The Last Dress from Paris(46)
I’ve got about an hour until I need to leave the hotel and head over to the Les Halles shopping center to meet Veronique. I’m annoyed with myself, because I had planned to walk there after Veronique suggested I cut through the pretty Jardin des Tuileries, which hugs the river. But there won’t be enough time now. I call room service, order the pastry basket that’s big enough for two (so what?), an orange juice, and a coffee, and then I hit the shower so I can be washed and dressed by the time the doorbell to my suite rings. This motivates me.
No one wants to answer the door to a handsome French bellboy while wearing a towel that barely covers their backside, prickly pale legs poking out the bottom.
I pull on the same pair of jeans I’ve been wearing since I arrived and a blouse bursting with red roses. I bought it with Florence in mind. I thought it might like to introduce me to Botticelli and da Vinci in the Uffizi Gallery, that I might wander the busy backstreets, gelato in hand, before disappearing into the nearby vine-covered hills of Chianti. Until now, it hasn’t made it any farther than the back of my wardrobe, but this morning I tuck it into my jeans, making a vague attempt to look a little smarter for Veronique. As breakfast appears, I hit play on Mum’s voicemail, switching to speakerphone so I can eat and listen at the same time. And I have to hand it to her, she’s good. If you’re the sort of person who is impressed by a little gentle manipulation.
Please call me, Lucille. I need to talk to you, darling.
Darling? Mum’s voice is slightly breathy and tinged with vulnerability.
In my thirty-two years, I have never, not once, heard my mother cry.
Not when Dad left, not in one of the very rare moments I unloaded seemingly world-ending teenage angst on her, not when it became clear that Granny Sylvie couldn’t cope on her own anymore and Natasha was hired. So my first thought is that the emotion might be deliberately constructed for my benefit. If it was anything to do with Granny, she would surely have called the hotel direct. It’s been twenty-four hours since she left the message; any news that was desperately urgent would have reached me by now. Although, I admit, I feel the faintest tremor of nerves—something obviously isn’t right. This probably wasn’t the best morning to wake with a thunderous hangover.
I dial her number. On a weekday morning at this time, she will be at her office just off Shaftesbury Avenue. She will have been there for some time, a slave to the presenteeism that rules her working world, feeling there is some sort of badge of honor to be gained from arriving much earlier than the newbies who are half her age. She certainly wouldn’t ordinarily be answering calls from me, but her mobile connects on the second ring.
“Lucille?” She sounds just as shaky as her message.
“Yes, Mum, it’s me. Are you okay?”
“I’m trying to be, darling.” I hear her sigh and notice how ragged her breath is.
“What is it, Mum, has something happened?”
“I shouldn’t have bothered you, darling. Sorry. You’re on your trip and the last thing you need is me getting in the way of your fun. I just needed someone to talk to.”
Now I am worried. Neediness is not something I would ever associate with my mother. And not something she would ever willingly confess to. I glance at my watch. I’ve got a little time before I need to leave to meet Veronique.
“Go on, Mum, I’ve got time. What is it?”
“Perhaps we can talk about it in person. When are you coming back?”
“Not yet. Things have developed a little here. I won’t go into it all now, but I’ll be here a bit longer than I thought.”
“Oh.” She pauses, hoping I might change my mind, I think, and then when I don’t, she adds, “Well, I suppose collecting a dress for Granny is more important.”
“It’s not more important, Mum, but . . .”
“It’s just, I don’t have anyone to talk to.” A firmness has returned to her voice, and I sense she is trying to back me into a corner, so I change tack.
“How is Granny? Have you been to check on her since I left?”
“Natasha is there twice a day.” This is typical of Mum. She hasn’t made the personal time investment herself, she has paid someone else to, and I’m torn between being cross with her and deeply sad that she is wedded to a job that allows her no personal life.
“I know she is, but I think Granny would really appreciate seeing . . .”
“I’ve lost my job, Lucille.” She blurts it out, trying, I think, to move us away from her failures with her own elderly mother. “Thirty-five years of my life, all gone with the utter of two words, rationalization and consolidation.”
And thirty-two of mine, I’m tempted to add, but don’t. She must hear the relieved sigh I let go, because her more usual abrupt coping mechanism kicks in.
“I’ve helped shape it, build it, I’ve brought in fresh talent. Well, foolish me, because those very people are the ones they now feel can take the reins. It’s so insulting, Lucille.”
“Listen, Mum, you’re nudging sixty. You can’t have thought you were going to work at the same pace indefinitely, can you? You can’t have seriously wanted to?”
“That job is everything to me.” Perhaps she’s momentarily forgotten who she’s talking to. “I care about it more than anything. I was consumed by it. I gave it every bit of energy I had. All of me. I should be the one who decides when it’s over. Not them. And do you know how they did it?” She doesn’t wait for my response. “They couriered a standard letter to me. I didn’t even warrant a meeting! What am I supposed to do now?”