in?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘The machine’s practically empty. Why don’t I save you a job?’
She sighs loudly, walks from the kitchen, returns with the laundry basket and drops it on the floor beside me.
Okaay. I sort the clothes and fill the machine. Then I’m stuck. I don’t know which cycle to select. I don’t want to ask Hilary, but squatting in front of the unfamiliar, French machine, I don’t have a choice.
‘What cycle do coloureds go in on, Hilary?’
She doesn’t answer. I turn around to see if she’s heard. She’s slicing tomatoes at great speed. I’m about to ask again when she looks up.
‘B,’ she says.
One cycle later, I’m pulling clothes from the machine, my face burning. Disaster. Rachel’s pale pink top: blue-grey. Greg’s yellow polo shirt: pea-soup green. Toby’s Bart Simpson T-shirt: blue-grey with patches of green. I’ve ruined at least one item belonging to everyone.
‘What did you do ?’ Hilary asks, coming up behind me.
‘Nothing. I put them in on B, like you said . . .’
‘Not B. D. I said D.’
I’m stunned, sure she said B. I look at her. But her face is blank. Innocent. I don’t know what to think. She wouldn’t have done this on purpose, would she? She wouldn’t deliberately upset everyone just to get at me?
‘Never liked it anyway,’ Greg says about his top.
Toby bursts into tears. ‘Bart Simpson can’t be green. He just can’t. The Hulk is green. Not Bart Simpson.
Oh Jesus. ‘I’m sorry, Toby. Next time I’m in Dublin, I’ll buy you another, OK? I’ll buy you two.’ I’ll look in France, but as he got it in Dublin, I’d better not make promises.
And Rachel? Ah, Rachel.
‘Are you stupid or something?’ she spits when she sees her ruined top.
I’m speechless. My face flashes red.
Greg walks into the kitchen. ‘Rachel, what’s going on? I could hear you from my office. How dare you speak to Lucy like that?’
‘She ruined my good top.’
‘And that gives you the right to be rude? Lucy’s a guest here. Apologise this minute.’
‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ he says.
I’m cringing.
‘Sorry, OK?’
‘You’re getting very cheeky, young lady. You’d better change your attitude. D’you hear me?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ More subdued.
‘Go to your room, immediately.’
She does. Not before giving me daggers.
Part of me wishes Greg had let me handle this; another knows I wouldn’t have known how.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ says Greg.
We drive to Cannes. It’s like nowhere I’ve ever been. Everything seems lazy and slow. In the hazy distance, pale lilac mountains could be a mirage. Yachts and powerboats cut through the water, creating lines of white through blue. The sea sparkles like diamonds . Nowhere in the world would they be more appropriate. Lamborghinis , Porsches, Ferraris pull up outside five-star hotels. A line of upmarket boutiques – Dior, Chanel, Bvlgari – faces sun and sea, the elegant mannequins bizarrely dressed for winter, many draped in fur.
It’s too hot to walk along the seafront. We sit under an umbrella in the ultra-glam Martinez. I press my ice-filled glass to my face, then scoop out a cube and run it along my arms, legs and the back of my neck until it melts. I take another and slip it between my foot and flip-flop. I look up to find him gazing at me as if I’m a creature of great amusement.
‘Don’t you feel the heat?’ I ask.
‘No. But I’m glad you do.’
Two Japanese tourists sit down at the table next to us.
‘Ohayo gozaimasu,’ Greg says to them with a mini bow. Greg has recently taken up three languages – none of them French.
They nod, smile shyly and reply.
‘Ressun sono ichi,’ he says then.
They look at each other, then at him. They smile.
‘Ah, lesson number one,’ one translates.
We laugh.
Getting out alone with Greg always returns my sense of perspective – our relationship is what’s important; the rest will just take
‘No, thanks.’
‘The machine’s practically empty. Why don’t I save you a job?’
She sighs loudly, walks from the kitchen, returns with the laundry basket and drops it on the floor beside me.
Okaay. I sort the clothes and fill the machine. Then I’m stuck. I don’t know which cycle to select. I don’t want to ask Hilary, but squatting in front of the unfamiliar, French machine, I don’t have a choice.
‘What cycle do coloureds go in on, Hilary?’
She doesn’t answer. I turn around to see if she’s heard. She’s slicing tomatoes at great speed. I’m about to ask again when she looks up.
‘B,’ she says.
One cycle later, I’m pulling clothes from the machine, my face burning. Disaster. Rachel’s pale pink top: blue-grey. Greg’s yellow polo shirt: pea-soup green. Toby’s Bart Simpson T-shirt: blue-grey with patches of green. I’ve ruined at least one item belonging to everyone.
‘What did you do ?’ Hilary asks, coming up behind me.
‘Nothing. I put them in on B, like you said . . .’
‘Not B. D. I said D.’
I’m stunned, sure she said B. I look at her. But her face is blank. Innocent. I don’t know what to think. She wouldn’t have done this on purpose, would she? She wouldn’t deliberately upset everyone just to get at me?
‘Never liked it anyway,’ Greg says about his top.
Toby bursts into tears. ‘Bart Simpson can’t be green. He just can’t. The Hulk is green. Not Bart Simpson.
Oh Jesus. ‘I’m sorry, Toby. Next time I’m in Dublin, I’ll buy you another, OK? I’ll buy you two.’ I’ll look in France, but as he got it in Dublin, I’d better not make promises.
And Rachel? Ah, Rachel.
‘Are you stupid or something?’ she spits when she sees her ruined top.
I’m speechless. My face flashes red.
Greg walks into the kitchen. ‘Rachel, what’s going on? I could hear you from my office. How dare you speak to Lucy like that?’
‘She ruined my good top.’
‘And that gives you the right to be rude? Lucy’s a guest here. Apologise this minute.’
‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.
‘I didn’t hear you,’ he says.
I’m cringing.
‘Sorry, OK?’
‘You’re getting very cheeky, young lady. You’d better change your attitude. D’you hear me?’
‘Yes, Dad.’ More subdued.
‘Go to your room, immediately.’
She does. Not before giving me daggers.
Part of me wishes Greg had let me handle this; another knows I wouldn’t have known how.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here,’ says Greg.
We drive to Cannes. It’s like nowhere I’ve ever been. Everything seems lazy and slow. In the hazy distance, pale lilac mountains could be a mirage. Yachts and powerboats cut through the water, creating lines of white through blue. The sea sparkles like diamonds . Nowhere in the world would they be more appropriate. Lamborghinis , Porsches, Ferraris pull up outside five-star hotels. A line of upmarket boutiques – Dior, Chanel, Bvlgari – faces sun and sea, the elegant mannequins bizarrely dressed for winter, many draped in fur.
It’s too hot to walk along the seafront. We sit under an umbrella in the ultra-glam Martinez. I press my ice-filled glass to my face, then scoop out a cube and run it along my arms, legs and the back of my neck until it melts. I take another and slip it between my foot and flip-flop. I look up to find him gazing at me as if I’m a creature of great amusement.
‘Don’t you feel the heat?’ I ask.
‘No. But I’m glad you do.’
Two Japanese tourists sit down at the table next to us.
‘Ohayo gozaimasu,’ Greg says to them with a mini bow. Greg has recently taken up three languages – none of them French.
They nod, smile shyly and reply.
‘Ressun sono ichi,’ he says then.
They look at each other, then at him. They smile.
‘Ah, lesson number one,’ one translates.
We laugh.
Getting out alone with Greg always returns my sense of perspective – our relationship is what’s important; the rest will just take
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