Chapter 11 #2
‘It’s fine, Mum,’ Fiona says, but then, unable to resist, she adds, ‘It’s nice to know you’re so keen to see me.’
‘Oh please don’t be like that,’ Wendy says. ‘The whole car thing has been a nightmare – I’ll tell you about it all later. But my lateness has nothing whatsoever to do with keenness or lack of. I’m thrilled to bits you’re here.’
Fiona scrunches up her nose and smiles. ‘I know,’ she says, finally deigning to stand. ‘I’m only pulling your leg.’
After a hug they trundle Fiona’s suitcase to the short-stay car park where Wendy has parked the rented Clio.
‘Not an electric, then?’ Fiona asks as she heaves her case into the back. ‘I thought you were all eco-everything nowadays.’
‘Huh!’ Wendy snorts. ‘There was a Tesla option, actually, but it was twice the price of this one. Plus, I think I’d be a bit lost, to be honest. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Neil’s got one,’ Fiona says. ‘Todd keeps going on about how cool it is. He thinks Dad should get one.’
‘I’m not sure anything from that Musk guy can be considered “cool”,’ Wendy says, a comment she knows will please Fiona.
‘That’s exactly what I keep saying.’
Wendy drives them to the nearby port of St-Laurent-du-Var where they choose a pizzeria overlooking the bay.
‘It’s amazing!’ Fiona says, taking her seat and looking out to sea. ‘I can totally see why you chose here.’
‘This is nothing like where I live,’ Wendy says. ‘You’ll see.’
The waiter arrives so Wendy orders two pizzas, a Coke for Fiona and a small pitcher of red wine for herself.
‘Wine, Mum?’ Fiona comments. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, it’s fine,’ Wendy replies. ‘It’s 250 mls; it’s tiny.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t, though. You are about to drive and everything.’
‘God, I’ll just have a glass, then,’ Wendy tells the waiter, shaking her head. ‘Juste un verre.’
‘Mum, I really…’ Fiona starts. But the waiter shoots Wendy a knowing ‘kids today, huh?’ smile, and vanishes before the discussion can go any further. His complicity with her mother makes her feel outnumbered.
‘Anyway, as I was saying…’ Wendy says, signalling that the subject is now closed. ‘It’s very rugged and remote where I live. It’s not coastal, at all.’
Fiona sighs in frustration then gives in. ‘But it’s nice?’ she asks. ‘You like it?’
‘It’s… interesting,’ Wendy tells her. ‘You’ll see.’
The drinks arrive, closely followed by the pizzas and they are thin and crispy and delicious.
‘So how are things with you?’ Wendy asks, taking a tiny sip of her wine. ‘You look well.’
In truth, Fiona has put on weight since Wendy last saw her but she knows (as only a mother can) that the subject is taboo.
‘Thanks. Yeah, I’m fine.’
Wendy wants to ask her if she has a boyfriend, but that subject is off limits, too. ‘And school?’ she asks, instead.
‘Oh, that’s all fine. Pretty much caught up with everything now. Though I have to say I’m a bit jealous of Todd. He escaped his finals completely.’
‘He did, didn’t he? The lucky bugger. Though I read somewhere that employers can be a bit snooty about A level results from that year.’
‘Yes, I read that, too. Not that it seems to have bothered Manchester uni.’
‘No, apparently not.’
They eat for a moment in silence, then Fiona says, ‘Look, I know this is a bit of a—’
‘Ooh, look,’ Wendy says, pointing. On the horizon an enormous cruise ship is sliding into view. ‘That’s massive! It’s like a bloody hotel on a boat – look, Fiona!’
‘Yes,’ Fiona says, turning her head. ‘But—’
‘And look at all the smoke pouring out!’ Wendy says.
‘God, yeah,’ Fiona says. ‘That’s gross.’
It’s eleven the next morning and it’s Christmas Eve. Mother and daughter are enjoying a late breakfast in the warm sunshine. Wendy had all but forgotten her daughter’s famed capacity for sleep.
The afternoon following Fiona’s arrival had been taken up with food shopping and the evening with general catching up. This had mostly consisted of Fiona telling her mother random stories about her friends, during which Wendy had done her best to feign interest.
She sometimes worries a little about her daughter, because she seems that bit more innocent than Wendy remembers being at her age.
The stories Fiona tells her mother about her friends’ exploits seem designed to shock and amuse, but they’re generally so tame that instead Wendy worries Fiona has grown up to be too timid, too cautious – that she’s not having enough fun.
She’s seventeen, for God’s sake! Where are the motorbike trips, the wild nights out, the noisy demos against the government, or for that matter the all-night raves in muddy fields?
It’s an unusual thing to be concerned about as a mother, because you can hardly tell your daughter to take more risks, but Wendy wonders if she can’t find a subtle way to suggest Fiona has more fun.
‘These croissants are lovely,’ Fiona says, delicately ripping off a corner and popping it into her mouth with her long violet fingernails.
‘I know,’ Wendy replies. ‘I think most of the food tastes better here. Everything back home seems so industrial by comparison.’
‘That’s because it is,’ Fiona says. ‘I saw a thing the other day about all the veg they throw away just because it’s too ugly or whatever. The amount of food we waste is criminal.’
Wendy pours herself another cup of coffee and waves the pot at her daughter, who nods by way of reply.
The conversation seems clunky this morning. Apparently Fiona has run out of stories about her whacky friends, and though there are many things Wendy would like to ask, most of them seem out of bounds. She’s left feeling a bit shell-shocked at how brittle their relationship has become.
‘So how are things back—’ Wendy starts, but she’s interrupted and probably saved by Fiona’s phone, which chooses that precise moment to start vibrating.
‘Sorry,’ Fiona says, dragging the phone towards her and standing. ‘Gotta take this.’
Wendy watches her daughter walk towards the cabin and hears her say, ‘Hi,’ but nothing further, because she vanishes around the corner where she’s out of sight and earshot.
She sighs and wonders what’s going on. Because as Fiona dragged the phone across the table, she’d glimpsed Todd’s name through the gaps between her fingers. Perhaps that’s normal, it being Christmas Eve and everything.
Wendy crosses to the cabin where she locks herself in the tiny bathroom. She’s right: through the air vent she can hear the conversation – well, Fiona’s half of it at any rate.
‘No. Not yet,’ she’s saying.
…
‘Because.’
…
‘Well, because I’ve only just got here!’
…
‘Look, I’ll try. I told you I would. And if there’s a right time then I’ll do it.’
…
‘No, Todd, I’m not going to promise anything.’
…
‘I know.’
…
‘Yes, I know.’
…
‘Look, I know, all right? Jesus!’
…
‘If it’s that important then talk to her yourself.’
…
‘Exactly.’
…
‘Well, then!’
…
‘And don’t hassle me. It’ll just make her suspicious if you keep phoning me up.’
…
‘I know. I’m just saying. Yeah, you, too. Oh, and don’t forget to wish her a merry Crimbo.’
…
‘No, not today, you twat! Tomorrow! Honestly, sometimes you scare me, Todd.’
…
Wendy flushes the toilet and washes her hands before returning to find Fiona seated sipping coffee.
‘Who was that, then?’ she asks, as casually as she can.
‘Oh, just a friend. Someone from school,’ Fiona says.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I thought I saw Todd’s name flash up.’
Fiona laughs convincingly. ‘Um, more than one Todd on the planet, Mum.’
‘You know multiple Todds?’
‘I do. Well, two… Todd at school is actually quite nice, though. So I guess some of them are OK. You didn’t think my stinky brother was calling me, did you?’
‘No,’ Wendy says. ‘I s’pose not.’ Wendy has found out something new today, something she didn’t know. Her daughter has learned how to lie. And she’s really rather good at it.
They drive to nearby Gourdon and wander through pretty village streets peering in souvenir shops full of glassware. They stop briefly for pancakes in a creperie and then continue to the far end of the village where the cliff the village is built on drops to coastal plains below.
‘Wow,’ Fiona says. ‘There’s a view.’
‘Yes. And look, that’s the airport,’ Wendy says, pointing out to sea where the reclaimed land of the runways juts out.
‘Nah,’ Fiona says. ‘Don’t be daft. Nice airport was way further than that.’
Wendy shakes her head in surprise. ‘It’s not a guess, sweetheart,’ she says. ‘I’m telling you that’s where I picked you up from yesterday. That’s the runway, right there.’
‘OK,’ Fiona says. ‘If you say so, Mum.’ Annoyingly, Wendy can tell from that ‘Mum’ tagged on at the end that her daughter doesn’t believe her. But she decides it’s of little importance.
‘And that bit?’ Fiona asks.
‘What bit?’ Wendy asks.
‘That green blob sticking out to sea.’
‘Oh, that’s part of Antibes, I think. But I haven’t been yet. It’s supposed to be pretty. And there’s a great walk around the coast apparently. We can go tomorrow, if you like.’
‘But tomorrow is Christmas Day,’ Fiona says.
‘So…?’
‘So… OK! Sure! Why not?’
‘We can take a picnic,’ Wendy says. ‘A Christmas picnic. Could be nice. Especially if the weather’s like this.’
As Wendy drives back to the cabin, she thinks about Fiona’s conversation with Todd.
She wonders what her daughter is meant to ask and runs through potential subjects as she drives.
It’s probably to do with the state of her marriage, she concludes – they probably want to know what’s going on.
She would, if she were them. She’d like to know, herself, come to think of it.
She continues to drive in silence as she tries to decide how she’ll reply but they are home before she has worked out a strategy, and as she parks the car she realises not a word has been spoken since Gourdon.
‘You OK, Fifi?’ she asks.
‘Um?’ Fiona says, turning from the window. ‘Oh, me? Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Good. Well, let’s get indoors and put the kettle on. I’m gasping.’