Page 77 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘It is hard to believe,’ Wendy says. ‘I know.’
They eat breakfast in the garden – eggs florentine, Fiona’s favourite – and then exchange gifts in front of the fire. There’s a pair of sneakily purchased supermarket earrings and a cheque in Fiona’s name, plus a selection of brightly wrapped Christmas staples from home.
‘Mince pies!’ Wendy says, feigning surprise as she opens them. ‘Christmas cake!’
‘More mince pies,’ Fiona says dryly. ‘More Christmas cake!’
But there’s also a tin of posh tea, a Union Jack tea towel and some fake vegetarian foie gras which they decide tastes halfwaybetween Marmite and mushroom soup. Having never tasted (nor wanted to taste) foie gras, neither of them have any idea how realistic the fake product is, but it’s certainly yummy on toast.
And then, showered and with a picnic lunch packed, they lock up the cabin and climb into the car.
‘This is great, actually, isn’t it?’ Fiona says, as Wendy pulls out onto the main road.
‘What’s that?’ Wendy asks.
‘That it’s just you and me,’ she says. ‘We haven’t done anything together for years. Not the two of us.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Wendy says. ‘And I feel quite bad about that. I should have made sure we did more.’
‘Don’t feel bad,’ Fiona says. ‘It’s like you were saying before. It takes two to tango, after all.’
‘Well, I’m really happy you came,’ Wendy says genuinely. ‘It’s the best Christmas gift you could have given me.’
As they drive towards the coast, they chat pleasantly, sporadically, about Christmases past before moving on to random memories of their various family holidays. The friction of yesterday seems forgotten.
The restaurants on La Plage de la Garoupe are all closed for Christmas Day with only a few vehicles peppering the car park.
‘It’s weird, really,’ Fiona says. ‘You’d think Christmas Day would be full-on rush hour.’
‘My French teacher says Christmas Eve is the main one. They’re probably all sleeping off hangovers.’
Once parked, Wendy pops the hatch and hauls her backpack onto her shoulders, and then they walk down to the beach where Wendy has to re-check the instructions on her phone.
‘So it’s over there, I reckon,’ she says, pointing. ‘I think we can just follow that couple with the dog.’
They decide to pick their way across the beach rather than walk behind all the restaurants. The sand is littered with driftwood and they pause to examine some of the prettier sea-worn branches.
‘Amanda would take this all home,’ Fiona says. ‘She’d make stupid mobiles out of it.’
‘Mobiles?’
‘Yeah… Actually, they’re not stupid at all. I’m being mean.’
‘What, you meanhangingmobiles?’
‘Yeah, she strings it all together with fishing line so it hangs nicely and sticks on bits of beach glass and what-have-you, and then flogs them all on Etsy.’
‘So she’s arty, then?’
‘She certainly thinks she is.’
‘You don’t sound keen.’
Fiona shrugs. ‘Oh, she’s OK. She’s just a bit… you know…’
‘Can’t say I do,’ Wendy says, with a laugh, ‘having never met her.’
‘She’s a bit up herself, is all,’ Fiona says. ‘She thinks she’s like some modern art genius, but she just sells driftwood on Etsy.’
