Page 58 of Rendez-Vous in Cannes
Carefully, Anna undid the chain around her neck, opened the pendant and held it out to Teddy, hoping he’d take it and really look at the pictures and the lock of hair.
‘This – until three days ago – was all I had left to remind me of you and Philippe.’
But Teddy kept his still clenched hands down the side of his body and didn’t reach out for the pendent, as he silently looked at the two pictures and the lock of hair.
‘And in case you were wondering, the hair is yours. You had quite a mop of it when you were born.’
When Teddy didn’t respond, Anna smothered another sigh.
‘There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought about you; wondered where you were, what you were doing, how you’d turned out,’ Anna said quietly. ‘If I could have kept you, brought you up, believe me, I would have done. I hate the fact I had to give you up and that Philippe never knew you, but I don’t for one minute regret loving him and having his baby.’
‘No, the regrets are all on my side,’ Teddy snapped, a bitter edge to his voice. ‘And missing meeting my father by just a few days is probably the biggest one of all. He was the one I wanted to meet – not you – the woman who gave me away.’
Anna felt herself shrivelling under the harshness of his gaze. His eyes, a deep velvet chocolate brown so much like Philippe’s, held contempt in them as he looked at her. She forced herself to carry on, to try and salvage something from this meeting.
‘I suspect not knowing you was one of Philippe’s greatest regrets throughout his life,’ Anna said, replacing the pendant around her neck. ‘But I’ve come to believe harbouring regrets about the past is a futile exercise. They will poison and ruin the present – and our newly discovered relationship – if you give in to them. We have to move on – get to know one another as the people our lives have made us.’
Teddy continued to stare at her as Anna struggled to express herself. ‘For years I have listened to friends talk about their families, their children, unable to mention my own unknown son, to anyone. I can’t tell you how happy I am now it’s possible for me to get to know you. For us to be finally involved in each other’s life, to be friends…’
‘Whoa,’ Teddy held up his hand. ‘Stop right there. I’m not sure I’m ready or even want to be involved with you. It’s too late for us to play happy families. As for being friends,’ Teddy shrugged his shoulders, ‘I don’t think we can ever be just “friends”.’
‘We could at least try getting to know each other,’ Anna said quietly.
‘I have to think about what you’ve told me. I also need to try to forgive you for giving me away, but I’m not sure I can yet.’
‘Are you at least going to tell people that you’re Philippe Cambone’s son? Even if you don’t want to acknowledge me as your birth mother. Lay the rumours that are circulating to rest.’
‘I’m not sure. If he was still alive, yes, but it seems a bit pointless as he’ll never know.’
‘If he was still alive, he’d have been shouting about your existence from the top of the Palais des Festivals,’ Anna said. ‘I know he would have been so proud to have called you his son – as I am. Why should you feel diffident about telling the world he was your father?’ Anna paused. ‘Besides, it’s not just about you and me any longer is it? There’s Cindy. Are you truly not going to tell her she’s got a new grandmother?’ Anna hesitated, but she had to say it. ‘A grandmother who would very much like to be a part of her life.’
Anna looked at Teddy, how could she make him respond to her. What would it take for him to forgive her and let her into his life. The letters in the envelopes that Bernard had given her – would reading them help him to understand and maybe forgive?
‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I have to fetch something I’d like you to read.’
When she returned, Teddy was just closing his mobile.
‘Bernard,’ he said. ‘He wants to know if I’ll consider reading a piece at the memorial service on Monday.’
‘Are you going to?’
Teddy shrugged. ‘I told him I’d think about it.’ Teddy glanced at his watch. ‘I have to go. I’m due at the final screening in an hour.’
‘Here, take these with you then, but please look after them,’ Anna said, holding out the large envelope. ‘It’s a letter and part of a journal written by your father to me. I think you need to read them. It goes without saying I want them back. They may have only came into my possession a few days ago, but they are already treasured. I couldn’t bear to lose them.’
‘You trust me with them? Aren’t you afraid to let them out of your sight?’
‘Why wouldn’t I trust you with them? You’re my son. They were written by your father. They concern you. Hopefully, once you’ve read the envelope’s contents, you’ll feel able to publicly acknowledge Philippe Cambone as your father – and hopefully me as your mother.’
32
Sunday morning and Daisy found an empty seat at one of the cafés in front of the rue Felix Faure. Once she’d ordered her cappuccino, she opened her laptop and began to write her last festival report.
I can barely believe it’s nearly a fortnight since I first sat here soaking up the atmosphere as the Film Festival began and now it’s virtually over.
It’s Sunday afternoon and the closing ceremony is early this evening. While the last twelve days have been filled with a spectacular amount of glitz and glamour, there is now a general feeling of things closing down all around, an air of tiredness hanging about.
The crowds on the Croisette have definitely thinned out and bar staff and waiters are beginning to smile again. The hype is almost over for another year. Locals are playing boules in front of the restaurants and the usual Sunday afternoon craft fair has assembled around the ornate bandstand. Easels full of paintings by local amateur artists, bric-a-brac stalls and tables covered with small antiques are crowded together displaying their offerings, hoping for some celebrity customers before the festival is finally over.
