Chapter Eighteen #4
Why do we mothers say that? It’s so pointless and always gets the same weary reaction.
‘Oh, Mer-um.’
After that I phoned my mother, who also sounded weary but in her case because my father was also overexcited at the prospect of flying home the next day.
‘I wish he’d at least try to conceal it, if only a bit,’ she said crossly.
‘It’s not very nice to David and Sally to behave as if he can’t wait to get away from them. ’
There was nothing I could say to this given she knows as well as I do that my father has never concealed anything in his life.
Once I’d rung off, I considered phoning Ros.
We hadn’t spoken since Christmas, except I knew Ros now had her widowed mother-in-law staying and would therefore be in meltdown.
It’s no cliché to say Ros’s mother-in-law is a monster.
She moans the whole time. She moans about the food Ros cooks, she moans about Ros’s daughters – her grandchildren – accusing them of being badly behaved, which is not simply ridiculous but insane because Ros is slightly over the top on discipline, and her girls are almost too well-behaved.
Yet nothing is ever right for their grandmother, not even the naturally made, expensive hand soap in the bathroom, which she claims gives a rash – it doesn’t – thereby forcing her to supply her own bar of – wait for it – cheap supermarket soap.
I don’t know how Ros stands it. I’d strangle the old bat.
Ros, however, has more self-control than me and is endlessly patient with the woman, although she draws the line at buying cheap supermarket soap. But all this meant no call to Ros.
I scattered the now smouldering logs, put the fire guard up, plumped the sofa cushions and turned off the lights in the salon before making my way to the kitchen.
There I found Nicole doing something complicated with the steak with the aid of a mortar and pestle and a selection of herbs, chillies and garlic.
‘Suya,’ she announced importantly. ‘I make Suya.’
‘Suya?’ I’d never heard of it.
‘Suya,’ she confirmed, delighted to be able for once to tell me something I didn’t know about food.
It was a West African dish, she explained, of beef kabobs, which I took to mean kebabs, street food in effect.
With it she was making spiced couscous and some side bowls of pickles.
The larder at the Villa Matisse had evidently been thoroughly raided – and about time too.
As we ate the delicious supper together, I attempted once again to get her to tell me something about herself.
But she remained extremely reluctant to say much at all.
Was she born in Africa, for instance? No, she was born in France, she replied, looking evasive.
Then, however, she added briefly that her father came from Benin.
This intrigued me because I’ve actually been to Benin.
For one of my father’s last postings with the army he was stationed in Nigeria, and one summer vacation, when David and I were both at university, we had travelled out there, hired a Land Rover and done a six-week tour of Nigeria, ending up crossing the border into Benin.
It’s an extraordinary little country, totally French even down to berets and baguettes.
You’d hardly know you were in Africa. But then the French were far less compromising than the British when it came to colonisation.
A country’s indigenous culture could not possibly be better than their own.
Hence, it was bish, bash, bosh, you’re French now, mes amis, and don’t you ever forget it.
‘I’ve been there,’ I told Nicole, at which she raised her eyebrows in surprise but only said she had not. I gave up and instead complimented her on the food. She would give me the recipe, she promised. I could make it for my little boy. I could indeed. It was the type of thing Carl would adore.
At length we both decided to turn in early.
My headache had gone but despite my siesta earlier I was still tired from the previous night’s poor sleep and all the missing money malarkey.
We cleared away, tidied everything up in the kitchen and bade each other goodnight.
Once I got to my room I realised that I knew what I had to do – the only thing I could do – about the missing three hundred euros.
I would have to replace it out of my own funds.
I could not accuse Tom of stealing it, even if by now I was totally convinced he had done precisely that.
I had no evidence, no proof. Furthermore, I could well imagine how vile his reaction would be.
I could not tell Luc either. I could imagine his contempt: the money had been in my safe keeping, I should have been more careful, it was my responsibility, blah, blah, blah.
And if I simply kept quiet about it, not only would that be cheating when Luc had trusted me, but he would almost certainly notice the discrepancy when I submitted my final accounts.
He might even report me to the agency, which would be my job down the tube.
He might even – God forbid – accuse me of theft and report me to the French police.
The Bastille beckoned… No, I certainly could not tell Luc.
I undressed and got into bed, wondering if he would come back that night. Well, if he did, I don’t know. I quickly fell asleep, unhappy but relieved that at least the day was over.