Page 57 of The Bordeaux Book Club

She tried to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth, as she’d been taught in the yoga classes she’d used to attend. It was meant to help with anxiety, but the feeling of guilt and apprehension still buzzed inside her.

She knew she’d probably hurt her friend, but then Grace had hurt her too – forced her to look something in the face despite the pain it caused. She didn’t want to lose Nathan. And, for all of her complaints about allotments and veg and digging and endless egg-related meals and vengeful chickens, she didn’t want to lose her life – their life – here either. She loved the buzz of Bordeaux, and the fact that although they lived close, once she was home, she felt removed from the city and out in endless countryside. She loved the house – the biggest she’d ever lived in – for all its faults and cracks and the strange wiring system. She’d loved, until recently at least, watching Scarlett grow up and blossom and – even though things were difficult between them right now – still felt her girl was better off growing up here, where she could have both her parents around most of the time, where she was settled in her school and where she had the opportunity to be truly bilingual – despite her complaints about conjugation and endless grammar.

But she couldn’t carry on holding this secret – this suspicion – inside any longer.

There was a creak up above as Scarlett opened her shutters and window, letting air and light into a bedroom stale from this morning’s lie-in.

‘Morning,’ she called, as Scarlett’s crumpled, still sleepy face came into view for a moment. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yeah, OK,’ came the response.

‘Fancy coming and helping me?’ she said. ‘I’m hoping to dig over the beds before your father comes back.’

‘He’s out again!’ Scarlett exclaimed. ‘Shouldn’t he be helping? I thought he was the chief gardener – that’s what he’s always saying.’

Strictly speaking, Nathan had never said those exact words. But in fairness, he did drink out of a mug that had that festooned on the side.

‘He’s not doing it on his own though, is he, Scarlett? He’s part of the team. We all are.’

There was a snort.

‘What?’ Leah said, suddenly angry.

‘Nothing.’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘Are you coming down to help?’

‘Maybe later,’ her daughter said. ‘Too tired.’

‘Tired!’ Leah found herself saying. ‘You don’t know what tired is! I’ve been up for, what, four hours!’ There it was again: a phrase straight from her mother’s playbook.

‘Not my fault,’ came the response.

‘Come on, Scarlett. You could at least come and help.’

But the window closed above her, decisively. She probably ought to run upstairs and assert her authority, force Scarlett downstairs. But she’d realised recently that you only really have authority as a parent if your children go along with it. You can’t actually drag a child from her bedroom, put a fork in her hand and force her to dig.

She stood for a minute, looking over the view, feeling the sun play lightly on her skin. She should really call Grace back. But what would she say? She hadn’t meant to hurt her, but she stood by what she’d said.

Sighing, she got up and grabbed the fork again. It would be nice to get the bed at least slightly underway before Nathan got back. To show him she was committed to their life here, even if he wasn’t. Her copywriting shift started in two hours, but she had time to at least make a bit of an inroad.

She drove the fork into the earth again and tried to put thoughts of errant husbands, hostile daughters, insistent friends and malevolent chickens from her mind. She couldn’t solve any of those problems right now, but this… with a bit more effort, she could at least make a difference here.

22

‘So, how are my girls?’ Peter said, the moment Monica picked up the phone.

‘We’re OK.’

‘You sound a bit…’ He paused. ‘Is something wrong, Mon?’

She had tried to put on her usual cheery voice – the voice of the person she was trying to be – but he’d detected something in her tone. ‘I’m fine,’ she began. Then thought better of it. ‘It’s just, I can’t help feeling a bit… lonely sometimes,’ Monica tried to keep her voice level as she held a sleeping Bella on her shoulder. Peter was calling her from a hotel in Dubai, somewhere she’d never been. It was hard to picture him there and she was aware – not for the first time – of the distance that stretched between them.

‘Come on, Mon!’ he said. ‘You’re in the middle of Bordeaux – all the action happens there! How can you feel lonely!’ His joviality sounded slightly forced.

‘I’m not sure,’ she admitted, patting Bella’s back slightly as her child wriggled in her sleep. ‘I suppose… I don’t have any real friends here, not really. Not yet. And it’s the night-times. When she’s up, everything’s so… well, silent and it’s just her and mein the half-light. And I feel kind of…’ She searched for a word. ‘Sometimes it feels as if we’re the only people left in the world.’

He was silent for a minute. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘you might need to go to the doctor? Are you feeling… it’s common isn’t it, to feel a bit down after…?’

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