Page 58 of The Bordeaux Book Club

She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not like that, I don’t think. I think I just miss, well, Mum. Having my friends around. London. Just being in a more familiar place.’

‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘but sweetheart, it’s not forever. Three years and we’ll be able to make another move if you want.’

She couldn’t tell him that three years, in this situation, living in paradise but somehow feeling on the outside of it all felt too much to bear. It wasn’t fair on him. She’d agreed to move – even been excited by it. And he was working his socks off for the airline. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I just miss you, that’s all.’

‘Well, I miss you too,’ he said, firmly. ‘And when I get back, how about we find a babysitter or au pair or something and hit the town. You can show me all the sights of Bordeaux. A proper day out – just you and me.’

‘Sounds good,’ she said, although she’d only left Bella with a babysitter a few times and never for more than a few hours. She remembered Grace’s words. Monica had sensed, without knowing much about Grace’s past, that she’d been unlucky in love – and perhaps her view of relationships was tarnished by that. By being hurt.

But still, what she’d said had made a lot of sense.What do you want? Need? What things make you happy?Don’t wait for someone else to bring those to you. Build them for yourself.

Sure, she barely spoke French, felt lonely living by herself. But Grace was right. There was life out there for her to find, if she pushed herself a little. She remembered those first days in London – knowing barely anyone. The way she’d found things to do, galleries, museums, clubs, and how her life had finallyopened up and taken shape. Yes, she was older now, in a country where communication might prove an issue. But she was still the same person. Still someone who knew how to build a life, despite not knowing a soul. And perhaps she oughtn’t to put the responsibility for her happiness into Peter’s hands. It was a lot for him to carry, for anyone to carry.

It wouldn’t hurt, at least, to put some feelers out, she decided, opening her laptop and pulling up Facebook. There, she clicked on a group link to ‘English speakers in Bordeaux’ and began to type.

23

Alfie put on the bedside light, the one with the bulb that glowed softly – anything too bright would hurt her eyes. In bed, his mum turned and blinked. ‘What time is it?’ she said.

‘Eleven.’

‘Oh, God, I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘Don’t be silly. It’s good to get rest. It’ll do you good,’ he said. He gently helped her to sit up, noticing how fragile and almost birdlike she was now. The feeling of ribs against skin – too thin. He didn’t let it show in his face, puffing up the pillows instead so she could sink back into a comfortable sitting position.

He sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How’s the pain?’

‘I’ll live,’ she said.

‘Mum?’ he prompted. ‘Six out of ten? Eight?’

‘Something like that,’ she said. He passed her the four pills she was required to take each morning and she swallowed them with some difficulty. It was hard to watch her throat constrict and move, as she struggled to wash them down her parched throat with his proffered glass of water.

He put his hand on her arm. ‘Well done,’ he said.

She looked at him then. ‘When did you get so grown up?’ she asked. ‘I should be taking care of you!’

He shook his head. ‘Mum, you’ve done that for years. It’s my turn now. And I want to. I’m happy to.’

‘Are you off out today? Any classes?’

‘A couple, but look, I don’t have to…’

‘Nonsense! I’ve got Margaret coming in this afternoon, and I’ve always got your number if I need…’ she said stubbornly. ‘Your degree is important.’

He looked at her. ‘Mum?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Promise you’ll call me if you need anything.’

She rolled her eyes, looking a little more like herself. ‘Brownie’s honour,’ she said, holding up three fingers in a salute.

He smiled. He was good now, at putting on a brave face. Although every time he saw her, he experienced a sense of shock – at how thin she looked, how frail, how tired. It seemed that one version of her – the healthy version before she’d got sick – was fixed in his mind, meaning each time he saw the version ravaged by this cruel disease, it was a little like a stab to the heart.

‘I’ve nearly finishedMadame Bovary,’ he told her. ‘I’ll read a bit to you later, if you like.’

Her eyes were closed, but she smiled slightly and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

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