Chapter 14
14
Lucie, teeth brushed and in her lightweight summer pyjamas, knew she was very tired, but still, when she lay down on the bed in the dark, she couldn’t sleep. So now she was at the window of her room, looking out and catching glimpses of the fireworks in the night sky.
When she thought about the very long day she had just lived through, she couldn’t help smiling. From the moment they’d all climbed into the car together, yes, it had been stressy and hassle-filled and right out of her comfort zone, but also… The ferry journey, the motorways, the visit to the glamorous heart of Paris, the blasting disco music, even all the Chanel anecdotes – everything had been completely new and interesting. This journey was giving her the break from the humdrum routine of post-divorce life that she hadn’t even realised she’d needed.
To her surprise, her phone began to ring. When she went over to pick it up, she was even more surprised to see that the name Melissa, Deva’s mother, was flashing up.
‘Hello, Melissa?’
‘Lucie? Lucie, is that you?’
‘Yes, hello, how are you?’
‘Are you with Deva?’ Melissa asked, voice urgent, ignoring the question.
‘Ummm… no, not at the moment. We’re at the hotel for our stopover. Deva is in his room.’
‘What’s the name of the hotel?’ Melissa asked.
Lucie gave her the hotel’s name and address.
‘He’s not there…’ Melissa said. ‘I’ve been messaging and calling. No reply. I’ve been following him on his phone and he’s not there.’
Lucie could hear the obvious anxiety in Melissa’s voice.
‘Maybe he’s gone out for a walk,’ Lucie suggested.
‘On his own? In a strange place?’ Melissa practically squeaked.
‘Deva does live in London,’ Lucie reminded her. ‘I’m sure he can cope with a teeny French village.’ But she remembered that she’d also found it hard to let go of all those maternal worries as Zoe had turned from teenager to grown up. She too had sat up late at night, frantically trying to track her daughter’s moves on the phone.
‘But it is hard not to worry about them,’ Lucie sympathised. ‘Where does the phone say Deva is?’ she asked.
Melissa gave her the name of a square.
‘OK,’ Lucie said. ‘This is a very small place, so I’ll go down there and have a look for him. Then we’ll report back. But don’t worry. It’s a lovely little village. He’ll just be strolling around, enjoying the atmosphere.’ No need to tell Melissa there was a major celebration in progress. ‘I’ll get him to call you as soon as I see him,’ she added.
Having hastily pulled on jeans, trainers and a top, Lucie went out into the corridor, where she was surprised to see Zoe.
‘Oh, hello, I thought you were going straight to sleep,’ she said to her daughter.
‘Yeah, you too,’ came the reply.
‘I’ve just had Deva’s mum on the phone. Apparently, he’s gone out.’
‘Why is she worrying? He’s a big boy in a tiny town…’
‘Well, it can be hard to stop worrying about your children, no matter how old they are,’ Lucie said, giving Zoe a smile. ‘So I’ve said I’ll go and have a look for him.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Zoe said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Can’t sleep anyway…’
‘Everything OK with you?’ Lucie asked. But Zoe just shrugged and Lucie took that as a signal not to ask any more.
Whatever Lucy and Zoe had been expecting as they arrived out onto the high street of the village and then into the wider central village square, it wasn’t this. The place was completely mobbed. Loud, jostling, standing-room-only mobbed. The dark of the night lit up with bright bar windows, random jagged fireworks and crackers that erupted with bangs and sparks of showers, and a multi-coloured carousel blasting out dance music as it spun screaming teenagers round and round on its painted horses. Bars and restaurants had their doors wide open; tables and chairs were set out all over the pavements and the square, and there were people everywhere.
Lots of them were the worse for wear after a long afternoon and evening of partying and toasting la Révolution. An e-scooter whizzed past Lucie’s elbow, hit a patch of wonky cobblestones further along the way and tipped its passenger straight out onto the square where he landed in a soft heap, but got up apparently unharmed, picked the scooter up again and got back on to continue weaving a wobbly path through the crowd.
‘Oh boy,’ Zoe said to her mother. ‘Looks like we’ve arrived about half an hour before the ambulances will be needed.’
The atmosphere was definitely moving from cheerful and loud to rowdy, with the centre of the square acting as a magnet for the crowd. There was already a dense mass of people there, and more and more seemed to be thronging towards it. It looked like there was some kind of statue and fountain in the centre and something was happening there that was drawing the crowd.
‘What’s that all about?’ Zoe asked, pointing towards the statue and the crowd forming around it.
As they got closer, they could hear a voice at full blast singing out the rallying cry: ‘ Aux armes, citoyens! ’
And, as one, the crowd now broke out into the stirring chorus of the French national anthem. Lucie and Zoe pressed on through the throng until they could see the fountain properly. It was an impressive mound, gushing with water that collected into a pool at the bottom. On top of the mound was the statue of a horse and on top of the statue of the horse was – to their complete astonishment – Deva ! His eyes were fixed firmly ahead as he sang the French national anthem at full volume.
‘Oh. My. God!’ Lucie exclaimed. ‘What’s he doing? What on earth is he doing? And how the hell did he get up there?’
‘And more importantly, how the hell do we get him down?’ Zoe asked.
‘He’s wearing my Chanel jacket!’ Lucie exclaimed.
‘That’s the least of our worries.’
‘And carrying my cream 2.55 bag! Bloody hell. What on earth is going on? What is he doing? This is ridiculous!’
‘He’s picked quite the moment to try out his new look,’ Zoe said. ‘Maybe he was hoping for some audience feedback.’
‘I don’t know why you’re joking?—’
‘Sorry, trying to see the bright side is a big part of my job.’
‘He’s on top of a statue with a crowd at his feet that might clap or might rough him up. What are we supposed to do? And what do I tell Melissa?’
‘Let’s leave Melissa out of it for now…’
The rowdy singing went on as the chorus was blasted out for a second, then a third time.
‘Deva!’ Lucie shouted out.
‘Maybe don’t distract him, Mum. That might make him fall,’ was Zoe’s advice.
‘Do you think he’s on drugs?’ Lucie asked as she watched him lead this huge crowd in a patriotic singsong.
‘No, but maybe he should be,’ was Zoe’s verdict. ‘You stay here and keep an eye on him. I’m going to go and find out about ladders… the fire brigade, that kind of thing.’
‘Keep an eye on him?’ Lucie protested. ‘He’s about twenty feet up in the air. There’s not much I can do. I can’t catch him if he comes off that horse!’
The song was rising to a crescendo, with the crowd shouting out the words and throwing fists in the air. The atmosphere was a whisper away from being threatening. And Deva, he was completely carried away. He was twirling the handbag above his head like a flag or a lasso and suddenly, to a great cheer from the crowd, it spun out of his hands and soared into the air.
‘That’s a ￡3,000 bag!’ Lucie gasped. ‘A collector’s item!’
Now the crowd seemed to surge in the direction of the falling bag and when it landed, that’s when the scuffling broke out.
A deafening five minutes began, full of shouts and cries, but it did at least move the crowd from the base of the statue. And now Lucie could hear her name being called out as Deva caught sight of her from his vantage point.
‘Aunt Lucie! I’m up here!’
‘Oh, hello, Deva! Hold tight! Hold very tight. Someone is coming with a ladder to help you down,’ she added hopefully, as Zoe wasn’t back yet, so she had no idea if help was going to arrive.
‘But I don’t want to come down!’ Deva shouted. ‘This is amazing! I’ve never had so much fun. I want to sing, all night long.’
And he launched into what sounded like édith Piaf’s ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien’, but it was hard to tell over the din of the crowd.
‘Please hold on!’ Lucie shouted as Deva spread his arms wide, carried by the emotion of the song and the moment. Who was this person, she wondered. He was such a jumble of different moods and energies. Quiet, nervy, almost shy for long stretches and in some situations. But then he’d also run about fizzing with excitement on the ferry, she remembered. Been quite carried away in Paris… and now this – he’d transformed with a touch of Chanel into a crowd-rousing extrovert.
‘Keep holding on,’ she instructed once again, trying not to think of Melissa or having to explain any of this to her. ‘Singing is good… and holding on is very good.’
It was almost an hour later before two burly bar owners with a very long ladder had managed to coax Deva back down to earth.
Once all the fuss was over, the ladder down, the rescuers on their way, the crowd moved along by harassed-looking gendarmes, then Deva sat on the edge of the fountain, with Lucie on one side and Zoe on the other, looking thrilled but also slightly shaken and dazed, giving off matador vibes in that pale, cropped jacket.
‘You OK?’ Zoe asked. ‘Feet back on the ground?’
‘Sort of,’ he said quietly.
‘That was quite a surprise,’ Lucie told him. ‘I think there’s quite a different Deva inside than the one you show the world most of the time.’
‘Maybe that’s true of all of us,’ Deva said, and something about the way he looked at her made Lucie feel a little unnerved. ‘Maybe we should all be our real selves more often.’
‘Maybe…’ she agreed. ‘But maybe not in a way that involves a ladder rescue.’
‘Everyone needs to have at least one ladder rescue in their lives,’ Deva said, giving her a little dig with his elbow. ‘You should try it. I mean, I sang to the crowd,’ he went on, ‘I led the singing. And I only know the words to the chorus of the French national anthem… Must learn the verses.’
‘I need to send your mum a message,’ Lucy began. ‘I’ll tell her that we’ve found you… well… enjoying Bastille Day in the village and everything is OK.’
‘There’s something else you need to tell her,’ Deva began.
‘Yes?’
‘Tell her, even though she hates the idea, no, make that, loathes the idea. I think I might be born to perform.’