Page 77 of Never Too Late
‘No, not at all. Figures change and how sad to pin everything on that. I know women, and men, who have done that. They lived on their looks and looks fade – even ones as fabulous as mine.’ She pulled a shocked face, laughter dancing in her eyes. ‘You can still make the most of what you have and have “tweakments” I believe is the latest phrase.’ She rolled her eyes at the wording. ‘But trying to hold on to what you had when you were twenty…’ She shook her head. ‘It can’t be done. Not well, anyway.’
I couldn’t disagree with her. ‘But if people choose to do that, then that’s their choice.’
‘Absolutement,’ she agreed. ‘But wouldn’t it be wonderful if people, women especially, could be appreciated for themselves, whatever their age? This is the framework I’m talking about. Intelligence, a sense of humour, that littleje ne sais quoi. All the things that you,ma chérie, have, how do you say it? In spades.’
Once Gabby had returned, we ordered our main course. I inhaled the smell of the sizzling butter the lemon sole I’d chosen had been sauteed in as it was placed in front of me. A bite of the asparagus was so fresh, it tasted like it was cut moments before.
‘Probably so,’ Reine said in reply when I mentioned it, spearing another on her fork. ‘They have their own kitchen garden here and grow as much as they can.C’est bon, non?’
‘Oh, verybonindeed!’ I chuckled, and Gabby sniggered, then we both stopped as I caught Reine’s puzzled expression.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not used to drinking at lunchtime.’
And then her face crinkled, and she burst out laughing, her beringed hand at her chest. ‘Oh, Kitty. I have to tell you that coming back to Paris is going to be the best decision you ever made.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Definitely! Don’t you agree?’ she asked, turning to Gabby.
‘That’s what I keep saying,’ my friend said as she nodded to the waiter who had approached in anticipation of a top-up for our glasses.
Reine acknowledged the waiter then took a thoughtful sip.
‘Verybonindeed!’ she repeated and burst out laughing all over again.
29
Sash was out with Benoit – again. Since the night of Tomas’s exhibition, I’d barely seen her. And I’d certainly not seen her as happy in a long while. He was good for her and it made me happy to see them together. Between that and the continuing increase in subscribers, something that had begun to speed up with her Paris move and spiked massively with the exclusive content she’d been granted at the exhibition, thanks to Tomas, Sash was living a life she appeared to love and that brought me more joy than anything.
Tomas and Gabby had been away much of the last month with the new exhibition but we’d had video calls from New York, Dubai and various other cities. Sasha had even been guest of honour again at the London showing when she’d been home to visit Hugh – with Benoit, of course, who’d received paternal approval, despite his connection to Tomas. Quite the achievement!
This morning, I’d decided to have a scrub of the apartment. With careful financial management, a bit of luck in the sale of the house and some other investments paying off, money, thankfully, hadn’t been too much of a worry but I’d never been the spendthrift type and having recently invested in the best part of a new wardrobe, even with the deals and discounts Gabby had swung for me, it had been an outlay I hadn’t exactly budgeted for.
When I’d told Gabs that I had no intention of hiring a cleaner, she’d been horrified but I remained firm. It was an area I could save money, and although I wasn’t about to claim that cleaning a loo was my favourite occupation, there was a sense of satisfaction I got when the house was clean and I could sit down with a cup of tea and smell the fresh scent of the essential oils in the cleaner I used, and take pleasure in the shiny, clear surfaces. Even if it didn’t last for long where my child was involved. But at least I didn’t have a man using the bathroom!
I’d thought, and at least hoped, that Sash’s tendency to the scattergun approach with her possessions would improve as she got older but it seemed I was wrong. If anything, she only acquired more stuff. Unfortunately, both these habits were inherited from her father and he’d not improved in this aspect the whole time I’d known him, so I wasn’t holding out much hope for our daughter.
I was loaded up with yet another armful of her gubbins when the doorbell to the apartment rang. I shuffled the stuff to balance on one arm and opened the door with the other.
‘Bonjour.’ Tomas was standing there looking, as always, impeccable. I was looking quite the opposite in a pair of well-worn joggers which, when Gabby had held them up in horror during her recent rummage of my wardrobe, had required her to then sit down and call on Sash for a reviving cup of tea. I’d told her to stop being such a drama queen but was glad to see that my introduction to the ‘cup of tea helps any situation’ habit had survived the years and separation. Today, those were paired with a faded t-shirt that I’d splashed bleach on years ago while scrubbing the loo (another reason I was glad there was no longer a man in my life – or at least my bathroom!), and had been then relegated to becoming My Cleaning T-Shirt. My hair, in need of a wash, was shoved up in a clip with an old bandanna, long discarded by Sash, to keep my now slightly overlong fringe from my eyes. So of course that would be the perfect time for my long-time ex to ring the doorbell.
‘Hi. Oh, I, er, I meanbonjour.’
His smile, initially hesitant, widened.
‘I’m interrupting.’
‘Yes. But that’s OK.’
Oh! That’s new…I pondered, momentarily. Usually, I ended up giving people the impression that I had been doing nothing at all of importance and had, in fact, been waiting in all day in the hope that they might call.Interesting…
‘These are for you.’ Across his arm lay a large, beautifully hand-tied bunch of blousy pink peonies.
‘Would you like to come in?’ I stepped back out of the doorway and Tomas entered.
‘Please. Allow me,’ he said as I made to close the door behind him, still juggling Sasha’s junk.
‘Thanks. Give me a minute to just drop this in my daughter’s bombsite.’
