‘Well… good. And we’ll talk when I get there? Yeah?’
‘Yeah. ’Course.’
‘Love you, son.’
I end the call and walk back to Sarah, who’s scrolling through her phone. ‘Bloody Peter,’ she tells me. ‘You’d think by now he’d know how to access the client files from home.’ She types a few choice words and sends an email. ‘How’s Louis?’
‘Yeah, he’s good.’
‘And… man problems?’ she queries, an eyebrow raised.
‘Just… penis stuff,’ I tell her and she makes a face.
‘Got it,’ she says. And thankfully drops the subject.
I sip my beer and try to get back to where I was before the call. Louis’s words have stuck though. That I’m not someone who steps up. And my brain helpfully brings up all the occasions when I could probably have done more. When Sarah had that work trip and had to cancel because Louis had chicken pox. And the times she’s asked me to take Louis for a few extra days and I haven’t been able to say yes. Maybe I could have tried harder at times. But I have been there for most of it.
Sitting back, I try to conjure once again the image of the red swimmers. Because a bit of relived embarrassment feels awful, but it’s infinitely better than finding out my son thinks I’m shit.
13
SARAH
I woke up this morning feeling refreshed. It’s odd because our accommodation doesn’t change from stop to stop, but just knowing that there are good showers, that there is good coffee, makes the world of difference. Hal was itching to go, but I convinced him to take the bike ride he’s been going on about and after I agreed to go with him to talk to the hire guy (Hal is convinced that everyone now knows about the trunks incident) he seemed to regain his enthusiasm. I sent him off with a map and a bottle of water and felt once again like a mum waving my firstborn off on an adventure.
I’m just eating a sandwich bought from the little supermarket on site when he returns, red-faced and wild-haired from his bike helmet. ‘Good ride?’ I ask him.
‘Yeah, actually. Such a good cycle route. Next time we come—’ he says, then stops himself. ‘I mean, if you’re ever this way again without a broken leg, you should try it.’
I nod, taking another bite of my chicken Caesar. He perches on Betty’s step and takes off his shoes, flexing his toes in their sweaty socks.
‘Thanks for that,’ I tell him, giving them a significant look.
This afternoon we’d planned to go to the Château de Chaumont-sur-Loire, a chateau five kilometres from the site. I’m pretty sure, had I not attached myself to Hal’s trip, that he would have walked there. Instead, since Betty’s awning is fastened on and since some of our things are in situ, Hal suggested we take a taxi.
I’m getting better on my crutch now, more adept at moving the right leg at the right time. But my shoulder still aches with effort after a little while, and although I’m trying to put a brave face on it, my leg is throbbing horribly at times, no doubt due to the driving and to Betty’s rather rudimentary mattress.
‘There’s loads of art,’ Hal says, reading the website on his phone. ‘And huge gardens.’
He’s so enthusiastic and so eager to please me that I smile and nod and don’t express my misgivings. After all, this is meant to be his holiday and I really don’t want to put a damper on everything.
We soon arrive at the chateau and it’s beautiful – huge fat turrets made of light stone with neat charcoal-coloured pyramid roofs flank an impressive sandstone building, approached via a long, stone-sprinkled drive. It knocks the socks off any castle I’ve visited in England – ours are almost always austere, built in damp grey, and most of them lie in ruins. This, despite being from the tenth century, looks good enough to move into immediately.
I’m staring out of the window as we approach when Hal says, ‘Pretty impressive, right?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Where do you want to start?’
It’s another hot day and at three o’clock the sun is pretty much at its peak. ‘Inside?’ I suggest, thinking how much nicer it will be to hit the outdoor part a little later when the air begins to cool, and he nods.
‘You got it!’
He pays the driver and we clamber out, Hal supporting me whilst I right myself on my crutch, then we make our way towards the entrance. Inside, the building is cool and smells of dust and age. The floor is laid with polished parquet, and the ceiling, criss-crossed with dark wood beams. There’s a huge, ornate rug on the floor and enough artwork on the walls to stock a gallery.
After paying, Hal walks ahead slightly, stopping on occasion to study a painting or a sculpture, flicking through the guidebook he’s downloaded to his phone. He seems so interested in it all that it takes me by surprise. ‘I didn’t realise you were into old buildings,’ I tell him.
‘I wouldn’t say I was “into” them,’ he tells me, making finger quotes to emphasise the word. ‘But it’s interesting, isn’t it? All this history, all those years. Makes you feel small, to think of all the people who’ve gone before you.’