Dan arranged his features into an expression of interest to hide the vague anxiety that must, he assumed, be a leftover from his errant youth.
And his youth was rather errant, considering his privileged background. In line with almost every other middle-class North London privately educated schoolboy, Dan was, he claims, smoking cigarettes at thirteen, pot at fourteen, and doing unmentionable things with girls from the neighboring schools in darkened bedrooms at parties he had gate-crashed. He was driving his parents’ spare Mini—supposedly for the au pair girls—at sixteen with no driving license and celebrated his graduation from Manchester University with a five-day cocaine and champagne binge.
You’d never believe it to look at him now, this fine up-standing figure of the community. But here in the home he grew up in, with his parents sitting opposite him at the kitchen table, Dan said he felt exactly as if he were still sixteen and about to get into serious trouble.
His father cleared his throat ominously. “We want to talk to you about France.”
“France?” This didn’t make sense to him. Why would his parents want to talk to him about France?
“You know we’ve taken a villa in the south of France this summer,” Linda said. “And the idea was that your father and I would spend the whole of July and August there. The thing is, we’ve been invited on a friend’s boat for the last two weeks of August, and we thought that, as the house would be empty for that time, maybe you, Ellie, and Tom could do with a fortnight away. You both seem so stressed and tired, we thought that a holiday might do you the world of good.”
Michael then added: “We know financially things are a bit tight, what with the new flat and everything, so we thought this would be a nice break, and obviously you wouldn’t have to pay anything other than airfare.”
“You could even invite friends if you want,” Linda said. “Goodness knows the house is big enough. There are, what?” She turned to Michael. “Four bedrooms? Five?”
Michael nodded. “Four bedrooms on the main floor plus a tiny maid’s bedroom behind the kitchen, so theoretically you could have a whole gang.”
“Although I’m not sure they should have a whole gang.” Linda gave Michael a warning look. “Maybe just another couple. I’m sure that would be fine.”
Michael shrugged. “It really doesn’t matter, darling,” he said softly. “Dan is a grown-up. I hardly think we’re going to have a repeat of that incident when he had the party while we were away.”
“Mum, Dad,” Dan swiftly interjected, “I don’t know what to say.” And a smile spread across his face, and stayed there.
The south of France for a whole fortnight in a luxury villa just outside Mougins. And of course we were desperate for a holiday, hadn’t planned on going anywhere this year, or indeed in the years to come.
Visions of swimming pools, coconut-scented sun cream, and lazing around under clear blue skies filled Dan’s head, but he couldn’t say yes without talking to me, even though he had a pretty good idea what I’d say.
“It sounds amazing,” he said calmly. “I’m sure we’d love to, but let me just check with Ellie first. Let me talk to her about it and then let you know. But thank you; it’s incredibly generous of you.”
Michael laughed. “No, what would be incredibly generous would be if we offered to pay your airfares.”
“Any chance?” Dan said hopefully.
“Now you’re pushing your luck,” Michael laughed, and Dan had left, barely able to contain his excitement on his way home to tell me the good news.
“Yes!” I dance around the living room with Dan, both of us giggling like schoolchildren. “South of France! Yesss!”
“So I take it you want to go, then?” Dan finally collapses on the sofa, thrilled at seeing me so excited.
“Phone them now!” I grab the portable phone and stand over him, dialing their number before handing him the phone as it starts to ring. “Quick. Say yes before they change their minds.”
Later that night we lie in bed talking about France. Dan shows me the pictures of the house: an old stone mas nestling in the hills, a pretty swimming pool overlooking the valley and the hills beyond, a pergola covered with wisteria overlooking the pool, huge terra-cotta pots overflowing with trailing pelargoniums on the stone terrace.
It looks idyllic. It is idyllic. Like something out of a film. Like somewhere I would never have thought I’d be able to visit, let alone stay in.
“Christ!” I whisper, studying each photograph in awe. “Look at this place! It’s a palace!”
Dan just shrugs, much more used to this kind of luxury than me, for, although it is not the lifestyle we lead now, I know that Dan was brought up in the lap of luxury.
I know that on the rare occasions we go to the smartest of restaurants or fanciest of hotels, Dan is comfortable in a way that I never will be. He can speak to maître d’s and managers with the ease that comes of having been brought up with the best of the best. I know that Dan probably spent most of his childhood staying in places much like this, whereas I have only seen this sort of thing in the pages of magazines like Condé Nast Traveler.
“So should we ask anyone?” Dan ventures. “Or do you just want it to be a romantic getaway for the two of us?”
“As wonderful as that sounds,” I say, turning to Dan and kissing him softly, “I think we’d have so much more fun with friends.”
“I think you’re right. And now that Tom is practically ten months he’d also probably have more fun with other babies there. So…” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Do I really need to ask who you want to come?”
Once upon a time Dan might have suggested the boys—Simon, Rob, Tom, and Cheech, and their respective partners. But, as much as I liked them, like them, our friendships seem to have drifted; we didn’t see much of them after the wedding, and we’ve barely seen them at all since Tom was born.
Over the past few months Trish and Gregory have become our closest friends. We have what we always say is incredibly rare, a friendship that is entirely equal, and that, I think, was what was missing in the friendships with the boys. I liked their wives, Anna and Lily, but never felt I could talk to the boys in the same way, knew that if I had a choice, I wouldn’t have chosen them.
But in our new friendship, I like Gregory just as much as I like Trish, and Dan feels the same way.
If Trish phones, and Dan picks up, the two of them will chat for hours, and I do the same thing if Gregory picks up when I phone her.
The four of us have become, in a very short space of time, virtually inseparable, and I often find it hard to think of what we did before they came into our lives.
“Should I ring Trish and Gregory or will you?”
“I’ll ring her tomorrow,” I say, suddenly frowning. “What about Lisa and Andy? We can’t invite Trish and Gregory without Lisa and Andy.”
Dan shrugs. “You’re the one with the problem with Andy. He’s not a mate of mine, but he doesn’t bother me, so if you want them to come, that’s fine with me.”
“What about your mum? She did say one other couple. Do you think she’ll mind if we ask both of them?”
“No. I think she’ll be fine. It’s not as if we’re teenagers, despite what they may think. We’re hardly going to trash their rented villa.”
“I don’t know,” I say with a grin. “I quite fancy the idea of throwing a huge party.”
“Well, hel-lo.” Dan looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “This isn’t the sedate, conservative wife I know and love,” and he rolls over toward me as I giggle.
Now you see why today was such a great day.
Thursday is the night we are supposed to be going out for dinner with Trish, Gregory, Lisa, and Andy. I’d fought the impulse to say anything about France because I wanted to ask them face to face, and, as the six of us would be together, I thought Thursday the perfect opportunity.
Needless to say, I don’t phone Linda to request her babysitting services, and even though I’ve planned a delicio
us menu, I still feel terrible phoning everyone to say we have to bail because of babysitter problems and asking if they can come to us instead.
Trish says, “Thank God.”
“Thank God?” I echo uncertainly.
“Thank God I don’t have to go. I’ve been having clothes crises for the past week, and the only reason I was going was because I thought you lot wanted to go. I hate trendy restaurants. Completely intimidating and they always make me feel inferior.”
I start to laugh. “Why didn’t you just say no when Lisa first suggested it?”
“I thought we’d still have fun, but I’d much rather throw on my leggings and come to you for supper.”
“I know what you mean,” I grudgingly admit. “I always feel slightly bad that I’m not into going to all the right restaurants and clubs. Half the time I don’t even know what Lisa’s talking about.”
Trish laughs. “I know. I’m not bitching but…” I smile, because of course these words always preface something bitchy. We three have talked about the danger of threesomes. No, not that kind of threesome, but women’s friendship triangles that inevitably leave someone out, or that turn one into the bitchee, the other two into the bitches. Trish and I resisted it for ages, but Lisa—and I do love her—Lisa is astoundingly superficial.
At first I thought it was funny. Lisa obsessed about these superexpensive Chloe jeans, until she got them, when she then became obsessed about a Prada bag, until Andy bought her one from a contact overseas somewhere, when she next became obsessed about a Cartier ring.
I repeat, I love her, but our lifestyles are very different, and I couldn’t care less about nights out at Embassy, or wearing the latest Gucci coat, or being featured in a Tatler piece about “hot mamas”—although that last one did make me feel kind of cool by association.
But the fact remains that Trish and Gregory and Dan and I don’t care about the same things that Lisa does, and inevitably there are times when Trish and I can’t help but talk about it, our conversations always punctuated with “I love her, but…” to try to ease our guilt.
“I’m not bitching…but I bet you anything Lisa doesn’t come for supper.”
“What? You think she’ll keep the reservation and go with Andy?”
“Yup. I’ll bet you anything.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I say. “I know she’s superficial, and I mean that in a caring way because I love her, but we’re her friends and the point of the evening is to be with friends, not to go to some hot restaurant.”
“I’m telling you, she’ll go to the restaurant,” Trish laughs. “Go on. Phone her now. She’s home; I just spoke to her. Call me back.”
“Okay, but I still think you’re wrong.”
Five minutes later I call Trish back.
“You’re such a bloody clever clogs.”
“No!” There was a sharp intake of breath. “She’s going to the restaurant?”
“Yup. And don’t sound so bloody surprised.”
“What did she say?”
“There was a long pause when I said we’d have to change it to our place, and then she asked if I’d mind if they kept the reservation because they’d been dying to go and I knew how impossible it was to get in and blah blah blah.”
“Okay, so it’s just the four of us, then. Even better. At least we won’t have to put up with Andy.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies.”
“So what can I bring?”
“You do dessert, how does that sound?”
“Perfect. We’ll see you Thursday.”
I love my friends, I think, curled up on the sofa next to Dan as Gregory helps himself to a drink and Trish kicks her shoes off to throw herself on the sofa opposite.
I love that I can have them over for dinner and wear jeans and fluffy slippers, and that it’s completely comfortable. I may not have grown up with a close family, but I am creating my own and there is surely as much, if not more, love here than with most blood ties.
“So.” Gregory sits down and sips his drink. “You said there was something you wanted to talk to us about.”
Dan reaches under the coffee table and brings out the photo album of the house in France. “Yup.” He slides it over to Trish and Gregory. “Have a look at this and tell us what you think.”
“What is it?”
“Have a look.”
I grin as they start to flick through.
“Let me guess,” Gregory says, turning over the pages. “You’ve suddenly come into a windfall and you’ve bought this villa in Tuscany and you’re going to pay for all of us to have a holiday.”
“Almost,” Dan laughs. “It’s not Tuscany, it’s the south of France, and there’s no windfall, but if you’re interested, it’s ours for the last two weeks in August.”
“Ours?” Trish looks at me, her eyes lighting up. “What do you mean?”
And Dan explains about the house, saying how much we’d love them to come.
“Done!” Gregory slaps his knee and reaches out to shake Dan’s hand. “We’re there.”
Trish jumps up and hugs me. “Oh, my God! This is what we’ve always talked about! Sharing a villa with friends. This is going to be the most amazing holiday! We’re going to have a ball!”
“We’re going to ask Lisa and Andy too,” I say, when we’re all sitting down again. “What do you think?”
“Absolutely!” Trish says.
“Unless Lisa gets a better invitation,” Dan says uncharacteristically.
“Meow!” Gregory laughs. “You’re getting as bad as our wives.”
“Hey! That’s not fair!” Trish interjects. “We love Lisa.”
“Which is why the two of you are constantly bitching about her.” Dan raises an eyebrow.
“It’s not bitching,” I say calmly. “It’s just talking, and anyway, we wouldn’t say anything about her that we wouldn’t say to her face.” This last statement isn’t strictly true, but it sounds good and, more important, it sounds true and it’s a great mitigating circumstance.
“Calm down, calm down. As far as I’m concerned the more the merrier.”
“There are five bedrooms, so if we bring travel cots the kids can sleep together.”
“Or in with us,” Trish says. “Whatever. But how exciting! A holiday! And the south of France!” She turns the pages of the photo album back to page one and I sit next to her on the sofa as we study each picture intently, trying to memorize every shutter, every stone wall, every old cherry lit en bateau in the bedrooms.
“Isn’t it idyllic?” sighs Trish.
“I know. And the best thing about it is it’s only eight weeks away.”
“Oh, God.” Trish looks alarmed. “Eight weeks? I still haven’t got rid of the bloody baby weight. How much weight can you lose in eight weeks?”
“About fifteen pounds. Easily,” I say. “But you’ll have to start your diet tomorrow. I’ve slaved over the kitchen stove all afternoon and you have to eat everything tonight.”
“Okay.” Trish smiles. “I’ll try not to think of bikinis.”
“Bikinis?” I look at her in horror. “Are you kidding? I haven’t worn a bikini since I was about sixteen.”
“I know. Me neither. But one can dream.” She looks glum. “I bet Lisa wears a bikini.”
“Yeah. And I bet she looks amazing.” I slump next to Trish and we both look down at our protruding stomachs.
“Do you think I could get rid of this in eight weeks?”
I look down at my own. “I think it would be a lot bloody easier to just go out and buy a Miraclesuit.”
“A Miraclesuit?”
“It’s a new thing. Guarantees you lose ten pounds just by putting it on.”
Gregory, who’s listening, starts to laugh. “If it guarantees you lose ten pounds just by putting it on, then it really is a miracle. Do you mean it guarantees you look as if you’ve lost ten pounds?”
“Oh, don’t be so bloody pedantic,” I huff. “You know what I mean. So. Sh
all we go Miracle-shopping next week?”
“Count me in,” Trish says as we walk into the kitchen for supper.
15
Why didn’t anyone ever warn me about packing when there are children involved, particularly children who have just turned one and seem to need everything bar the kitchen sink?
Packing used to take me half an hour. I would scribble down a rough list, making sure I never forgot deodorant or underwear, would pull everything out of my wardrobe, lay it in a suitcase, and I’d be done.
This time—our first holiday since having a child—packing has taken me about three weeks. I’ve made lists upon lists on top of lists. I’ve had to pack for the holiday, then pack for the flight. I’ve woken up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and jumped out of bed to retrieve the Calpol from the medicine cupboard to shove it in the bag that’s coming on board with us.
I’ve had to pack toys, and nappies, and wipes, and snacks. I’ve packed books, and baby sunblock, and antibacterial wipes, and changes of clothes.
We’ve got the travel cot, the car seat, the bouncy chair, and the portable high chair. And I’ve never been so tired in my life.
If I didn’t need a holiday before, I certainly need a holiday now.
I’m in Tom’s room, looking around, for about the fiftieth time today. We’re leaving tomorrow and I’ve been over and over everything, but I can’t shake this nagging feeling that there’s something I’ve forgotten, although, as Dan keeps telling me, we’re going to the south of France, not Outer Mongolia. If there’s anything we’ve forgotten, we’ll be able to get it there.
The phone rings and I hear Dan get it, as I try to guess who he’s talking to—I can usually tell just by the tone of his voice.
It’s his mother. Definitely. I raise my eyes to the ceiling, even though the only person to see me is Tom, who starts to laugh because he thinks I’m making faces for him, which I then proceed to do as I shut the door. Whatever she’s got to say I’m not very interested in hearing it.