‘¿Qué pasa?’ one of them says.
‘Creo que esta chica inglesa, regordeta y algo tontita, se ha quedado atascada en uno de nuestros vestidos,’ her colleague replies.
Well, my shame is complete. Because I definitely heard the Spanish words for chubby and silly. I look at them both in their belly tops and mini-skirts, trying to contain their judgement, their laughter and their lack of empathy. My body freezes from embarrassment.
‘Gracias. Fancy helping me out?’
They both turn their noses up at me, clearly wondering how someone could have got themselves into this predicament.
I try to stand tall, to reclaim some dignity despite looking like I’ve tried to squeeze myself into this condom of a dress. ‘It’s either scissors or this chubby stupid English girl is going to need one of you to yank me out of this.¿Comprendes?’
APRIL
ZARA
Vence, South of France
There used to be a time when I craved mornings like this. Slow, honeyed, quiet mornings on a bright terrace to enjoy a cup of coffee, the stone warm under my feet, a few wisps of cloud in the sky. When the kids were tiny, I dreamed of this kind of peace on holiday. Back when holiday mornings started at six with endless episodes ofPeppa Pig, noisy toys and lying next to them praying they would just sit still. Holidays were childcare. I longed to read a book and swim a few laps in the pool, to go to the loo on my own without the soundtrack of a baby crying in the next room. But now the silence is almost too much.
I look at my watch, it’s eleven thirty. I’ve had three cups of coffee, I’ve showered and washed my hair, and I’ve even had time to walk around the gardens and take a photo of a crimson-flowered plant. I’ve looked up the plant’s name. I sent the picture to my mother along with a few other photos of the view.
Where are the kids?
Oh, they’re teenagers, Mum. They don’t take pictures anymore. Not with me at least and if they do, it’s like I’m posing with three random youths I’ve found in the street because they look so damned miserable in their strange arrangements of white socks and sliders, all with one finger in the air which I hope to heavens isn’t gang-related.
I’ve managed to get on the internet here and plan an afternoon of activity, and also to email my Aunty Sandra to tell her that we will be able to make her seventieth birthday party in three months’ time and we have no dietary requirements even though I know she’s only serving quiche and dips.
So now I’m sitting here and it’s quiet. Too quiet. I look at the pool, completely still, flat, lifeless. Bella practically beggedme to buy her that giant inflatable crocodile in the supermarket. Now it floats past, smiling at me.Did we name you? We should name you, I think. I’m so bored that I’m focusing on naming an inflatable crocodile. I push the rusty metal chair back along the stone and perch my sunglasses on the top of my head, heading into the large stone villa, welcomed by the stale, cool air. I weave around the sofas where I can see that the boys had their nightly paprika Pringles and gaming session. I reach the first bedroom door, knocking tentatively.
‘Jay? Louis? Guys, it’s nearly twelve? You up yet?’ I ask. I push the door ajar and the cool, stale air is now replaced by the scent of dead farts and socks.Eau de Teen. But I also see Jay’s face backlit by the light on his phone and hear that familiar frenetic soundtrack of short videos never quite playing to completion.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask.
‘I’m getting up. Chill,’ Jay replies.
I immediately feel the heckles on the back of my neck stand to attention. ‘I am chilled. I’m nicely chilled in fact. I’m on holiday.’
‘So am I.’
‘Well, not really. It feels like you’re doing exactly what you do at home but in another location,’ I say.
He laughs at one of the videos on his phone. Or laughs at me. I am hilarious.
‘You’re sleeping through the best part of the day.’
‘It’s too hot out there,’ Jay moans.
Next to him, his brother rolls over, his arse hanging out from the sheet wrapped around his legs.
‘It was a nice temperature at nine this morning.’
‘Is there food?’ he grunts.
‘I walked down to the bakery in town. I got some pastries and fruit.’
‘Is there like bacon or anything? Louis thinks we could get McDonald’s delivered here.’
I don’t react. As a parent of teens, I expect this most days: statements of sheer absurdity usually coupled with bizarre extremes of emotion.McDonalds?I walked into town. I nearly got run over by a Renault for croissants.They’re fucking French croissants with real butter in them, most likely baked by a man in a beret and you’re thinking about McMuffins. How have I failed you?Don’t call him ungrateful. Take a breath, Zara. I exhale slowly, steeling myself.
