Chapter 4
4
Connie
On my way to the Tunnel, I thought I’d better phone my dad. We spoke nearly every day. I’d been putting on my best and brightest voice to fool him into thinking Daniel leaving was a minor inconvenience and I was on top of things. I’d avoided FaceTime, for the minute he saw me he would know I was lying.
‘Hey, Dad!’ I said now, sounding chirpy. Only this time I wasn’t pretending.
‘Darling. Lovely to hear you. Is everything OK?’ Since Mum died, he’d had a level of anxiety when answering the phone. I think he thought, every time it rang, that there would be bad news. That the world was going to cave in. I did my best to protect him from anything too worrying. I realised I’d crossed that line: the line where your role changes and you begin parenting your parent.
‘Absolutely fine. I’m heading to Barles to go and help Lismay. She needs someone to cover while Piers has his hip done.’
‘Ah, so he’s finally given in. Game-changer.’ Dad had had both of his done and was evangelical. ‘I’ll give him a buzz. I owe him a bell. I’ve been a bit slack at keeping up.’
‘Why don’t you come over while I’m there? They’re only open for long weekends in the autumn. You could pop over during the week? I can pick you up from the airport.’
‘Maybe …’
I knew what was holding him back. It wouldn’t be the same, going to Chateau Villette without Mum.
Dad had struggled after Mum died. We’d talked about him selling the house, the house in Chiswick I’d grown up in, to move somewhere smaller, but we both agreed there was no real advantage. He was still fit and mobile and all his friends were nearby, and the tennis club, and he could hop on the Tube and go into Central London to browse the second-hand bookshops or see a play. I was proud of him, but I knew his heart wasn’t in life without Mum.
Neither of our hearts were in anything without her. The colour had gone out of our world. Mine came back when I was with the kids – Harry and Edie injected a vibrancy and light into everything – but they were off, on their own adventures, and I couldn’t expect them to hang around just to provide me with sparkle.
Mum dying had been the start of my downturn. Then the rug being pulled out from under me with work. Combine those two shocks with midlife hormones – or lack of them – and I felt as if I’d turned to sludge. Thick grey sludge that pulsed slowly through my weary bones. I don’t know if Daniel would have been relieved or disgruntled to know that his leaving hadn’t actually made me feel any worse. It was the thought of losing the house that had broken me.
‘I’ll see,’ said Dad, breaking into my thoughts. ‘Have a wonderful time, won’t you, darling?’
‘Of course. And you’ll be all right, won’t you?’
‘I’m always fine. You know that.’
I hung up, feeling lucky Dad was ferociously independent. He never made any demands. But although he would move heaven and earth to do anything I needed, I really didn’t want to bother him with all my stuff. It seemed trivial, after everything he’d been through.
Two hours later, I was sitting in the car, on the train, deep underground, picking at a blueberry muffin I’d bought in the terminal, when my chest tightened and I started to find it difficult to breathe. My heart was galloping, tripping over itself, and I was dripping with sweat. I recognised the signs. I’d started having panic attacks when I lost my job, but I thought I’d got on top of them. It seemed not. At least I knew I wasn’t having a heart attack. It would have been quite a way to go, deep under the sea with a blueberry muffin in my fist!
The stress of the last few days combined with the early start must have been too much for me. I needed fresh air, but I wasn’t going to get that for another half an hour at least. Should I sound the alarm? Was there one? Would there be someone who could come and help? They must have medical assistance down here, surely?
Of course, I was too embarrassed to ask for help. What if I ended up blocking everyone in? The thought made me panic even more as I imagined the passengers behind me pressing on their horns, anxious to be on their way. The thought only increased my anxiety. I pulled at the door handle to get out, but it wouldn’t open. It took me three goes to realise I’d locked it by accident, and with shaking hands I pressed the button on my key fob. I fell out of the car and leaned up against the wall, gasping for breath, my hand on my chest.
There was a gorgeous Black woman outside the vehicle in front of me, a shiny VW campervan. She was about my age, maybe a bit older, her silver curls tied up in a messy bun, leaning against the wall reading a book. I was bent over, hands on my thighs, taking in gulps of air. She looked up, frowned, then hurried over, laying her book on the bonnet of my car.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. Her eyes were brimming with warmth and concern. I managed to nod, though it took me a moment to reply.
‘I’ll be fine in a minute. I’m just having a bit of a panic attack.’ I didn’t want attention. I held up my hand to keep her at bay.
She ignored me.
‘Try and breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth. It’s horrible. Hang on.’ She opened the suede bag slung across her body and pulled out a bottle of Rescue Remedy. ‘Open your mouth,’ she ordered, unscrewing the lid, and I obeyed. She squeezed a few drops onto my tongue. ‘There.’
I swallowed. My heartrate was subsiding. I was surprised her presence was making me feel calmer. There was something soothing about her. She’d started rubbing my back, completely unselfconscious about touching me, and it felt so comforting. I shut my eyes and for a moment, I could imagine it was Mum. Gradually, I felt myself return to normal. I felt shaky, but not as if I was about to pass out.
‘Maybe I had too much coffee?’ I laughed. ‘I had two double-shot lattes while I was waiting at the terminal.’
‘That’ll do it.’ She smiled at me. ‘I can’t touch caffeine anymore. It makes me bonkers.’
She stopped rubbing me and stepped back, suddenly awkward.
I nodded at her book on the bonnet. A Penguin copy of Madame Bovary .
‘At least Emma Bovary makes you feel better about your own life,’ I sighed. ‘She makes me feel like the luckiest woman alive.’
She eyed me curiously. ‘Oh dear. Sounds like you’re having a tough time?’
I wanted to confide in her. I liked her style. Big checked coat, skinny leather trousers and Chelsea boots. Outsize tortoiseshell reading glasses. A handful of cocktail rings that sparkled in the gloom. She was like an elegant tomboy. ‘Everything’s a bit much at the moment. I lost my job. My kids have left home. And my other half’s run off.’ I managed a smile. ‘With an older woman.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Ouch.’
‘She’s nearly ten years older than me. And very rich. And very thin.’ I thought of Andrea, sleek and groomed and sweetly scented, in head-to-toe caramel and cream.
‘Oh. Well. That won’t guarantee him happiness. Especially if she doesn’t eat.’
I laughed. She touched my hand in a gesture of sympathy.
‘You’ll be OK,’ she said. ‘You’re better than him.’
‘I don’t know that I am.’ I made a face. ‘I’ve kind of lost the plot. I’m a mess.’
‘You are not a mess.’ She looked fierce. ‘Don’t ever say that, or think that. Nobody knows what it’s like, when everything and everyone dumps on you from a great height. It’s so bloody unfair, this time of life.’
I was surprised by her vociferousness.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But nobody tells you, do they? One minute you’re wrangling toddlers, covered in spaghetti hoops and mopping sweaty little brows. And then it’s all over. And you’re nobody.’
‘You don’t look like nobody.’
‘I felt,’ she said, ‘diminished. Though I’m out the other side now. Menopause all done and dusted.’
I nodded.
‘That’s such a good description,’ I said. ‘Diminished.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt so powerless.’ She leaned back on the bonnet of my car, and I sat next to her. ‘I’d had my fair share of problems, but I’d always felt as if there was something worth fighting for. But suddenly everything felt a bit …’ She trailed off, but I knew exactly what she meant.
‘Pointless?’ I offered.
‘Yeah. It felt as if everything was a struggle. Like wading through treacle.’
I nodded in agreement. ‘I was in my pyjamas for three days before I got here.’
She whistled. ‘You have got it bad.’ She surveyed me thoughtfully. ‘You have to take control. You have to make changes. I completely changed career.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I was a barrister. I woke up on my fiftieth birthday and I thought – I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of sorting out other people’s dramas. I want to do something fun . So I sold my house and opened a shop selling French stuff. Turns out people can’t get enough of it.’
‘Is that why you’re going to France?’
‘Yep. I’m doing a brocante swoop to pick up stuff for my clients. And I can tell you, it’s the best thing I ever did. I loved my old job, but I was so exhausted. Deep down tired. I wanted to do something creative. And I love it. People ask me to come to their houses and make them look French and it makes me so happy.’
For a moment I thought about our house again, and how hard I’d worked to make it a perfect home. I was supposed to be de-cluttering and making it ready for sale, but I hadn’t been able to face eradicating the traces of our past lives. Every time I walked into the garage and saw the weights where Harry had left them, or tried to clear Edie’s stuff out of the bathroom – fake tan, false eyelashes, glittery hair spray – I cried. Even a half-eaten box of Jaffa cakes in the pantry made me howl. The worst thing was looking at our Netflix profiles: Dad Mum Harry Edie, all lined up on the screen. The family that wasn’t.
My new friend put her head to one side. ‘So what did you do? You said you lost your job?’
She was refreshingly direct, but I didn’t resent her curiosity. I guessed she was used to questioning people. And I wanted to talk to her. Confess all. Ask her advice, even. But it was painful, talking about what happened. ‘I was editor of The Heart of the Home .’
‘No way!’ She stared at me in delight. ‘I loved that magazine. I was gutted when it folded.’
‘Thank you.’ I was going to take that. I was proud of what I’d done. I’d turned a dreary little magazine into a cult. When I’d gone for my interview, the backers told me they wanted Nigella in magazine form. To put sex back into the kitchen. And I’d done that, in spades. The Heart of the Home was food porn at its finest, with recipes that would leave you groaning with desire, gadgets to die for, interviews with the hottest chefs and cooks and restaurateurs. And, of course, the ultimate in fantasy kitchens, from a tiny cottage with units handmade from a fallen oak tree to huge entertainment spaces with every mod con. Yes, a lot of it was out of reach but it was inspirational, and practical too. Anyone who was planning a new kitchen would automatically buy it for ideas and it was packed with advice.
‘So what happened?’
‘There was too much competition. Everyone copied us. Advertising revenue plummeted. The board pulled the plug without giving me any notice. I got made redundant.’
‘I’m so sorry. That must have been awful.’
I still remembered wanting to throw up when I was told. Having to clear my desk within two hours. It was brutal. Devastating for me and my wonderful team. We divvied up all the props in the styling cupboard. I came out with a tagine and a set of porcelain espresso cups. Not a lot to show for four years of blood, sweat and tears. Though there had been laughter too, and awards, and a lot of very happy readers. I still got messages on my Instagram account from people who had been inspired. I’d been a powerhouse, juggling work and home life like a boss. I’d nailed it. I really thought you could have it all if you tried hard enough.
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it, to be honest.’
‘So why are you heading to France?’
‘I’m on my way to my godmother’s chateau.’
She gave a groan of envy. ‘A godmother with a chateau? That sounds like something out of a fairy tale.’
‘It’s just a posh B and B. Not as glamorous as it sounds. It’s only tiny.’
‘A tiny chateau.’ She sighed. ‘That’s literally my dream.’
‘Well, yes. Except I think it’s all got a bit much for her. So I said I’d go and help out. I’ll be changing beds and slaving over a hot stove and doing a lot of hoovering, I expect.’
‘Like a reality TV show? Chateau SOS ?’
I laughed. ‘Exactly. And it is wonderful there – like a big house party. Lismay’s a brilliant hostess. But it’s hard work.’
‘I’d love to do something like that one day.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I bloody love France. First time I came here on a school trip, I felt like I was coming home. Me, a scrappy little Black kid from Birmingham. It’s the first time I felt like I belonged.’ She gave a gurgling laugh that was like thick, sweet dessert wine coming out of a bottle. ‘The food, the clothes, the accent …’ She gave a theatrical sigh. ‘The men .’
‘The men,’ I agreed, remembering one man in particular. ‘Not that I’m all that interested right now.’
She surveyed me for a moment, grave. ‘I’m sorry about your dick of a partner.’
‘Yeah. Twenty-three years. Gone.’ I snapped my fingers to show how quickly.
‘Wow. The most I ever managed was eight. But do you know what? Being single at this age isn’t such a bad thing. I got up and got out of the house this morning without having to think about anyone else.’
‘Actually, me too.’ She had a point. ‘I didn’t have to wait for the bathroom or answer any irritating questions or find Daniel’s car keys, which he was always losing.’ I grinned at her. She put up her hand and I slapped my palm against hers.
‘We don’t need dickheads in our lives. But they’re not all plonkers. I have faith. And hope.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Fiona, by the way.’
I grabbed it and held it tight. ‘Connie.’ We stood there for a few moments, looking at each other, blinking in delight to have found a like-minded companion, just as an announcement came over the loudspeakers. We were nearly at Calais. We looked at each other regretfully. We could both feel a connection: two women of a similar age with a lot in common. Well, Madame Bovary and a passion for chateaux. But I’ve always loved that, when you click with someone and that little flame of friendship comes to life. I felt sad that our meeting was so fleeting and we were unlikely to see each other again.
‘It’s a pity we’re driving,’ she said. ‘We could have found a bar. I feel as if we could do a bottle of Sauvignon some damage.’
‘That would have been great. Though I get a three-day hangover if I have more than two glasses these days.’
‘Same. If I drink too much, I wake up at three in the morning with my heart racing.’
She did a demonstration of starting awake, her eyes wide, her mouth agape. I couldn’t help laughing.
‘What lightweights,’ I said.
‘I know. But I’m not letting it grind me down. Hang on.’ She rummaged in her handbag, bringing out her card for me to take. I looked at it.
‘ Frenchified by Fiona ,’ I read, and nodded approval. Her number was underneath. ‘I’ll text you, then you’ll have my number.’
‘Cool. Keep in touch. Tell me how the chateau chaos is.’
‘I will. And thank you. For being kind.’
To my surprise, she leaned forward and hugged me. ‘Don’t let anybody dim your shine,’ she said, then ran back to her car as everyone started their engines.
Don’t let anybody dim your shine.
I loved those words. Somehow, in just fifteen minutes, she had put her finger on how I felt and had given me the courage to fight back. I wasn’t going to let anyone or anything dim my shine. Not Daniel, or the magazine, or my hormones, or that dreary version of myself who seemed to be showing up in the mirror every time I looked.
I put her card in my bag. I would keep in touch. I needed new people in my life, people like Fiona who would help me think my way out of my current predicament and give me inspiration. I’d felt a little bit of her spirit jump start mine as I started my car, ready to roll off the train and begin my journey to Provence.