Five
I t was midday on a Sunday, the church bells were ringing all over the city and Emma and Mattie had been to Mass at the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Within the sacred space of the magnificent ancient church, with its glorious deep blue, red and gold vaulted ceiling, the words of the priest seemed to float in a timeless serenity that enveloped Emma. Afterwards, she and Mattie had lingered to light candles for her mother and grandfather, and it felt consoling, rather than sad, unlike when she’d spoken with Paddy last night.
He’d video-called from Sydney airport where he and his sisters were about to catch a flight to Colombo before embarking on an eight-day Sri Lanka cruise. It was a trip that Corinne had really wanted to go on, and Emma knew that was the reason he was going, to honour her wishes. They’d talked for a while and she’d told him about her garden project, which, as an enthusiastic gardener, he warmly approved. It had been good to talk to him, but after the call, Emma had found herself in tears, thinking of the catch in Paddy’s voice as he’d spoken of her mother looking through travel brochures …
Today, though, she felt more at peace, and once she and Mattie had settled at an outdoor table in the neighbourhood restaurant where they’d decided to have lunch, she said, ‘Guess what I’m going to do this afternoon, Mattie.’
Mattie smiled. ‘Something young and energetic, I suppose.’
‘Remember that gardening book I bought the other day at the bouquiniste ?’
Mattie nodded. Like Emma, she’d been touched by the dedication, and said it was exactly the kind of book Alain would have loved.
‘Well, I’ve been reading it,’ Emma went on, ‘and I thought I could begin putting it into practice.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’d like to make a start on clearing Pappy’s garden and …’ She stopped, seeing the change in Mattie’s expression. ‘If that’s all right with you.’
‘Oh, Emma, it certainly is. And I confess I did wonder if that’s why you wanted that book. But …’ Her grandmother hesitated. ‘I know I should have done more to preserve the garden, but it was all I could do to maintain the house … I didn’t have the heart to tackle the garden, or the funds to employ someone to do it for me.’
‘You don’t have to explain, darling Mattie,’ Emma said, clasping her hand. ‘I understand completely. Think of me as your personal gardener. You can tell me exactly what needs doing and when.’
‘I left all that up to Alain,’ Mattie said. ‘I would not have a clue how to proceed.’ Her expression lightened. ‘So I give you my blessing to do whatever you like.’
Emma kissed her on the cheek. ‘I will keep it simple, not that I have the skill to do anything else, anyway. And I won’t do anything expensive, I promise! Though I might buy some extra plants. Do you know the best place to go for those?’
‘The flower market on the ?le de la Cité,’ said Mattie promptly. ‘Alain used to patronise a stall held by a man called Renan, whose father had run it before him.’ She was quite animated now, her eyes sparkling. ‘I don’t know if it’ll still be there, but there are lots of stalls, and the prices are quite reasonable.’
‘It sounds perfect,’ said Emma. ‘Will you come with me? I’ll need some advice.’
‘It will be like both of us groping in darkness,’ said Mattie, laughing, ‘but I will gladly go with you, whenever you like.’
After a delicious lunch of asparagus vinaigrette, rare roast beef with Madeira sauce and chocolate mousse, they went back to the house, and Mattie retired as usual while Emma made herself a cup of coffee, intending to start planning her garden project. But the trouble with a full midday meal in the sunshine is that it makes the idea of a sieste terribly alluring, even after coffee. Just a few minutes, Emma told herself, finally giving in to the languor and heading for the sofa. She lay down and closed her eyes, the peace of the house like a low, comforting hum, and before she knew it, she was fast asleep.
A sudden noise jerked her awake, and she sat bolt upright. The back of her neck was sweating, and her eyes felt gritty. She picked up her phone from where it lay on the floor. It was 3 pm! She’d been asleep for well over an hour. She heard a door opening, and voices, and realised what the noise had been: the entry buzzer.
Scrambling to her feet and picking up her shoes, she planned to sneak up the stairs to the bathroom unseen. But Mattie was already ushering the visitor into the hall.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with hazel-brown eyes under a sweep of very dark brown, almost black hair, stood a man. He looked to be in his mid-thirties and was undeniably good-looking, with a casual elegance that reminded Emma of a younger version of Grégory Fitoussi, one of her favourite French actors. Their eyes met and she was the first to look away, embarrassed and confused.
Mattie said, ‘Oh, Emma, darling, there you are. This is Marc-Antoine. He’s recently come back to Paris and has called in to see how I’m doing.’ She held up a little cardboard box. ‘And to bring me some of my favourite macarons.’
Emma had not a clue who this Marc-Antoine was, yet her grandmother had spoken as though she expected her to know.
‘Mattie,’ Marc-Antoine said, ‘I think your granddaughter is falling from the moon …’ In French, tomber de la lune means you have not the faintest idea what is going on. Well, that was true. But he clearly knew who she was, given what he’d said.
Mattie clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh! Marc-Antoine is Alain’s grandson, from his first marriage to Vivienne Frey, you know?’
Emma knew about her grandfather’s first marriage, and had vaguely heard the ex-wife’s name, but she’d never heard anything about Alain having children and grandchildren with Vivienne. Before she could gather her scattered wits, Marc-Antoine cut in smoothly, saying, ‘I’m not his actual grandson, you understand. I’m not even a step-grandson, more of an honorary one. My grandmother was a widow with a nine-year-old child when she married Alain. That child was my mother, Claire. The marriage didn’t last long, but the split was amicable and Alain kept in touch with them, especially with my mother.’
‘Oh,’ Emma said blankly. Maybe, she thought, reeling from this unexpected development, her mother had never told her about this unusual relationship because she’d never met Claire or her son. But Mattie saw her expression and said, ‘Claire visited us from time to time over the years. I liked her very much. She was a lovely girl,’ she added fondly to Marc-Antoine.
He touched Mattie’s shoulder. ‘And she liked you very much too. You and Alain made a big difference to our lives.’ He turned to Emma. ‘I was so very sorry to hear about your mother,’ he said.
Emma swallowed. ‘Thank you.’
‘Marc-Antoine never met Corinne,’ Mattie said, ‘but he has heard me talking about her, and you, and your stepfather. Likely more than he ever wanted to.’
Marc-Antoine made a noise of polite protest, but Emma caught the ghost of a knowing smile in his eyes and thought, with a sudden flash of annoyance, that he probably thought it was funny that he knew a good deal about her, when she knew practically nothing about him. Aside from the fact he seemed much too sure of himself.
‘Now then,’ Mattie went on, ‘let’s not stand around in the hall any longer. Tea, I think, with macarons. Yes?’
Emma muttered something about needing to freshen up and fled to the bathroom while she tried to process what she’d heard. Even if Marc-Antoine had not met Corinne, it was clear his mother had. But Corinne had never so much as mentioned Claire in passing. Perhaps she had resented her father’s continuing relationship with his first wife’s child, and her mother’s gentle acceptance of it, or perhaps she simply hadn’t got on with Claire. Another thought struck her. Why hadn’t they been at Alain’s funeral? Emma would have definitely remembered him if he had been there.
Back downstairs, desperate for something practical to do so that she could hide her agitation, she volunteered to make the tea while Mattie and Marc-Antoine sat at the table, chatting. They might not be related by blood, but they sounded close, and she felt a sharp stab of pain. It was pure jealousy, she knew that, just as she knew it was unreasonable to dislike him simply because he’d had years of knowing Mattie and she had only started to get to know her grandmother. But she couldn’t help it. Here she was, thinking she was building a unique relationship with her grandmother, when this stranger had already claimed a place in Mattie’s heart. He and Mattie even resembled each other, with their striking dark looks. Like her own mother, but quite unlike herself, with her blue-grey eyes and the mid-brown hair that she once dyed all the colours of the rainbow, and the freckles on her nose that she used to try to conceal but now didn’t bother. When she was a kid, people who didn’t know Paddy was her stepfather would say she looked like him, but that was only because they both had blue eyes and brown hair of vaguely similar shades. She didn’t really look like him, any more than she looked like her mother or grandparents. She had wondered if maybe she’d got her features from her biological father but knew better than to ask her mother.
She was shaken from her uneasy thoughts by Mattie saying, ‘Emma, I was just telling Marc-Antoine how you’re going to restore the garden, and he thinks it’s a great thing to do.’
As if I need his seal of approval , Emma thought, bristling. Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, ‘I am going to try to restore it, anyway. I don’t know much about gardening, but I do remember Pappy’s garden and it was lovely.’
‘Perhaps it could be lovely but in a different way,’ he said, meeting her defiant gaze with an unreadable expression in his eyes. ‘More … modern. Easier for you to maintain,’ he turned to Mattie, ‘even when you have no one here to help you.’
‘That would be good,’ Mattie agreed, with a quick glance from one to the other, ‘but we don’t have to decide now.’
We , meaning Marc-Antoine too? No , Emma thought, heat rising in her again. He won’t take my project as well . ‘It has to be tidied up first and that will take some time,’ she said, briskly, as she started pouring the tea into the cups.
‘Of course, but—’ he began, before Mattie hastily interrupted him, saying, ‘Are you back in Paris for good? With your new position, I mean.’
He smiled. ‘There will still be a fair bit of travel, but I’ll be mostly based in Paris. So I should be able to see you much more often.’
‘Marc-Antoine has been working for a New York bank for quite some years,’ explained Mattie, as if Emma had asked.
Trying to cover up her grimace—she might have guessed he was a banker!—Emma picked up a macaron and bit into it. Huh! It was delicious.
‘And what about you, Emma?’ he asked, seemingly oblivious to, or deliberately ignoring, her expression. ‘Mattie told me you left your job to come here. That was brave.’
Emma shrugged. ‘Not really. I’ve saved up quite a bit, and I’m still doing freelance work for my old employer. Even before my mother …’ She paused, then went on, ‘I’d been in the job for a while, and it felt like it was time to move on. I needed a new challenge.’
‘And do you think you’ll find that here?’
His cool gaze was itself an irritating challenge but she refused to be fazed. ‘Maybe. But right now, what’s most important to me is being with Mattie.’
Mattie beamed and reached for her hand. ‘And that’s what’s most important to me too, darling. I am so very happy that you are here and that we can finally get to know each other. Even if …’ Her eyes filled with tears.
Emma touched her hand. ‘I know,’ she said, feeling a little guilty. She shouldn’t waste time sparring with this guy when there were more important things to think about. He glanced at her then and she caught an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t quite read. It was only the merest flicker before he got up, scraping his chair back. ‘Would you mind if I went into the garden for a moment, Mattie?’ he said. ‘Just to refresh my memory.’
‘Of course I don’t mind, dear boy,’ she said. ‘Maybe Emma can go with you, she can probably tell you more than I can.’
‘If she likes,’ Marc-Antoine said, just as Emma said, ‘I don’t mind.’
Both of us are lying , Emma thought ruefully, as she led the way.
It wasn’t exactly a comfortable experience, surveying the garden with Marc-Antoine. They spoke in a stilted way about pruning trees gone wild and clearing undergrowth and cutting back rampant ivy, and Marc-Antoine peered into the shed at the cobwebbed tools. He gazed in a speculative way around the garden, as if he were measuring it up, and it made her bristle once more. But to her relief he made no more remarks about modernising. She didn’t want to clash with this man, because she could tell that he was important to her grandmother. But she wasn’t going to let him interfere or boss her around, either.
Finally, to her relief, he looked at his watch, an elegant vintage Piaget. Of course! Expensive retro chic was exactly what someone like him would go for, she thought, blithely ignoring the fact that she rather fancied those old-style watches herself.
‘I regret to say, but I’ve got a meeting,’ he said, not sounding regretful at all. ‘It was good to meet you.’ He held out a hand, which Emma shook, murmuring a similar insincere pleasantry, glad that he hadn’t done the normal French thing of la bise , the kiss on each cheek.