The Last Dress from Paris(48)
Veronique sits back in her chair a little, seeming to signal that she is happy for me to go on.
“I’ve got used to it over the years and explained it away to myself as just the way she is. I thought as I got older, I might need her less, but . . . the opposite seems to be true.” Veronique nods her head slowly, and I’m reassured she doesn’t mind me dumping all this on her. I am painfully aware that her sense of loss is far fresher than mine.
“Was there ever a time when it was different? Did something happen to make her withdraw?” she asks.
“It’s an awful thing to say, but she has never been much of a mother to me.” I lower my head, knowing how judgmental this sounds—but also knowing it is true. “I never interested her. I have often asked myself why she bothered to have me at all. She never wanted to spend time with me. I’ve never felt that she was on my side, ready to jump in with advice or a protective arm if I needed it.” I take another large gulp of wine. Now that I’ve started, I want to say it all, to really unburden myself in a way that feels necessary but won’t hurt Mum at all. “I grew up knowing I couldn’t rely on her. And with Dad gone . . .” I pause again and take a breath, trying to suck the emotion back down deep inside of me. “There have been a lot of lonely times.”
“Oh, Lucille, I am so sorry.” Her hand reaches across the table now and rubs my arm. “I can only think she has her reasons. What is her relationship like with her own maman, your granny Sylvie?” Veronique is only doing what most kind people would. Searching for some reasoning where I’m sure none can be found beyond the fact my mother always put her career first.
“Functional. Practical. Mum pays her bills and makes sure someone else is there to do the caring bit. I’d like to say I hope that will change now that she has more time, but I can’t believe it will. Granny is the loveliest, sweetest woman; she deserves so much more. It breaks my heart, if I’m honest.” It’s the mention of Granny that finally sends my warm tears spilling down my face and onto the table in front of us, and I can’t even be bothered to be embarrassed. Crying in public is really the least of my worries right now. Veronique reaches into her neat little handbag and passes me a tissue, then rests her hand on top of mine.
“You can confide in me anytime, Lucille. You have my number and email now, and we can spend as much time as you like together while you are here.”
“I would like that, thank you.” Veronique is very good at this, and it occurs to me that maybe she is a little lonely too. There has been no mention of a husband or partner, and I wonder who she has to lean on, especially now that her mother has gone.
“I know you are cross with your maman and, probably quite rightly, feel hurt by her actions, but I think she sounds like she needs your kindness.”
I raise my eyes from the tissue back up to meet Veronique’s. “I know. It’s just very hard to give it when I feel so rejected.”
“I understand why she might need it, that’s all. I feel what she is feeling a little, too, Lucille. But I have had more time to feel less hurt by it. I am older now. I have worked at the museum for many years, but never for fewer hours than I do now. And so naturally I am less important. They value my knowledge, I know they do, but they need me less.” Which makes me wonder again why Mum wants to feel so vital at work but doesn’t recognize that I need her too.
“Big decisions that I would definitely have been consulted on before, I don’t even get to hear about until they have been made,” continues Veronique. “People forget to tell me things. Some of the younger staff question the decisions I do make. Privately I wonder if they question my relevance to the business at all. I feel the loss of my importance, of my essentialness to the day.” Put this way by Veronique, I understand it. I really do. But would it be so very hard for Mum to talk to me, to share these worries, if this is what she is feeling too? Maybe there are things she needed to hear from me. That I’m proud of all she’s achieved and how hard she works, even if that work ethic has driven an unbearable wedge between us.
“I expect one day, when the budgets are tightened, I might be on the receiving end of the same treatment as your maman. And yet, they are hiring new, younger people all the time. People who bring fresh ideas, who love travel. Storytellers who care about the personal journeys behind the precious items we show. Every exhibition has to work so much harder now, on so many different levels, to attract its audience. They are advertising many positions.”
I make a conscious effort not to look excited about this information, but I think I fail, because Veronique adds, “They’re the kind of jobs I would have killed for back at the beginning. They need people to travel to and liaise with all our partner locations, mostly. To help promote our traveling exhibitions and to come up with the best ways to market those ideas. They would pay for an intensive language course, too, so anyone landing the job would be fluent within a year.” She raises her eyebrows across the table at me, like she’s trying to seduce me with the idea.
We both take a pause and sip our wine, watching Parisian life unfolding around us. Early lunch breakers coming in. Rushed customers who venture no farther than the bar, order an espresso, drink it in two large gulps, and are gone again seconds later. The owner, a tall, slender man who makes a point of acknowledging everyone, circulates the café, refilling bread baskets, recommending wine, and generally presenting himself as the perfect advert for a stress-free life. He’s unrushed and quietly, happily going about his business. Without realizing it, he’s making me question every life choice I ever made—and those of everyone in here, I suspect.