Page 21 of A Riviera Retreat
Looking at the postcard after she’d written her message, Matilda imagined herself living in one of the houses, enjoying the good weather this part of the coast was famed for, wandering down to the market every day, meeting friends for coffee, exploring the town, taking a boat ride out to the Iles de Lérins that she could see lying low out in the bay. Matilda sighed. All the things she and William had planned to do together when he retired. She missed William so much. Moving to France had been their dream. Would she be strong enough to build a new life in a different country without him at her side? Or would she be better staying put and keeping safe the life she already had and knew?
Maybe she was foolish to even think about moving away from Bristol? After all, she had everything she needed on her doorstep there, plus Sheila had become a good friend and there were many happy memories buried deep in her subconscious. She knew those memories would accompany her wherever she lived, but she dreaded them fading away as her life moved on. And making new friends rather than mere acquaintances certainly got harder as you aged.
On the other hand, since William had died, her life had settled down into a predictable rut. A rut that would get deeper the older she got and the longer she stayed in it.
She smiled to herself, remembering them having one of those inevitable frank discussions about getting older and one of them dying, leaving the other alone. William had urged her not to shut herself away but to live her life in the way that was best for her if he should die first. Even meet someone new. She definitely wasn’t to don widow’s weeds and give up on life – he’d threatened to come back and haunt her if she did. She was to follow her own dreams.
Matilda sighed, recalling how determined William had been to make her promise that she would continue to live a fulfilling life even without him in it. Something she’d failed to do since he’d died.
‘You need to be there for Josh as a fully functioning member of the human race, not a shadow in the corner. No retreating into yourself after I’m gone. Promise?’
Of course, she’d promised, but who would know if she didn’t keep her promise. Only her and her dodgy ankle.
Matilda stood up and took the postcards and her pen back into her room. She’d forgotten to buy stamps, so posting the cards would have to wait until her next visit down to Cannes or the village. Right now, she was going to walk around the garden to exercise her ankle, which thankfully was gaining in strength every day.
Pierre, busy weeding the vegetable patch tucked out of sight of the main garden, raised a hand and threw her a smile in greeting when Lola barked, alerting him to Matilda’s presence, but he didn’t stop working. Not wanting to be a nuisance, Matilda waved back and kept walking. She had some serious thinking to do.
* * *
Both Matilda and Vicky insisted on helping Chelsea prepare dinner, with Vicky freely admitting she was what her grandmother always called ‘a plain cook’.
‘I do like cooking, but I’ve never seemed able to get beyond the basics of family comfort food. You know, cottage pie, casseroles, roast chicken, that kind of meal. Cooking with you will be like having a masterclass in cordon-bleu cuisine.’ Vicky glanced at Chelsea. ‘You won’t throw things at me, will you? Or shout? I’ve heard some chefs are very temperamental.’
‘I promise not to throw anything – or shout,’ Chelsea smiled. ‘Right, aprons on and let’s get to it.’
Working companionably around the central island, they were soon chatting away as they peeled and sliced vegetables, and watching Chelsea as she made a bowl of mackerel pâté.
Amy, popping into the kitchen to see how they were getting on, opened a bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. As they all toasted each other, Chelsea’s phone beeped. Amy went to pick it up off the dresser and hand it to her, but Chelsea shook her head.
‘It’ll be my father. I’ll call him back later. Right, the starter’s done, main course is underway. Olivia had crêpes Suzette down for dessert, so I need to make some light pancakes.’
The phone clicked over to voice message and into the silence that suddenly engulfed the kitchen, Simon Newman’s voice rang out. ‘Chelsea, if you don’t ring me back before midnight tonight, I shall come to France tomorrow. I need to know exactly what’s been going on. Understand? Before midnight tonight. I’ll be waiting.’ The phone clicked off. In the strained silence that followed, Chelsea gave a weak smile.
‘My dad is a bit cross with me over… something that happened a few weeks ago,’ she said, looking at everyone. ‘Something I never told him about at the time, but someone else clearly has.’
‘He didn’t sound cross cross,’ Matilda said. ‘More concerned for you.’
‘Would he really come here?’ Vicky asked. ‘Not always easy to get a flight when you want it.’
‘Dad always travels by private plane,’ Chelsea said. ‘If I don’t ring him, he’ll be here.’ She took a deep breath. As much as she wanted to, she knew she couldn’t put off talking to him any longer. ‘I’ll ring him later. Right now we’ve got pancakes to make.’
Whisking the eggs and flour together, Chelsea tried to keep her mind focused on the job in hand and not think about the conversation she was avoiding with her father. She’d ignored all three of his text messages, so she wasn’t really surprised he’d phoned. Knowing he would have no hesitation in following through on his ultimatum, she’d ring him this evening after dinner – and face his wrath. She knew she’d let him down big time.
It wasn’t until later that evening when everyone had eaten and declared everything to be delicious, that she excused herself and went to her room. As she’d known he would, Simon picked up the phone almost before she’d heard the tone ringing.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘You okay, Sunshine?’
Chelsea smiled. At least he was still calling her by his pet name for her. ‘I’m having a lovely holiday,’ she said.
‘You know that’s not what I meant,’ Simon said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Kit, or whatever his damn name is? Learning the sordid details from friends was not good.’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. I was ashamed and I knew I’d let you down.’
‘I thought you understood you could tell me anything. I hate you being hurt.’
‘I know, Dad. Who told you anyway?’
