Page 79 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘Todd your schoolfriend?’ Wendy teases. ‘Or our Todd?’
‘Huh?’ Fiona asks, then, almost seamlessly, ‘Oh, no, Todd at school’s scared of dogs. He got bitten by an Alsatian when he was little. He’s got a massive scar right here.’ She hops and taps her left calf.
She’s good, Wendy thinks. Excellent attention to detail, but she doesn’t overdo it.She’ll go far.
Fiona has reached a fork in the path, so she pauses and looks back. ‘Left,’ she asks, ‘or right?’
‘Try left,’ Wendy says, but after less than a minute, it becomes clear that they’ve chosen a dead end.
‘Back?’ Fiona asks, pausing again. ‘Unless you want to picnic down there?’
Wendy squeezes in beside her and lets her eyes trace the path down to the sea. There’s a small flat area at the bottom, mere feet from the water’s edge. ‘That’s perfect,’ she says. ‘Well spotted!’
They unpack the picnic: baguette, smoked salmon, a tub ofolives and another of hummus, plus crisps, cashew nuts and Coke.
‘It’s not very festive, I’m afraid,’ Wendy says, once the food is all laid out.
‘Nah!’ Fiona says, prising the top off the olives. ‘Best Christmas ever, this! Better than bloody turkey, anyway.’
The sip their drinks and dip into the crisps, and stare quietly out at all that blue. Far away on the horizon a gigantic container ship is sliding past, cutting a glittering line between sea and sky.
‘Did you ever think about living abroad, like, properly?’ Fiona asks. ‘You and Dad, I mean?’
‘No, not really,’ Wendy says. ‘I mean, we loved our holidays. Spain and Greece. Especially Greece. But it was never really an option. Not with kids and jobs and a mortgage… you know how it is.’
‘Amanda’s parents have got a house with a pool in Tuscany.’
‘Of course they have,’ Wendy says.
‘See, you’re getting the picture already.’
‘You used to go on about living in Europe,’ Wendy says. ‘You wanted to spend one year in each country. Do you remember that project you did in Geography?’
‘I do,’ Fiona says. ‘I’ve still got that somewhere. Brexit put paid to that one.’
‘You can still travel, though.’
‘Yeah, yeah… I know. But it’s not really the same, is it? A holiday’s not like being able to work and live in all those different places. I kind of wanted to know what it felt like to be French. TobeItalian.’
‘I think you just fancied an Italian boyfriend, didn’t you?’ Wendy asks.
Fiona raises one eyebrow and shakes her head in dismay at the turn the conversation has taken.
‘But you’re right,’ Wendy says, moving on. ‘It’s not the same. Maybe it will all change again, though. If you wait long enough.’
‘Sadly,’ Fiona says, ‘I doubt it.’
After their picnic and the walk back to the car, Wendy drives them to the centre of Antibes where she parks so they can walk around. Fiona had been hoping for a cup of coffee and a cake, while Wendy was imagining beer, but everywhere seems to be closed.
‘The French take their bank holidays seriously, I guess,’ Fiona comments as they pass yet another shuttered brasserie.
‘Yes, it sure looks that way.’
‘Lovely, though,’ Fiona adds. ‘It’s a very pretty town. It kind of makes me wish I was staying for longer.’
‘Well, you can always come again,’ Wendy says.
‘Careful,’ Fiona says. ‘I might hold you to that.’
