One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [102]
On I drove. I tried to calm down. But it seemed to me all the scents of a Provençal autumn were sweeping through the open window like a cosh. An over-heady, over-evocative mixture of orchards, rosemary and thyme assailed my senses, swelled my head. Had I really been testing Ivan back there? And why was I angry with him, as well as Seffy? Because, like Seffy, he was still in short trousers, and what I really wanted was a man? Why? Why was I so incapable of making my own, rational decisions these days, as I always had done?
Suddenly I lunged impulsively – and dangerously – for my phone. Clicked it on. Battery low. In fact, battery non-existent. I glanced feverishly left and right for a handy turning place, getting hotter by the moment, hands damp on the wheel. But the road was long and narrow, and anyway, I couldn’t go back now, could I? What would I say? I glanced at my watch. Apart from anything else, he’d be on his way to the fair. With Ricard… Sylvie… My tummy flipped. Was that why I was so furious? Because yesterday… OK, yesterday his wallet had fallen out of his jeans, and when I’d picked it up and handed it back to him, a photo had slipped out. Just the corner, and all I saw was a girl’s arm, that’s all, but he’d stuffed it back in so quickly. He so obviously didn’t want me to see…
I put the mobile slowly back on the dashboard. Replaced my hand on the wheel. Suddenly it buzzed as a text came through. I grabbed it. It was from Ivan. Some of it was missing, but it was the usual sexual innuendo. Something about it being ‘nice in back of lorry, kiss kiss.’ I tossed it aside in disgust. Did he really think I needed that right now?
No, I did not. I set my jaw and drove on. What I needed was to pay attention to the road, which might be deserted, but was winding and bumpy, as French roads can be. And as so many other roads had been for me too. Suddenly I was back at the wheel of another lorry, my Bedford, in Croatia, rushing to the hospital, having heard that Ibby’s family were dead. I caught my breath, wondering why that had sprung to mind. I never went there. Never. I gave my head an impatient little shake, and headed north.
Naturally the lorry had a puncture in a village just outside Normandy, and naturally it took hours at a local garage to get it fixed. Three men in overalls stood around shaking their heads, sucking their teeth, and muttering, ‘Catastrophe…’
By now it was evening and I was practically crying with exhaustion. I’d been driving for nine solid hours, and it was almost with a sense of relief that I was told I’d have to stay overnight and get the lorry fixed in the morning. The tyre was kaput: needed to be replaced. I left the lorry with the posturing mechanics, who were enjoying themselves now, grumbling about having to jack it up with all the furniture within, and actually discussing the possibility that I might have to unload it. I did what I always do in extremis, and threw money at it. Bade them take whatever steps were necessary, and repaired to a hostelry just off the square. Miserable with exhaustion, I trudged upstairs with yet another hotel key in my hand, to yet another empty room, and thence, to a hot bath.
Afterwards, wrapped in a towel, I rang Dad to tell him what had happened. That I’d be back tomorrow.
‘That’s fine, sweetheart, there’s no rush. Seffy’s here – we’re at Laura’s – he’s just had some supper. There’s nothing you can do, anyway. He needs to figure this out for himself.’
‘And he’s doing that?’
‘Who knows? I haven’t quizzed him. Just picked him up and brought him back here.’
Whereas I, of course, would have bombarded him with questions. Shrieked reproaches. I nodded; a lump in my throat.
‘He used to be such a good boy,’ I whispered.
I thought of all the prizes he’d won at prep school, all the glowing reports: ‘Seffy is a credit to the school, both in the classroom and in his general conduct.’ Up until a year ago or so, when it