is well with you. Love Mum x
Taking her tea, she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. A small wrought-iron table and two chairs had been placed to one side of the doors. Perfect. The garden in front of her was a beautiful mixture of lawn and flower beds containing a variety of wonderful white and scarlet roses. A hedge of pink oleander stretched down the right hand side where she could see a man carefully hoeing away at the weeds.
A garden was the main thing she missed when they’d sold the old family home that William had inherited from his parents and downsized into the flat. With Josh leaving home and William wanting to shorten his daily commute to work, it had made sense, but Matilda had wept a secret tear or two over the decision. She’d loved pottering around the garden of an evening, William at her side as they caught up with each other’s day. William had promised that once he’d retired they would move to France, find a cottage with a garden and the two of them would grow old together, living the country life they’d always dreamed of living.
A heart attack had decreed otherwise, killing William one Sunday morning as they’d strolled through Clifton village towards their favourite restaurant for lunch. And just like that everything had changed.
For the past sixteen months, Matilda had lived alone in the flat, coming to terms with her loss and trying to find consolation in the numerous pots she’d jammed together on her small balcony – and failing miserably. Every time she watered and tended to the pots, in her heart she was wishing herself somewhere else – in a cottage with a proper garden. When she’d mentioned her feelings to Josh on one of his visits, he’d advised her to take her time deciding what to do, and not to do anything too drastic too quickly.
Winning the holiday here, courtesy of Sheila and Amy’s kindness, had started her dreaming again of moving to France. Thoughts she’d squashed as being an impossible dream for her to do alone. But something was beginning to niggle away in her brain, telling her she wasn’t that old, that she still had years of life left in front of her. William had left her financially more than comfortable and she knew that, more than anything, he would want her to be happy.
Matilda finished her tea. Maybe being in France for ten days would help her decide what to do with her future. Tomorrow morning she’d enjoy taking a wander and exploring the gardens as she started to really think about the rest of her life. Right now, though, she was going to sit here and simply admire the view before unpacking and getting ready for aperitifs and dinner on the terrace. For the first time in months, she was feeling hungry. Must be the sea air, she decided.
In the ‘Edith Piaf’ room next door, Vicky had taken one look at the en-suite marble bathroom, the deep claw-footed bath with its gold taps, an array of fragrant toiletries on a shelf, and started to run a bath. Her unpacking could wait. At Anthony’s insistence, it was showers all the way at home and as much as she loved being pounded by the hot water of a power jet shower, she did sometimes long to immerse herself in litres of perfumed water for a rejuvenating soak.
Vicky glanced at the book on the bedside table – The Life of Edith Piaf. She smiled. When Amy had told them the rooms at Belle Vue were named after people who had a connection with the South of France, she’d hoped for the Fitzgerald room. Instead, Amy had given her this particular room. How could Amy have known? Vicky’s mother was a great Piaf fan. She’d even travelled to Paris back in the sixties to go to the funeral with thousands of adoring fans. When Vicky had asked, ‘What was so special about her?’ her mum had shaken her head, ‘I’m not sure. She didn’t have an easy life, but her voice and songs spoke to millions. Still do.’
Ten minutes later, happily soaking in the scented water with her eyes closed, her mother’s favourite Piaf song, ‘Non, je ne regrette rien’, floated unbidden into Vicky’s conscience.
I have no regrets, the song went. How many people could honestly say that? The life Vicky was currently living certainly wasn’t the one she’d envisaged as a teenager. Back then she’d planned to go to university, obtain a good degree and then travel the world, possibly as a travel writer, earn enough money to buy her own home and be independent, marry in her early thirties and settle down to family life with two children. In her mind, it had all been mapped out.
Only family life with two children had come to fruition. Meeting Anthony when she was eighteen, falling pregnant with Tom within weeks of starting her first job, had derailed the rest of her life plans. She certainly didn’t regret having the children. Or marrying Anthony. She’d loved him from the beginning and she still did. Only she hadn’t reckoned on him changing course from IT consultancy and becoming a politician. Of course, they’d discussed it, but with hindsight Vicky realised neither of them had really anticipated the changes it would bring into their lives. The biggest for Vicky being the loss of privacy.
As far as other regrets went, although she didn’t regret any of the past twenty-odd years, she knew that if she wasn’t careful, didn’t do something with her own life from here on in… well, that she would regret. But standing up to Anthony was hard. Not because he was unkind or difficult but simply because she felt guilty for wanting to do other things. Winning this holiday had caused the first major row they’d had for years.
She had been on Facebook looking at the holiday details and starting to make a list of all the things she’d need. List making was in her DNA and for a long time Vicky had tried to fight the habit, but in the end, realising how satisfying it was ticking things off as they were accomplished, she gave in. As she’d made a note to check her passport, find a suitable case in the attic and look out some summer clothes, Anthony had walked in and looked at the computer screen.
‘Facebook? Surely you’ve got better things to do than waste time with that? I could certainly do with some more help in the office.’
Vicky had bitten her tongue to stop herself protesting that she’d only been on there five minutes, saying instead, ‘Guess what? I’ve won a holiday to the South of France.’
‘When for? I can’t see me getting away until the recess,’ Anthony had replied. ‘And even then, anything longer than a week will be difficult.’
Vicky had taken a deep breath. ‘It’s only for one person.’
‘You mean you’re going on your own?’
Vicky had nodded. ‘It’ll be some me time and give me a chance to work out what I’m going to do for the next few years. I was thinking of asking your mum to come and stay?’
Anthony had stared at her, ignoring the question about his mother. ‘It is a legitimate competition, isn’t it? It’s not some sort of backhander from someone hoping you can influence me in some way?’
Vicky had gazed at him, exasperated, wondering when he’d become so selfish. ‘There are three winners and I’m one of them. I do not know the person who has organised the competition or any of the other people. Okay?’
‘You’ll have to give me the details and I’ll register it with the Members’ Interests committee. I don’t want any backlash over my wife accepting freebies.’ Anthony had looked at her. ‘And you should know that I’d really rather you didn’t accept this holiday.’
‘And you should know, I need this holiday. I want some me time,’ Vicky had said. ‘Ten days where someone else does the work not me. Days to relax, read a book, go for a walk, think about the future, all without an agenda or having to watch the clock.’
‘D’you think I don’t often long for that too?’
Vicky
