is indeed. The return of the native. Almost. Tomorrow – I'll be back tomorrow.’
‘Goody,’ said Tess, though she quickly changed it to ‘very good.’
‘Must go, see you then.’
‘Safe journey – see you tomorrow.’
When Joe stared at the screen on his mobile until it darkened into standby mode, he thought to himself how only Tess could say goody. He could visualize her, standing in the hallway wearing some crap sweatshirt, saying goody! Probably giving Wolf the thumbs-up. She'd be telling the dog and the baby that he'd be home tomorrow, unconcerned by their inability to reply. Joe mused on her self-sufficiency, how she seemed quite content with the one-way conversation that living with a dog and a baby surely brought with it. Who says goody these days? Nathalie says bien sur – and that has a whole different ring to it.
And then Nathalie came into the room. And Joe thought, home tomorrow but tonight I'm here.
And he thought, very briefly, of his mother. How he wasn't allowed down from the dinner table of his childhood until he'd eaten everything up. The kitchen of those years was a place he didn't much like. And he thought, very briefly this time, of sharing supper in his kitchen tomorrow night. A very different place now Tess had whipped through it with her cleaning fluids and ruthlessness and artistically arranged condiments. And before Joe focused on the semi-naked marvel of Nathalie he did wonder, fleetingly, who's cooking tomorrow night?
Then he blinked away thoughts of home to feast his eyes on Nathalie instead. She looked appetizing in that minuscule shimmering thing she was wearing and Joe thought, it would be a shame to let it go to waste – if it's handed to you on a plate then eat it all up.
When the phone rang around the time Joe was due back, Tess's spirits plummeted as she anticipated a delay or, worse, cancellation. She'd already shopped – dinner for two despite it decimating the contents of her purse. And she'd scrubbed, hoovered and spritzed; flinging open all the windows so that the keen spring breeze could breathe into the house from the woods over the road. But the phone continued to ring and Tess knew it could only be Joe which meant there was a problem. Reluctantly, she answered it, eschewing her more usual formal greeting for a simple hullo.
‘'ullo?’
It wasn't Joe. It was just some foreign 'ullo. Hurray! It's not Joe! Joe is coming home, Joe will be here any minute. Joe is on his way.
‘The Resolution – can I help you?’
‘Joe Saunders – he is there?’ A French woman. Tess took exception to the way she pronounced his surname. Sow – like a female pig. Sow'n Dairs. She also objected to the slightly accusatory tone – he is there? Even a thick accent and scant English wouldn't preclude such a caller rephrasing it as, may I speak with Mr Saunders? or, hullo, is Joe Saunders there?
Why the presumption? And how about a little less familiarity? And just as Tess was about to wonder who on earth this woman was, she suddenly thought, oh Shit, is this Kate? But she quickly summoned her schoolgirl French and appeased herself that Kate is not a name indigenous to the Gauls. This must be someone from the French office, that's all.
‘He hasn't arrived back,’ Tess said and she made sure her voice was warm because then this woman could report back to Joe how amenable the lady at his house had seemed. ‘I'm expecting him any minute. May I take a message?’
There was a long pause. ‘Who are you?’
Tess was taken aback that the question had been asked of her before she'd had the chance to pose it to the caller. But more disconcerting was the inflection. Someone from his office wouldn't have asked. They'd've said who they were instead. Zis is Marie-Claudette from ze office. Zis is Celestine from Le Pont du M. Saunders; I av a fax for Mr Sow'n Dairs.
But here was a voice demanding to know who Tess was. This accusatory but undeniably sexy French voice wanted to know what she was doing there. This voice was probably expecting her to say, I'm Tess the house-sitter. I walk Joe's dog. I work for Mr Saunders. I'm taking his messages for him.
‘This is Tess,’ she said instead, slowly and clearly, as if she considered the question slightly preposterous and somewhat impertinent.
‘Tess – who?’
Tess thought about it. She didn't need to give her surname to answer that question. If the conversation was ever to have any comeback, Tess could just claim her intention had been lost in translation. ‘I'm Joe's Tess,’ she said.
There was a snort. ‘Well, Tess, please when Joe arrives, you will tell him he leave his BlackBerry at my apartment.’
‘BlackBerry. Apartment,’ Tess said as if she was jotting it down.
‘You tell him he leave it here. In my bed.’
And there was no time for Tess to be stunned into silence or to think, shit, shit, parry back – quick! or even to repeat it as if she was taking notes, because the caller had hung up. The grandfather clock tocked but time had stopped for Tess. He has a girlfriend. The notion, the reality, slammed into her with such force that she sat down hard and fought for breath. With the air silent but still charged, she wanted to shout, to vent, to wail, but Em had come toddling up to her, striking a stab of reality. What Tess wanted most was something she just couldn't have. She couldn't have Joe. She couldn't even have ten minutes all to herself, to think, to brood, to practise a soliloquy in front of the bathroom mirror. Just ten minutes, that's what she wanted. In fact, she'd settle for five. But Em allowed her just a few seconds.
‘What is it, Em?’
The toddler could only grouch back her inability to explain.
Eventually, Tess found out that grapes would appease her daughter and, as she peeled and deseeded them, she snatched back moments to reflect. The outcome was somewhat melodramatic.
I am here and I am taking messages for Joe. I'm here because he isn't – and that's the point of me. That's my job.
She tried briefly, unsuccessfully, to equalize the score by deciding that the caller was some landlady who goes in to clean the apartment when Joe leaves.
A French version of me.
She doubted it, though. But, worse, she doubted herself now.
Tess put herself on autopilot; singing row-row-row-your-boat, letting Wolf out and then back in again, hanging out a white wash, going to the toilet. She knew it was ridiculous but everything she did was underscored by a silent chant. Stupid French cow, stupid French cow. French Sow. Sow'n Dairs. Joe leaving his phone in an apartment was one thing. In this woman's bed, with her velvety guttural emphasis on the possessive pronoun, was quite another. Who is she? Is she Kate? Can you be French and be called Kate?
But I thought he wanted to kiss me.
So Joe arrived back with Tess wanting to belt him. And she knew if she told him about the call straight away, she might very well do that. But she bit her tongue so she could just soak up a little of him first; absorb the warmth from his expansive smile, fill her ears with his voice, come close to him so she could brush by, accidentally on purpose, as she went to make tea, collecting a little of his physicality like it was magic dust that could seep through her clothes, through her skin and deep into her, carrying with it a cure. She just needed a little time to act as though she was fine,
