated. And in that moment, Emma knew that the time for delegation was over. She gestured to Charlotte to indicate she’d speak, then took a deep breath and said, ‘Hello, Monsieur Perrin. I’m Emma, Corinne’s daughter. And I’m very sorry to inform you that my—that my mother died a couple of months ago.’
‘Oh my God.’ The phrase was a whisper. A beat of time, then he said, ‘I wish …’ He broke off before going on, ‘It was a long time ago, and everything is different now, but once we were very close. I am so very sorry to know she is gone.’
‘Monsieur Perrin, may I perhaps come and visit you some day?’
The genuine depth of feeling in his voice had given Emma courage. She was turning the key and she would go through the door, no matter what she found when she was on the other side. ‘I know you live in the Chevreuse. And I know that’s not far from Paris, where I am at present. Of course, it’s asking a lot but it would mean so much to me.’
‘Come whenever you like,’ he said. ‘I would very much like to meet you, Corinne’s daughter.’
This time she was sure that his voice had a different inflection when he spoke her mother’s name. Was it regret, longing, sadness, or just fond memory? She didn’t know. But she had to find out. ‘Would tomorrow be too soon?’ she asked.
He gave a little laugh then. ‘You sound so like your mother. Patience was never her strong suit. No, tomorrow is not too soon. Catch the train to Saint Rémy-les-Chevreuse station, and I will pick you up from there. We can talk over lunch.’ A pause. ‘My wife knows about my past, so you don’t need to feel awkward. Bring Charlotte too, if you like. It would be good to see her again.’
‘You too, Eric,’ said Charlotte into the speaker. ‘But it will have to be for another time. I have to go home to London tomorrow.’
He didn’t ask questions, simply said, ‘Okay, then. Another time. You’ve got my number.’
‘And you’ve got mine now too,’ said Charlotte cheerfully.
‘Forgive me, I have to go out now so I must say goodbye. But I will see you tomorrow, Emma. Text me the time of your train. And, Charlotte—I’ll see you sometime soon, I hope.’
Charlotte was the first to speak after the call ended. ‘What are you going to say to him tomorrow?’