“Why? Because you don't get to spend the next few days in Emma's scintillating company?”
“Oh, it won't be that bad. You've got Sam.” I can't see why this is so marvelous but I let it pass. “I've got to try to sort out work and James.”
“Is he still mad?”
“He's being pretty cool at the moment.”
I can't think of anything sympathetic to say so I pat her hand for a little while. “I don't know what to pack,” I proffer.
Holly looks at me sardonically. “I might lose my boyfriend and my job and you don't know what to pack for your imminent jolly to the south of France?”
Put like this, and sympathy for Holly aside, I actually start to feel a little excited. It's been ages since I've had a holiday (I don't think you can count my around-the-world trip of a few weeks ago) and although I will be saddled with Emma for a while, I get to see the French Riviera, have a swim in the sea and maybe sip something delicious while wearing just a T-shirt and a sarong. And although I absolutely love the rugged wildness of the Cornish coast, there is something supremely seductive about the sophistication of the Côte d'Azur. Oooh, and I can pack my new bikini too.
“I'll come and help,” offers Holly.
There is a huge rumpus going on upstairs. My mother is flying from room to room with great armfuls of clothes yelling “Shit McGregor,” while my father is sitting on their bed, sedately reading a map.
We try to ignore her and take a swift left into my bedroom. Holly strides over to the wardrobe and flings it open. I start to gather a few toiletries and put them on the bed.
“Things are looking a little on the sparse side,” comments Holly. “I thought you dressed like that because you chose to.”
I look at her indignantly. “I do choose to!”
“You and I really need to go shopping, Clemmie.”
“But things don't tend to look the same on me as they do on you.”
“Nonsense! You've got a gorgeous pair of legs. The fact that you could do with a small truckload of conditioner is neither here nor there but you have lovely wavy hair.”
“Is that what is commonly known as a shit sandwich?” I ask dryly.
“What exactly do you do to your hair, by the way? Do you dry it properly?”
“Of course I dry it properly.”
“How do you dry it?”
“I go to bed with it wet and by morning it's dry.”
“That must make for some interesting hairstyles.”
“Every day is different.”
“God, I wish I was coming with you, I'd soon lick you into shape. You might meet some gorgeous Frenchman. Do try and make an effort.”
“I think I'm still a bit off men,” I mumble. “I think Seth is the reason why I'm not very good with clothes. He used to buy me those designer dresses, do you remember? I thought he was just being kind but he simply wanted me dressed in the latest designer names when I was with him. I used to feel so uncomfortable and now I just don't know what suits me anymore.”
“He eroded your confidence on everything, didn't he?” Holly squeezes my arm. “We'll definitely go shopping when you get back. What are you packing in, by the way?”
“This?” I proffer my rucksack.
“I'll get you my wheely case,” says Holly despondently.
“Darlings, isn't it marvelous that we're going by this sleeper train?” says my mother as she whizzes by with yet more clothes.
“Is it?” I ask.
“Of course! Morgan can come with us now! His pet passport is all up to date.”
Oh goody. Morgan is coming too. Thank God they don't have passports for seagulls.
The next morning, after we've dropped Norman with his beanbag and several tins of sardines at Barney's house, we pick up Sam and Emma. Emma has been at Sam's since Martin's visit and I have to say that the atmosphere in our house has lightened considerably. Not that it made a great deal of difference to my parents because my mother is so thick-skinned that she wouldn't notice an atmosphere if it came up and slapped her in the face (which is funny because she claims to be terribly sensitive to it), and my father is perennially good-humored anyway (and has to be to put up with the aforementioned mother), but Holly and I have certainly rejoiced in her absence.
My father's Range Rover has a funny little child's seat which folds down in the boot and, since there are six of us, one of us draws the short straw. Emma is pregnant, Holly and my mother claim to get car sick (if only) and Sam is a bloke. So that leaves yours truly. At least I don't have to make polite conversation but get to pull faces at other motorists on the motorway.
We drop a very despondent Holly in Bristol. She lets me out of the boot of the car so I can take her place. I give her a big kiss and a hug. “Thanks for the suitcase.”
“Promise you'll call me as soon as you get back,” she pleads.
“Of course I will!”
“Try and pump Emma for some details for ‘High Society.' Joe is climbing the wall about it and I've got to write copy in a couple of days.”
“I'll try. Where will you be?”
“I might stay at James's flat for a while until Martin stops hounding us. If James will let me, of course.”
“Why wouldn't he?”
“I don't think he's that keen on moving in with me anymore,” she mumbles and looks at her hands.
“Sweetheart, it's just a row. It'll blow over.” Holly doesn't look so sure but she gives me another kiss and I climb in next to my mother, ready for a long journey to London.
It takes some time to get through passport control and the X-ray machines at Waterloo Station due to the prolonged examination of Morgan's pet passport.
After a quick pit stop at Duty Free to feed my mother's appalling fag and gin habit we board the train for Lille, where we have to change for the night train to Nice. We spend a pleasant couple of hours playing cards and teaching Emma how to play Slam! (I suggested we play Slap! instead but no one agreed with me).
On the platform at Lille we take some seats to wait for the train and my mother and Morgan whizz off to see if they can find some whisky for my father, which they completely forgot to buy at Waterloo, and my father goes to change some money. Sam seems completely absorbed in the paper so that leaves Emma and me sitting in an awkward silence. I stare long and hard at my feet until eventually I feel forced to speak.
“Er, are you okay?” I ask Emma tentatively.
She deigns to give me an extremely withering look. No less than I deserve. “I've been better.”
Hmm. So have I. I let another minute of silence pass before I try again.
“Still feeling sick all the time?”
“Yes. Still feeling sick.”
I try staring at Sam, willing him to stop reading his paper and help me out. I must transfer some vibes to him somehow because he suddenly looks up and smiles at Emma.
“Are you sad to be leaving England?” he asks.
“Yes, a bit. I don't know when I'll be coming back.” Her face brightens a little as she speaks to him and I try to empathize with her predicament.
“Will your father come down and visit you?”
“Oh yes, as soon as he can. He needs to bring the rest of my stuff but just wants to make sure Martin has gone away for good first.”
“But you will come back to England eventually?”
“Eventually. I don't know when.”
“But Emma, the south of France won't be such a bad place. These people you're staying with are ex-pats, aren't they?” She gives a small nod. “So they'll know other English people and you'll soon make some friends. There's usually quite a little community out there.” Sam looks at me and I nod encouragingly. “Besides, it will be warm and you can swim in the sea for most of the year. Think of all that lovely French bread!” He gives her a broad grin and I find myself grinning too. “And runny cheese and pâté,” I add on.
They both give me a look. What?
“I can't eat runny cheese and pâté,” says Emm
a.
“She's pregnant,” says Sam.
Bugger. I forgot.
“Yes, but you can after the birth.”
Well recovered there, Clemmie.
Sam pats Emma's hand. “It won't be as bad as you think, I promise.” Emma looks at him and I can see her really believing in him.
“Thank you, Sam. You've been kind to me. All of you.” She looks carefully from Sam to my father, who has returned from his money trip and is now busy reading Sam's discarded paper, and studiously misses me out. Well, really. How long is she going to hold it against me?
“Thank God I managed to find some whisky,” announces my mother as she returns. This is one thing I like about my parents. They never travel long distances sober.
“Why are you carrying Morgan?” I ask.
“He tried to pee on an umbrella.”
“Oh God, we're not going to have too many of these incidents, are we?”
“He just didn't like the look of the woman, darling. He took a pathological dislike to her, actually.”
“So he tried to pee on her umbrella?”
“Well, she was rather shifty looking.”
“Clemmie, we've got two double couchettes and one single booked,” says my father. “Naturally Emma should have the single, so I think you should share with your mother and Sam and I will double up.”
“Darling, I do hope you've washed your hair again since the sardine incident,” says my mother. I look at her incredulously as they all laugh because it was her fault anyway and she talks in her sleep and Morgan snores so it's not as though she's drawn the short straw.
We are called to our train and with some trepidation we haul our luggage aboard and start to look for our couchettes. Because of our late booking, they are dotted over three carriages. My mother and I install Emma in hers and then leave to find ours. Panting slightly, I haul my little wheely suitcase and my mother's bag, which she couldn't manage with her wheely suitcase and Morgan, down the very slim corridor until we find our number. With some excitement I peer in.
There are two sort of sofa things facing each other with a slim piece of floor in between. They must somehow convert into beds. A little cupboard houses a sink and some glasses and there are some string luggage racks hanging over the beds. It is very snug indeed.
Morgan's bottom and I are going to be in very close proximity until tomorrow morning.
“Darling! Isn't this fabulous?” enthuses my mother from about two inches away. “Just like a doll's house. Shall we unpack?”
With a great deal of effort, I haul our bags into the cabin and, after a bit of maneuvering, manage to close the door.
“There!” I say. “We're in!”
We stand for a second and survey the luggage. I can't even see our feet and Morgan is already sitting on one of the sofa things. So I decide that it simply isn't possible for both of us to be in the cabin and unpack at the same time.
“I think I might just go and find Sam and get a drink.”
“Wonderful idea. Order a large G and T for me and I'll be along in a while.”
“I'll be in the restaurant car then.”
I knock on Sam's door on the way to find he is facing a similar problem with my father and gladly volunteers to accompany me. It's funny but this is the most amount of time I have ever spent with Sam alone. There is normally always Holly or Barney or my parents around and it feels strangely intimate.
The restaurant car is already filling up as we bag a table and, having ordered two large gin and tonics, relax into our window seats.
“This is quite exciting, isn't it?” I stretch out my toes and give them a little wiggle. A large gin and tonic and a few days off work. God, I am easy to please.
Sam smiles back at me and for once a desultory, half-sarcastic comment doesn't drip off his lips. He simply says, “Yes, it is.”
Our drinks arrive and we silently clink our glasses together and take a very welcome sip. It has been a harrowing few days.
“So what did you tell Charlotte in the end?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I had to tell her the truth. I didn't tell her that Emma is Sir Christopher McKellan's daughter though. But she would be really pissed off if she thought I was just going off for a jolly holiday with you lot.”
“Would she?” I ask in surprise.
He looks up at me. “Wouldn't you be if your boyfriend went off without you?”
“I suppose so. I just think that you're part of the family so it seems entirely natural to me, but Charlotte probably doesn't see it that way.”
“No, I don't think she does.”
With a jolt, the train starts to make its way out of the station, which distracts us for a minute as we watch the platform recede.
“Where's Emma?” asks Sam.
I shrug. “In her couchette, I think.”
“Your parents will collect her on their way through, won't they?”
Don't know. Don't care. “Why all this sudden concern for Emma?” I ask in slight annoyance.
“I just think she's had a rough time, and she's pregnant as well. Must be awful.” He takes a sip of his drink.
“Just because she's pregnant doesn't make her the bloody Madonna, you know. Nasty women get pregnant too.”
“Why are you so worked up about her, Clem? This isn't like you.”
I pause slightly. How does he know what's like me? “She just annoys me. I've never really liked her. She doesn't have any eyebrows.”
Sam lets loose a guffaw of laughter. “You can't judge someone on their eyebrows, that's absolutely ridiculous.”
I cross my arms, and look out of the window. Of course I don't dislike Emma because of her eyebrows. It's her whole attitude that's the problem. I take a sip of my gin and tonic and let the silence endure. I hope it's killing him.
“Talking of eyebrows, did you see Catherine Fothersby making eyes at Matt the other night?” says Sam.
I turn to him in delight, all manner of sulks forgotten. Now, this is just my tipple. “Bloody hell, I thought they were going to pop out of her head!” I rejoin. “Mrs. Fothersby can't be all that pleased about Catherine being on the stage.”
“She'll be pleased if Catherine and Matt end up together.”
I frown. “But they're chalk and cheese, Matt surely wouldn't be interested in her?”
“Oh I don't know, Clem. I think our Catherine might have hidden depths. I bet she can't wait to give up that job of hers and become the model vicar's wife. Tea parties and whist drives. She is undoubtedly her mother's daughter.” He pauses for a second. “Talking of jobs, have you thought any more about work, Clemmie?”
God, do we have to bring up Mr. Trevesky? I am desperately trying to forget about him.
“Well, I said I would be back within a few days and Mr. Trevesky replied that if I wasn't then he would—”
“No, I mean long term,” Sam interrupts. “What are you going to do long term?”
“I don't know,” I say in a small voice, my mood slightly deflating. I fiddle nervously with my glass. “Why?”
“After our conversation the other day I just wondered if you should think about doing something else in the art world. I mean, St. Ives has the Tate, and Padstow and other places have lots of galleries. Perhaps you could even open your own?”
I look at him thoughtfully. Work in a gallery. I hadn't really thought about that. Open my own gallery. Maybe. In time. But what a wonderful idea. I even start to feel a little excited. I could purchase works of art, light them properly, have drinks evenings and events.
“Thanks, Sam,” I say. “That's a really good idea.”
He smiles and I notice suddenly that he has a really nice smile. It's warm and friendly and shows all his teeth. Great teeth too, white and gleaming. I haven't really clocked any of this before. How can you have known someone for over twelve years and not noticed their smile?
Before I can reflect on this any further, my parents come noisily into the carriage with Emma in tow.
 
; “Emma said she wasn't hungry but we absolutely insisted,” says my father cheerfully. “Can't have that baby of hers going hungry! Budge up, Clemmie!”
The tables are only designed for four but because my parents don't want to leave someone to eat across the gangway, they insist we can all manage to sit together. Luckily the seats are of the bench variety so we can squeeze up. Unluckily they haven't reckoned on the size of my arse.
Emma and Sam sit together and watch with some amusement as all three of us try to squeeze on. I end up with half a butt cheek on my mother's lap, feeling somewhat giggly.
“There!” says my mother. “Beaucoup des gin et tonics, s'il vous plaît!” she adds to the waiter, who tuts slightly at our unconventional seating arrangement but quickly recovers his good humor when my mother turns her charming, infectious smile on him. We have that contagious joie de vivre of people just off on holiday and he's prepared to be magnanimous.
We have an absolutely marvelous evening. The wine flows and my good temper isn't even dented by the fact that Sam won't let any of us have pâté or runny cheese on account of the fact it would be unfair to Emma. In fact, the sacrifice is well worth it because Emma becomes positively good-humored as we chug through the darkness of the French countryside toward the coast and her final destination.
Chapter Seventeen
We all cheerfully stumble back to our cabin for a quick nightcap without Emma, who pleads tiredness and the need for an early night. Morgan is pathetically pleased to see us and I notice someone has been in and made the sofas into beds. I sit heavily down on one of them and pull my feet off the floor so Morgan can't pee on them. My mother lights her first cigarette of the evening and draws deeply on it. She hadn't been able to smoke in the dining car because it is nonsmoking, which normally doesn't deter her but there was also Emma to consider. Actually I'm quite sure these little couchettes are nonsmoking too.
“Whisky, Clemmie?” offers my father. “Actually, it's all we've got unless you want neat gin.”
“Whisky will be fine, Dad. In fact, I think I'm developing a bit of a taste for it.” I push the blinds to one side and take a peek out of the window. It's dark and raining and not really what I had in mind.