Page 62 of When We Were Friends
‘But what if you still hate him?’ Olly muttered.
Morgan broke off the corner of her slice of toast and chewed on it for a second. ‘I don’t have all the answers, Olly, but I’m prepared to hear his story. Paige got together with him again as a grown woman. She runs her own business, has responsibilities, and has worked hard to achieve her goals. I’m hoping that means that she’s savvier than the teenager who was taken in – like the rest of us – and that he’s changed.’
What Felix had done at school had been coldblooded. It wasn’t like stealing someone’s lunch box or even cheating on a girlfriend. He’d spent weeks conning four girls into falling for him. Then humiliated them in front of the whole school…
However, since having Olly and gaining a different perspective on the school playground, her view had altered on bullies. Each had a story that explained their behaviour. Like the one in Olly’s class, at primary school. She made mean comments about other kids who didn’t have as nice school stationary or trainers. Turned out her parents had split up, a bad divorce, and her dad showered her with gifts, in a clumsy attempt to keep her happy. Occasionally, over the years, when she was less angry about the prom and about the gap growing between her and Olly over his dad, Morgan had wondered what Hugo’s story had been. Or rather Felix’s. His new name would take some getting used to.
Morgan reached for the jam and slathered more on the remaining piece of toast. She ate a large mouthful. ‘In any case, Olly… I trust you.’
Olly met her eye.
‘I trust you to make the right decision about your father. It doesn’t matter if I’m not keen. You’re one of the most intelligent, generous people I know. If you want to meet him, you’ll give Felix a fair hearing – and you won’t let him pull a fast one, either. You’ll see him for the man he is now.’ She put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Follow your heart, love. I’ll be here if you need me. We can meet him together, for the first time, if you prefer. Whatever suits.’ She kissed him on the head, went over to the sink and turned the taps on.
Olly stood up to go. He turned around at the kitchen door. ‘I had to be really brave, ringing Felix yesterday. I almost chickened out.’
‘I’m proud of you – whatever the outcome.’
‘Perhaps I take after you, Mum. You’re one of the bravest people I know. By my age, you had a two-year-old kid, you were looking out for me, making sure I had everything I needed, putting yourself second, getting a job you’ve never really liked much. That takes guts.’
Morgan gripped the washing-up sponge tightly.
‘And it’s time for you to be brave again. You’ve got two hours until one o’clock. Get yourself showered, Mum. Put on those nice grey jeans you bought. I’m thinking last chances don’t come along very often.’
Morgan turned just in time to catch the back of Olly’s head as he disappeared out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Here he was, taking charge of the situation. In that moment, not going to uni, not getting a degree, none of that mattered because everything up to this point had led to her being lucky enough to know such an amazing young man, an amazing adult.
Her – and Felix’s – wonderful son.
35
MORGAN
Morgan walked down Greenacre Lane, carrying the bunch of flowers and a box of homemade fudge. She’d experimented with a new recipe, yesterday, just in case she went: crème brûlée flavour. Olly had given her a thumbs-up through the window as she reached the end of their drive. Morgan turned up her collar, braced the fresh spring wind and hoped the trek would clear her head. Didn’t work. Shoulders tight, as if she was sat at her till and a long queue had formed, she stood before the front door, raised her hand to ring the bell, changed her mind. A face appeared at the window, curious eyes behind gold frames, a brown pixie cut especially blow dried. The door opened.
‘Bienvenue, ma pucette!So pleased you came. Are those flowers for me? You are so generous.’
‘Happy Birthday!’ Morgan passed her the box of fudge. Mlle Vachon may not have worn designer clothes, but she’d always smelt expensive, Parisian, and Morgan breathed in a heady, sweet scent.
‘Are your friends coming?’ she asked.
Morgan’s shoulders relaxed. They weren’t here. Good. Sad. ‘I don’t know,’ she said brightly and wiped her feet before following Mlle Vachon through the narrow hallway, lined with Impressionist prints, and into her lounge. ‘Now, how about you introduce me to that travel agent boyfriend of yours?’
Mlle Vachon stared at her for a moment and then smiled. ‘What would you like to drink? I have my favourite Pastis, but it’s not to everyone’s taste. There is wine, beer or soft drinks. Or George will be happy to make coffee.’
Two couples around Mlle Vachon’s age sat with plates full of food, talking about the upcoming celebrations for King Charles’s coronation in May. Another younger couple said hello and prompted their small girl, who sat cross-legged on the carpet, drawing, to do so too. Three women in their sixties chatted about a film they wanted to see. Jazz music played in the background. Mlle Vachon introduced Morgan to her friends and neighbours. It was an open-plan lounge and dining room and Mlle Vachon led Morgan to the back where cold food was set out on a large oval table. It included a sliced baguette alongside a plate of cured meats and a colourful cheese board. To the left was a hatch that went through to the kitchen. On it sat glasses and drinks bottles. In the kitchen stood a short, bald man, holding a tea towel in front of his checked waistcoat.
‘George, this is Morgan, who I told you about,’ said Mlle Vachon.
His wrinkles deepened and he came over to the hatch. He flipped the tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Lovely to meet you. What’s your poison?’
The doorbell rang and Mlle Vachon hurried away. As he poured out her glass of orange juice, Morgan asked George about his years working in travel. She mentioned her recent trip to the south of France.
‘The Riviera never goes out of fashion,’ he said. ‘In fact, Remy and I hope to holiday in St Tropez this year.’
Remy. How lovely. Morgan never knew that was Mlle Vachon’s name. Whereas the house was familiar, as the girls had visited once. Mlle Vachon had been off school after a minor operation, and they’d hated the temporary teacher that replaced her and made them conjugate verbs ad nauseam. They’d popped around with a get well card, even writing in French inside. The room was as cluttered, and the girls had loved it. Mlle Vachon had given them a free rein to look at her trinkets, like the collection of small, copper kettles in front of the fireplace and the little music boxes still on the unit next to the television. One played ‘La Vie en Rose’ and Morgan had closed her eyes, drinking thechocolat chaudMlle Vachon made them, pretending she was in a café in Paris. The armchairs were more modern now, she had blinds instead of curtains, and a metal uplighter instead of the old-fashioned lampshade, yet the place had kept its distinct, striking character with the same colour palette, gemstone themed with ruby reds, sapphire blues and emerald greens. On top of a unit to the right of a hatch was a large glass tank, containing two goldfish. She’d let the girls feed her old fish, Gauguin.
A woman came towards the hatch. ‘Morgan,’ said a calm voice.
‘Emily… you came?’
