Page 117 of Never Too Late
‘Kitty, you know that’s not true,’ he said, moving back towards me.
I stepped back. ‘Yes! I do. That’s the point, Tomas. I do know that. I’m a fifty-year-old woman who now knows her own mind and yet, without even trying, she still made me feel like I wasn’t enough.’
‘She really has changed, Kitty. If you could?—’
Laughter drifted from the other room. My daughter’s and another, older one mingled together. I should be happy for her. I knew that. I turned away from him and strode up the corridor back to the drawing room.
Everyone looked up as I opened the door. Sash was perched on a chair close to Madame Bertholle, my daughter holding her phone in front of them as she evidently showed her something, their happy smiles cutting into me.
‘I’m sorry, Sash, but we have to go.’
Sash’s face paled. ‘Why? Is it Dad? Has something happened?—’
Benoit’s arm went to her shoulder, drawing her in.
‘No, no.’ I hurried over, wrapping my arm around her waist. Benoit got the message and stepped back. ‘Everyone’s fine.’
‘Then… why?’ Sash looked across to Tomas. His hair was slightly askew from where he’d run his hands through it and his brow was furrowed. I knew he was angry with me but I didn’t care. Right now, I wanted to be away from him. From all of them.
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‘I think I may be able to answer that.’ The upper-class tones cut through the silence. ‘Perhaps, if you could stay a little longer, I can explain.’
‘I don’t think?—’
‘Mum?’ Sash interrupted, looking between us. ‘You always say about giving people a chance to explain.’
What a moment for my own altruism to bite me in the arse!
‘You have a wise and kind mother, Sasha.’
‘I seem to remember you didn’t think I was wise enough to be deemed a suitable partner for your son.’
In my peripheral vision, I saw Tomas’s head snap towards me.
A flutter of memory crossed her features before they settled back into their usual serene coolness. I was almost ashamed of the pathetic sense of achievement I felt, knowing I’d touched a nerve.
‘Would you mind if we both sat?’ she asked, indicating the chair opposite the sofa she was sitting on. I hesitated but, after a beat, crossed to the chair she had indicated and perched on it. I had no intention of getting comfortable.
‘Thank you.’ The smile was brief but gracious.
‘Shall we go and—’ Ashok, ever the diplomat, began but Madame Bertholle shook her head.
‘I would like you all here, if you don’t mind.’
It seemed that despite Tomas’s reassurance his mother had changed, she was still the one calling the shots and telling people what she wanted them to do. Inner Me rolled her eyes.
Isobel continued. ‘I owe Kitty not only an explanation, but also an apology.’
Inner Me fell over. Outer Me was glad she was sitting down.
‘Thank you,’ she said, once everyone took their seats again. She turned back to face me. ‘And thank you, Kitty, for allowing me this chance to speak to you.’
I swallowed and gave a brief nod.
‘If I were in your shoes, which, by the way, are beautiful…’ She cast an appraising eye over the bargain postbox-red pair of stilettos I’d got in a designer outlet back in the UK but never worn. Until I got to Paris. Until I’d regained the confidence to do so.
‘Thank you.’
