Page 37 of Road Trip to the Riviera
I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I realise what I’m saying. I’ve literally teed mum up for her favourite topic of conversation.
‘Too young! You had a five-year-old by their age! And you seemed to think you were very grown-up at the time. And a single mum too! Summer’s man is standing by her at least.’
‘Mum! OK, maybe I did a grown-up thing, but I didn’t feel very grown-up. I was terrified most of the time. I needed support, not admonishment.’
‘Oh, and I suppose you’re saying I didn’t look after you enough. Well, I’m sorry, Sarah. But who put a roof over your head, bought that baby a cot? Who fed you and made sure you had everything you needed in those early years?’
I sigh.‘Youdid, Mum.’
‘Well, then.’
I have so much I want to say. A few years ago, before Dad got sick, I sometimes used to confide in him. He used to have a way with Mum, a way of gently breaking down her defences and getting her to see life from other points of view. He was a buffer between Mum and me – stopped us butting heads, helped us to find the middle ground.
Now, without his guidance, we’re adrift. Butting into each other and pushing each other away. I love Mum and I’m pretty sure she loves me. But we lack the ability to communicate with each other without him.
It’s impossible to make Mum understand that sometimes, all I’d needed was her arm around my shoulders, a bit of understanding of how difficult things were. Yes, sure, she and Dad provided for me. Helped me financially. But still, caring for a toddler and studying when all the other students had the time of their lives was hard. It would have been nice to know she was proud of the fact I defied the odds and went on to achieve… well, quite a lot actually.
And yes, she helped me enormously in the early days. But it was me who stumped up for the childminder when I started back at work; me who tried to be present for Louis as much as I could. Me who sacrificed the kind of nights out people apparently have in their twenties in favour of early nights and bedtime stories.
Mum’s retired now, but back in the day she used to work in administration. It’s a different field from mine and a whole different career trajectory. When I was young, she went part-time – but she had Dad’s salary to support her. On paper, I suppose I’m the more successful of us. But despite the accolades and the won cases and the profits and the fact that I’m able to actually employ people, I still feel a desperate need for her approval. Or even, her pride.
Why I give her so much power to influence my mood, I don’t know. But there you have it. I want her to say ‘Yes, I was a little disappointed when you got pregnant so young, but you raised a wonderful man and have managed to carve out a fantastic career for yourself. I’m so proud of you.’ Instead, our conversations move through the same cycle – her digs about my past mistakes, and a sense that whatever I say to her is the wrong thing. I get frustrated with her, but also with myself. Why do I even need this?
Before I can say anything else, a wave of heat goes through me and I feel my vision shift a little. I steady myself, a hand on the table, and wait for it to pass. I can feel sweat prickle on mybrow, the back of my neck. My stomach rolls and dips and even the backs of my knees feel damp.
‘Sarah?’ Mum is saying. ‘Sarah?’
‘Yes. Here, Mum. Just feeling?—’
‘The line’s terrible, love. I have to go. But do get a wriggle on and get here. Your son needs you.’
I let the phone rest on the table and, with some difficulty, get myself up and into the van. I lie on my back on the bed, my head spinning, waiting for the room to right itself.
I haven’t eaten today – didn’t feel hungry – and sitting in the hot sun with only a drink of water inside me was probably inadvisable, I reassure myself.
But when the prickly feeling returns and my head explodes with pain, it’s hard to believe there’s not something more to it.
18
HAL
It’s a ten-kilometre hike to the river.
Sébastien tells me this, conversationally, as if it’s no big deal.
‘Ten kilometres?’ I gasp, already a little out of breath.
‘Yes, wanna jog?’ he asks.
‘No. Honestly. Walking is fine.’
I’m still not sure whether he was teasing me, and enjoying seeing my horror, or whether he simply assumes that, as a man of a similar age, I must have a similar fitness level. Clearly, nothing could be further from the truth.
My original plan for the swim had been to drive to one of the riverside beaches and dip my toes in, gradually immerse myself, then do a few strokes if I felt like it. Turns out that as well as acting like a labrador in the car, Sébastien is determined to act like one when it comes to getting wet. He’s going to work up a sweat then dive into the cool water at Vallon-Pont-d’Arc to refresh himself, before walking back.
When we were talking this morning, I’d suggested driving; reasoning that we’d be fresher and could swim more if we didn’t expend our energy en route, but Sébastien was so surprised that I didn’t want to walk that I found myself saying that actually,I love walking most of the time, and that ten kilometres was nothing.
I like to think of myself as quite fit. I wear a tracker watch and do try to get in my steps when I can. But half-walking, half-trotting by Sébastien’s side has left me in no doubt that I’m not in great shape. My heart is hammering and my T-shirt is already sticking to my back. Sébastien walks on, unperturbed, and seemingly unaware that his pace would leave many an Olympic walker far behind.
