Page 18 of Summer on the French Riviera
‘Is this one of yours?’
Harriet nodded. ‘A very early one. Mum loves owls. I did it for her before… before I left.’
‘It’s beautifully executed. You really should start painting again,’ Hugo said, tactfully ignoring her words about the original reason for painting it.
As they left and the electric gates closed behind them, Hugo pressed his key fob and the passenger door of a parked silver Porsche Cayenne opened.
‘Wow, some car,’ Harriet said, sliding as gracefully as she could manage into the luxurious interior.
‘A major indulgence and a guilty pleasure,’ Hugo said as he closed the door before walking round to the driver’s side. ‘I thought we’d go up to Mougins this evening. Have you been before?’
‘No.’
‘It’s one of my favourite places. Full of restaurants and art galleries, so I’m hoping you will like it too.’
As they drove the short distance towards Mougins through the countryside above Cannes, Hugo told her a little about the medieval hilltop village, how it was surrounded by forests, how artists had flocked to it down the years for its light and how these days it was recognised as a centre of gastronomy. Harriet was captivated by her first view of the village as they drove towards it and before Hugo had even parked was feeling excited at exploring.
Walking through the narrow ancient streets, made even narrower with the addition of olive trees in pots and tubs of colourful flowers placed in front of the old houses, she kept pausing to look in windows of closed galleries, with paintings and sculptures displayed. A couple of the galleries were still open on this balmy Mediterranean evening and people were taking advantage of the quieter time to browse and to treat themselves to a painting or a sculpture.
‘I’m going to have to come back during the day,’ Harriet said. ‘Such a lovely place to explore.’
Narrow streets led to flights of stone steps crowded with pots of tumbling red geraniums that led in turn to more narrow streets with nooks and crannies everywhere and finally to the restaurant where Hugo had booked their table.
Tables and chairs had been placed on a large open space in front of the restaurant, more olive trees in pots were dotted around and fairy lights were strung between the tall eucalyptus trees that lined the edge of the eating area. They were shown to a table for two with a wonderful view down over the countryside.
Sitting there sipping a glass of pinot noir after ordering their food –maigret du canardfor Harriet andsteak au poivrefor Hugo – Harriet looked around at the other diners. A multi-generation family party was clearly happening on the large table set down one side. At the head of the table there were several helium balloons, all with seventy-three written across their surface, tied to the back of the chair occupied by a silver-haired man. Cards and wrapped gifts had been placed on a small table near him, laughter and happy conversation floated in the air over the table.
Harriet felt a familiar ache in her heart. An ache for the large family that she would never have; an ache for the family she’d torn apart. And the realisation, once again, that it was all her own fault.
The waiter arrived with their food at that moment and another glass of red wine for Harriet and a non-alcoholic beer for Hugo.
‘The drinks are with the compliments of the birthday table,’ he said, smiling. ‘They pay for everyone to have a drink with them. In case they make too much noise, they want you to forgive them.’
‘Of course,’ Hugo said, raising his glass in the direction of the party and Harriet did the same. Together they called out ‘Bon anniversaire et merci.’
‘How lovely of them to do that,’ Harriet said, putting her glass down and picking up her cutlery. ‘This looks delicious.’
As they ate, the two of them chatted about things in general, but by the time dessert arrived they were into a fun argument about who was the better artist, Matisse or Picasso.
Darkness had descended and lights were twinkling in the far countryside and down towards the Mediterranean when Hugo and Harriet left the restaurant, both of them calling out ‘Bonne nuit’ to the family party still going strong.
A quarter of an hour later, Hugo drove the car into the impasse parking in front of the villa and Harriet turned to him. She leant across as she undid her seatbelt and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. ‘Thank you for a wonderful evening. I’ve had a lovely time and I love Mougins.’
‘I hope it will be the first of many evenings,’ Hugo said. ‘Despite you favouring Matisse over Picasso.’
17
One of the things that Elodie really enjoyed about her new life was getting out and about, discovering the delights of the Riviera and meeting new people. People like the ex-pat couple she’d interviewed yesterday. The couple had seemed so happy in their apartment overlooking the Mediterranean, the only flaw the woman could tell her about their new life was missing the family. ‘It’s wonderful when they visit, so we’re hoping to persuade them to join us permanently,’ the woman had said. ‘It’s not right for families to be separated.’
A day later, those words were still running through Elodie’s mind as she made her way homewards along the Promenade du Soleil, having snatched a quick coffee with Gazz between customers, when she bumped into Harriet, walking Lulu. The little dog gave Elodie an enthusiastic welcome and Harriet fell into step alongside her to walk back to the villa.
Elodie, not stopping to think about the timing of what she was about to say, took a deep breath before looking at Harriet and bursting out. ‘I need to ask you two questions – questions I’ve been going to ask you ever since you turned up back in my life. You once told me that you wanted me to know the truth about the past, but all these months later and you still haven’t talked to me about anything – I’m beginning to wonder if you’ll ever get around to giving me the answer to these two questions: Why isn’t my father’s name on my birth certificate? Why is there such a big secret over his identity?’ Elodie knew she sounded like a spoilt brat and the guilt she felt about that irrationally increased the anger she was feeling.
Harriet briefly closed her eyes. The questions weren’t unexpected, but the timing was. She had been delaying talking to Elodie about the past, but if she and Elodie were to build any kind of relationship, she couldn’t lie over these most basic of questions. She had no option but to give Elodie the true answer to her first question, but she knew that Elodie wouldn’t leave it there, she’d probe behind it. Because the truth wouldn’t change anything, she still wouldn’t have a name, which is what she wanted.
Harriet took a deep breath.
‘You can’t register a man as the father of your baby without him being present and I went on my own to the registrar,’ Harriet said, waiting for the inevitable next question.
