Bordeaux Housewives

‘So?’ she asks breathlessly. ‘What do you think so far? Isn’t it beautiful, Timmie? Don’t you think it is?’

And of course it is. It’s lovely. ‘It looks very pleasant,’ he says.

‘Oh yes, doesn’t it! I’m so glad you think so! Do you think we can park in the Square? A couple of others have. Maybe we could park next to the Peugeot…’

But Timothy informs her they aren’t stopping in the Place Marronnier, or anywhere in Montmaur. Not today. His secretary (Lucy) has booked them into the five-star Relais des Champs, with gym, spa, swimming pool etc., about fifteen kilometres on the other side of the village. Timothy says he wants to go straight there. He has calls to make. ‘They have a beauty-salon thingummy, I understand. I’m sure it’ll keep you busy. We’ll look round the property tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh!’ All at once Daffy’s thin, overwrought body seems to subside with disappointment. ‘…Oh, but Timothy, we can’t. The owners are expecting us! I wrote a letter telling them we were arriving this afternoon…’

‘Is that right? And in which language, might I inquire?’

‘French, Timothy!’ she cries, half bursting with pride. ‘I got Mr Hawkins – James’s old French teacher – to translate it!’

His pink lips purse. ‘Well…My word,’ he says. ‘And did they happen to send a reply?’

‘N-no. Not exactly. But I know they got the letter because I – I sent it, you know, when it’s absolutely definitely guaranteed they’re going to get it. Expensive Delivery, or whatever it’s called. I paid extra. Actually, Timothy,’ she adds nervously, ‘I sort of told them we’d be staying there tonight. So we could sort of get a feel of the place. I had no idea –’

‘You had no idea.’ He smiles at her, in the way which Daffy has always encouraged herself to believe is tender. ‘You never do have much of an “idea”, do you, Daffy?’ An avuncular smile, hard at the edges. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course we’re not staying here!’

‘Timothy, we have to! Otherwise what am I going to tell them?’

He looks at the building he now owns, and which his wife has grown so curiously attached to; at the paint peeling off the pale grey, rotting shutters, the patches of damp showing through the stonework round the windows, the rusty, crooked sign above the front door, the plastic tables and chairs on the tiny terrace…HOTEL MARRONNIER indeed! The mere thought of its bedrooms makes him shudder. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he says again, a little more sharply this time. ‘You can tell them whatever you like. Tomorrow. Though, frankly, Daphne, the place is very obviously deserted. And has been, by the look of things, for some time.’

‘But I wrote to them…They’ll be so disappointed…’

‘I sincerely doubt that.’

‘I’m sure they will.’

‘In any case, if your imperceptible “friends” don’t like the way we arrange our schedule they’re quite free to go and find themselves an alternative buyer.’

‘NO TIMOTHY!’ She sounds hysterical. ‘PLEASE DON’T LET THEM DO THAT!’

‘Daphne.’ He sighs and smiles at her, enjoying her panic and his secret knowledge. He begins to move the car forward. ‘On this one occasion, Daphne, I must ask that you kindly do me the service of allowing me to know what’s best.’

‘Oh, Timothy, please –’

‘That’s enough.’ He moves the car forward, passing through the sunny square without a backward glance, leaving Daffy’s romantic dreams of a rustic night with her husband well behind them.

‘Right then,’ says Timothy, taking off his tie, throwing it on the five-star hotel bed and picking up his mobile. ‘I’ll leave you to unpack, shall I, Daphne?’ He’s always especially affable when he’s about to call Lucy. ‘I think I’ll go and stretch my legs. Have a little walk. Why don’t you telephone Emma Rankin? Check what time she wants us to arrive – and get the directions, could you?’

‘Mmm, yes.’ Daffy says, feeling sick. She’s going to have to come clean at some point. ‘Actually Timothy…’ She hesitates.

‘What? Don’t tell me you’ve left her telephone number behind?’

‘No! No, of course not.’

‘Because if you have I can call Rory at the bank. Rory will have the number.’

‘No, no. I’ve got it.’

‘Right then,’ he says, finger pads itching now, thinking only of Lucy. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

FEELING THE FEAR AND DOING IT ANYWAY (#ulink_0f25dc9b-5049-54ef-92dc-015723407102)

Alone in the room, Daffy stares at the hotel telephone as if it were a ticking bomb. Emma, of course, never replied to Daffy’s rambling message, and Daffy never quite dared to call again. Emma Rankin has about as much intention of giving them dinner tonight as – as Timothy has of ever allowing her to have another child. Which is another story. An open wound for Daffy, lonely all her life, torn from her only son, and who has always wanted nothing more than to have a large family of her own.

She takes a mini bottle of whisky from the bedroom fridge and drinks, without a glass. A small rebellion. She’s never done it before. She knocks the whole thing back in one and immediately delves inside her bag for some chewing gum to cover the smell. She feels a warm, reassuring burn as the whisky goes down to her flat, empty stomach, then she grasps the receiver and dials Emma’s number.

Daffy listens to it ringing, imagines the sound in Emma’s château, slicing through her expensive peace. She imagines Emma, barefoot on her beautiful terrace, floating across her vast drawing room to answer. Panic overwhelms her. She hangs up.

Starts again. Dials. Imagines the telephone in Emma’s château, and imagines Emma, barefoot on that beautiful terrace, floating…She hangs up.

The third time she dials and keeps the telephone away from her ear until it’s too late to panic. She hears Emma’s soft, clipped, upper-class voice at the other end, slightly irritable after two false alarms, and now this – no voice on the other end.

‘Hello? Hello? Who is that?’

‘Oooh, Emma! Hi!’ squeaks Daffy.

‘Hello? Are you all right? Who is that?’

‘Sorry – Emma. Sorry. It’s me. I mean it’s Daffy. Fielding. Daffy Fielding. I don’t know if you remember…’

Emma frowns. Daffy Fielding. Daffy Fielding. Who the hell – ‘Oh, gosh. Hi,’ she drawls, reaching for a cigarette. ‘You left a message, didn’t you? So lovely. I meant to call you. Especially when I heard the good news. Congratulations! How’s it all going? Are you coming back very soon?’

‘The – er. I – er. It’s Daffy. Duff Fielding. You probably don’t remember but I came and saw you a couple of months ago…’

Emma slowly exhales her cigarette. ‘I remember it terribly well…Sweetie, are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. But I left a message…’

‘Yes, I know you did! Such a sweet message. I meant to call and everything, only the dog died and it was all so ghastly.’

‘Gosh. Look. I’m ever so sorry. About the dog. But the thing is – never mind all that. I left a message.’

‘Darling, are you sure you’re OK? You sound un peu distraite.’

‘What?’ Daffy snaps suddenly. ‘Actually I’m not OK. No!’ Silence, while she struggles for internal order. Fails. Wails: ‘You didn’t – Why didn’t you LISTEN to my message?’

‘Well but of course I did, darling!’ Emma laughs, slightly taken aback. ‘I was so happy to hear from you. In fact,’ she adds affably, ‘I was just this minute wondering what was keeping you away.’

‘Keeping me away?’

‘So…Anyway. How are you? Are you coming back to see us soon?’

‘Yes, of course we are,’ Daffy almost screams. ‘We’re here right now!…We’re staying at the Relais des Champs.’

‘Oh! Is it dreadful?’ Emma asks sympathetically. ‘I’ve heard mixed reports.’