I flash her a dazzling smile. I’m happy for the first time in a while. Things are moving forward. Soon, this place will be a hive of productivity with the bang of hammers, the buzz of drills. The sound of progress. ‘I’ll call JP and tell him they can start immediately. And then we’ll take those odds and ends from the storage room and sell them for whatever we can.’
‘Oui, but the whole you-need-extra-money thing?’
Keep the faith. That’s all I have to do.
‘Urgh. I’ll call my mum.’ My British-born mother isn’t as theatrical as my French family, but still, once she feeds the news back to mypère, he’ll inevitably post on the family group chat, asking for their advice, enquiring if everyone’s grown child needs such support, and then they’ll all chime in with complaints about their own children, not realising or not caring that WE CAN ALL SEE.
Manon gives me a mechanical pat on the shoulder. ‘Sell her the dream.’
I steel myself and make the call. ‘Mum,bonjour!’
‘Hello, darling. How are you? I thought you’d dropped off the face of the earth!’
Mother guilt – there’s nothing quite like it. Ihavebeen lax in calling as much but it’s mostly because I get a lecture every time about why I haven’t moved on and found another man so I can produce grandchildren. And when I gently rebuke them and remind them that men and babies aren’t something I can simply order online, they accuse me of not trying hard enough. ‘I sent you an email a few days ago, Mum. And you replied.’
She tuts. ‘It’s not the same as hearing your sweet voice now, is it? How’s it all going there?’
‘Fine. Fine. Better than fine.’ I must sell her the dream. ‘It’s fabulous actually. Wonderful.’
‘You hate it.’
I may have oversold it.
‘No, it’s not that. It’s that the renovation costs are a little higher than first thought. To be expected when it’s such an old, architecturally beautiful building like this.’
‘I see,’ she says guardedly.
‘The thing is…’ I send a prayer up to the heavens. ‘I’m in need of a loan to tide me over. I could ask the bank, but the interest rates are appalling, and, well, you always say come to you first.’
She lets out a chiming little laugh. ‘Come to me first when you need a shoulder to cry on, Anais, or when you need me to look over a manuscript for typos, or advice about a new man; now that I’d be keen to hear. Best colours for a nursery, that kind of thing.’
I sigh. This was a bad idea.
‘How much do you need?’
I rattle off a figure and hold my breath.
‘That much?’
‘Oui.But it’s only a short-term loan. Once this place is up and running, I’ll sell it to an astute buyer who sees the value and pay you back,withinterest.’ With interest? I must be desperate.
‘Darling, are you quite certain you’re not throwing money into a sinking ship?’
‘Quite certain,’ I lie.
‘Let me speak to your dad and I’ll call you back.’
Manon and I load the car with all the odds and ends from the storage cupboard to take to the vintage shop in the 5th arrondissement.
We meet the owner, a sixty-something man who is genial and welcoming. ‘Have a look around while I go through your items.’
We wander the quirky shop and, when we’re out of earshot, Manon whispers, ‘Have you got a figure in mind for everything?’
‘Non, why? I know roughly what the wine is worth; the rest, no idea. I mean, who wants a box of sixties-style telephones? And those dolls, I would happily give those away because they have creepy nightmare-inducing eyes.’
‘The reason these traders are happy and oh so sweet is because they’re experienced negotiators. They kill you with kindness to fool you into thinking they’re kind and generous when really they’re looking at you like you’re a dollar sign.’
I scoff. ‘Manon, you’re reaching. They’re doing us a favour by taking all of this off our hands. Better than in the scrapheap.’
