by Fiona Gibson
‘Not for much longer,’ I cut in, smiling. ‘From next Friday he’s all yours. So, are you looking forward to living in his cottage, Mum?’
‘I suppose so,’ she says with a sigh.
‘And you’ll rent your place out – is that the plan?’
‘Oh, we’ll deal with the details later. I can’t be doing with all that now.’
We finish the call and Mum fades away, and now it’s Antoine I’m thinking about; we’ll have two whole days together, and two nights. My heart flips as I glance out of the cab window at an aeroplane, its trail a streak of fuzzy white against a searing blue sky.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I can’t read during the flight. I can’t even focus on short, non-challenging articles about make-up or food in the in-flight magazine. I keep studying the little plane, nudging along its route on the overhead screen, calculating how long until I’m there and wondering how it’ll be, seeing Antoine on home turf and, more significantly, what about tonight – i.e., actual night-time? Three years it’s been since I’ve slept with anyone. Three years since Pete Parkin in that soup-smelling flat with the parrot squawking away in its cage. Perhaps it’ll just be a platonic thing between us – although, after the way we were together, I somehow doubt it.
Do I want to do it? Oh God, yes. If those kisses were anything to go by, it’ll be fantastic, as long as I can remember what to do. My legs and underarms are shaved, bikini line too; I am primped and primed and frankly scared witless. What will he make of my spongey stomach, my less-than-toned thighs and my bottom which, luckily, I can’t study too closely? He’s never seen me naked – not even back in ’86. There was a bit of passionate teenage fumbling and that was it. It’ll be okay, though, won’t it? Like riding a bicycle. I repeat the mantra silently – to keep your balance, you must keep moving – and vow not to drink too much.
The stewardess trundles along the aisle with the trolley, and I order a startlingly strong coffee – and then another – helping me to achieve maximum jitteriness as we begin to descend, the CÔte d’Azur laid out before me. I stare out of the window, awestruck. A glittering sea, the coastline a majestic swoop: it’s almost too dazzling to be real. Before I know it, we’re landing with a colossal screech and I’m out of my seat, hauling my case from the overhead locker and speed-walking – at one point I break into an actual trot – through passport control and customs – rien à déclarer! – and there he is, looking adorable in a soft blue shirt and jeans. His smile is as wide as the ocean as he cries, ‘Lorrie!’ and throws his arms around me. ‘Here you are! I can hardly believe it!’
‘Neither can I,’ I say, laughing. He pulls me close and kisses my lips, then leans back and looks at me. ‘What an amazing view from the sky,’ I babble, dizzy from the kiss. ‘Of course, you’ve seen it dozens of times …’
‘It is incredible,’ he says with another smile, taking my case from me as we make our way out of the airport building to the car park. ‘Right, here we are. Not too far to my place.’ He has a new-looking black Peugeot, shiny and undented; a businessman’s car. I catch him appraising me as he lifts my suitcase onto the back seat.
‘You look wonderful.’
I glance down at my red dress. ‘Thank you.’
‘So chic. Red suits you.’ And I am wearing my very best knickers and bra – black lace, a birthday gift from Helena – underneath. Yep, those date pants again – last worn on my date with Ralph but, thankfully, that hasn’t tainted them …
Antoine drives smoothly, negotiating the traffic at a confident speed as he tells me what he has planned for us. ‘We can drop off your luggage at my apartment. I don’t know if you might like to rest, or have a nap, before we go out …’
Is that code for ‘let’s get down to it right away’? I glance at his handsome profile, the mouth set in a slight smile, and inhale the smell of freshly valeted upholstery.
‘… I’d like to show you the old town, the promenade of course, la Baie des Anges … it’s very busy, touristy, but you can get a feel for the city …’
‘Sounds great,’ I say, trying to take it all in.
‘… And perhaps a gallery, maybe two? D’you like art, Lorrie?’
‘I love art.’ In fact, I decide with a wry smile, it wouldn’t be a date without someone’s paintings to peruse …
He flashes a grin. ‘For lunch, there’s a favourite place I have – it’s Turkish. You enjoy Turkish food?’
‘It’s my favourite!’ I have never had proper Turkish food, but right now, as we turn off the motorway and make our way into the city, I feel ready for anything Antoine wishes to present to me. My real life back in London – Crumble Cubes, Mum’s wedding, Stu moving out – is simply floating away.
Antoine’s place is situated at the top of a steep, narrow hill, the street shaded by trees, the walls in front of the sun-bleached apartment blocks shrouded in dazzling pink flowers. ‘Well, here we are,’ he announces as he pulls into what seems like an unfeasibly small parking space. It’s a modern block, its front grounds as well-tended as those of Craven Court, the entrance area floored in sparkling black and white chequered tiles.
He carries my suitcase as we trot upstairs and lets us into his apartment on the top floor. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ he says.
Comfortable, as if I might find it lacking in some way! ‘I’m sure I will be. It’s lovely.’ I scan the wide, spacious hallway, then the living room where he sets down my case. It’s impeccably tidy, everything just so, furnished with a tasteful grey sofa, a couple of inviting-looking soft leather armchairs and a coffee table bearing a small pile of news magazines. The huge window overlooks the sprawl of the city, and the shimmering ocean beyond.
‘How long have you lived here?’ I ask.
‘Just three months. The company found it for me. I’ll make us some coffee – would you like some?’
More coffee to send my heart rate off the scale? ‘Yes please …’ I smile, realising I have said yes to everything he’s suggested so far. How pleasing this feels, having someone else make the plans, the decisions, and all I have to do is relax and let the adventure unfold.
While Antoine potters about in the kitchen, I study the well-ordered bookshelves, the decorative items dotted around – a speckled glass vase, an expensive-looking scented candle in a jar, an amber-coloured glass bowl.
He brings out our coffee and sets it on the low table.
‘I’d love a place like this,’ I tell him. ‘It’s so bright and airy. My house – well, it’s Victorian, bit scruffy and in need of attention, kids’ stuff scattered about everywhere …’ My gaze lights upon a framed photo of a teenage boy and girl, swimming in turquoise water. They are dark-haired and tanned with bright white smiles. I go over to study it. ‘Are these your children?’
‘Yes, Nicolas and Elodie. He’s fifteen, she’s thirteen. That was taken last year on our holiday in Corsica.’
I smile. ‘They look so happy.’
‘Oh, it was an amazing trip. We hired a car, drove up the mountain roads – so narrow, a drop of hundreds of metres – terrifying!’ He pulls a faux-terrified face. ‘And we found a mountain pool, so clear and fresh – not like the sea. If you’ve never swum in a mountain pool …’ I inhale and glance back out of the window. I want to get to know this city, I decide. I want to get to know you, Antoine Rousseau; I want to know everything about you and then who knows what’ll happen? Maybe one day we’ll be swimming in a mountain pool too, just like that time at the lake in the forest … ‘Anyway,’ he murmurs, stepping towards me now and pulling me in for a kiss, ‘we have lots of fun things to do’ – which I think could be suggestive, my entire body tingling at the thought – but, no, we settle down with our coffee, while Antoine fills me in on the art the city has to offer. ‘There’s Chagall … do you like Chagall?’
‘I love Chagall,’ I exclaim, wondering if I am picturing the right style of painting, or am I mixing him up with someone else?
‘… There’s the M
usée Matisse, the Gallerie Renoir … there are a lot of cultural places. We are very lucky here.’
Yes, you are, I muse, and I am too.
‘I don’t want to tire you after your journey,’ he adds.
‘Oh no, it all sounds lovely.’
Antoine smiles. ‘I like that about you, Lorrie, your keenness, your energy …’ See, Sonia Richardson, he doesn’t think I’m clapped out and stagnant! ‘So, if you’re ready … or would you like to shower and change …’
‘No – I’ll just quickly freshen up, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course it’s okay. Do what you like here, make it your home. I’ll just put your suitcase away.’
I pick up my shoulder bag and follow him to a huge, airy bedroom; again, there’s a stunning view over the city, a sliver of azure sea in the distance. The bed is neatly made with grey linen, and enormous; my stomach flutters as I glance at it.
‘The bathroom is this way,’ Antoine announces, leading me back along the corridor towards it. The shower, which is fixed over the bath, is one of those rose kinds that make you feel as if you’re being rained on. There is a bidet – naturellement, this being France – and for a moment I’m transported back to a holiday with David and the kids, and Cam’s amusement on seeing such a thing. He was around seven at the time. ‘Look,’ he exclaimed, ‘a little bath for your bum!’
I turn to Antoine. ‘Thank you. I won’t be a minute.’ Alone now, I examine my face, cheered to note that the tension around my eyes from my meeting at Geddes and Cox’s headquarters seems to have melted away. I splash water onto my face, clean my teeth, smear on a little tinted moisturiser and apply a coat of lipstick. That’s enough, I decide.
And then we’re ready, my red dress perhaps a tad too dressy for a day exploring the city, but what the hell? I feel bold and confident and entirely comfortable in the sensible ballet flats I chose for travelling.
‘It’s just a fifteen-minute walk to Chagall,’ Antoine says. ‘Is that okay?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. I love to walk,’ I say truthfully.
He beams at me and kisses my lips. ‘You look beautiful, Lorrie. Just as you did in London. Just as you did at sixteen.’ I laugh, taken aback by the compliment. ‘Come on then, let me show you my city.’
He takes my hand as we make our way towards the front door – I glance into two more bedrooms, the kids’ rooms presumably – and he’s still clutching it as we head downstairs. As we step out into the Mediterranean sunshine my heart soars with excitement at the thought of the weekend ahead. While I’d never have opted for gardening leave, I am determined to enjoy every moment of my stay.
I find that I do love Chagall. His colours glow as if lit from behind, like stained glass; swirling paintings depicting flying people clutching each other’s hands, and gorgeous mythical animals. ‘Which is your favourite?’ I ask as we drift from room to room.
‘Oh, I can’t choose just one,’ he says. ‘They are all beautiful. It’s impossible.’
We pause in front of a canvas depicting a naked couple embracing, surrounded by an angel and jewel-coloured birds. ‘I love this one.’
‘It’s very romantic,’ he says. I smile, delighted that he thinks so too, and that there’s no, ‘Oh, what Chagall was alluding to here was …’ I don’t need to speculate why he chose to paint goats or serpents or a bride riding a winged horse. Thomas Trotter should come here and learn a thing or two, and forget the Brillo pads in a cage. These are simply the most dazzling paintings I have ever seen.
From the gallery, we amble slowly through tree-shaded streets towards the old town, where I take numerous pictures on my phone of shuttered houses and painted window boxes bursting with flowers, just ordinary things which seem so thrillingly French. I photograph a rusting iron gate, a house number painted on a ceramic tile, a bicycle propped against a terracotta wall, with a wicker basket on the front – an actual basket, for popping your baguettes in!
Antoine gives me a bemused look. ‘So, you’ve never visited the South of France before?’
‘No, I’ve only been to France twice. Once – well, you remember that time …’
He smiles and his fingers wrap around my hand. ‘I do. It was wonderful.’
‘And the other time was about ten years ago, with David and the kids. We stayed in a sweet little hotel in Brittany. The kids were thrilled by the supermarket, everything being so different. Amy grabbed a huge plastic bottle of Orangina from a shelf and dropped it, it exploded all over the floor—’
‘Oh, how awful …’ He looks shocked, which wasn’t the reaction I’d expected – but then, French children don’t run amok in supermarkets. ‘Here,’ Antoine says, stopping to indicate a narrow street with washing strung between balconies. ‘There’s a little restaurant down here that I had in mind.’
It’s delightfully noisy and bustling, all the tables seemingly occupied. A group of harassed-looking German tourists are hovering at the entrance, seemingly debating whether it’s worth the wait.
‘Antoine!’ A waiter beetles over and greets him warmly, and we are whisked around the corner, past tables laden with plates overflowing with exotic salads and skewered meats, to a tiny room at the back. Although I’m too thrilled and coffee-fuelled to have worked up a proper appetite, everything smells incredible: earthy and spicy and demanding to be tried.
‘What would you like?’ Antoine asks when we have installed ourselves in our seats. I frown at the unfamiliar menu, not knowing where to start. ‘We can just have a selection?’ he suggests.
‘That sounds great.’
The friendly waiter reappears; Antoine addresses him by name – Jean-Philippe, I love those joined-up French names – and proceeds to rattle off an array of dishes we’d like. I try to focus hard, deciding I’ll need to dust off my long-neglected French if Antoine and I are to become a thing, not that I showed a particular talent for language, even back at school. Still, I’m doing okay here, and congratulate myself on being able to pick out several words from the conversation as the men banter away – until I realise they’re all ‘kebab’, bringing to mind those meaty hunks on a revolving spit, which always seemed so alluring after a night out in Soho.
However at Grill Istanbul, they are nothing like that. We pick over succulent morsels of skewered lamb, pomegranate-jewelled couscous, a zingy tomato salad scattered with mint and raisins and, ooh, pine kernels too. There are slivers of marinated aubergine, crunchy potatoes in a garlicky sauce, and a bottle of crisp white wine …
‘Yes, the children love to stay with me,’ Antoine is saying – we are sticking to fairly safe territory, conversation-wise – ‘and it’s a nice change for them. They love the sea, the sun. They usually do their studies in the morning and then we spend some time on the beach.’
‘They study when they’re staying with you?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He smiles and spears an aubergine.
‘Well, I’m impressed. So, um, how often do you see them?’
‘A couple of times, since I moved here …’ Twice, in three months? I’d be pining for my kids, but think better of suggesting that it must be hard for him. ‘… Elodie wants to go to music college,’ he continues, ‘and Nicolas, well …’ He breaks off and laughs. ‘It’s all football with him, he’s crazy about it, even in the summer—’
‘Amy loves basketball,’ I cut in, but he doesn’t appear to hear me.
‘He’s away at summer school now – a sports college. It’s hard, five hours’ training a day – plus studies, of course – but then …’ He shrugs. ‘What else would he do?’
I nod. ‘It’s good that he’s so … dedicated.’
‘They both work hard. Elodie plays her violin two hours a day.’ He beams at me. Two hours a day? Blimey – how does the poor girl find time to do anything else? ‘I’m a terribly proud father, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, I think that’s wonderful.’
Our plates are cleared and, despite my protests, Antoine insists on paying again, just as he
did in London. Having eschewed dessert – in my excitement over the wonderful food, I have managed to eat way too much – we step out into the sunshine, ready to take in the other delights he has planned for me.
We drift around the Matisse gallery, which I also love – the colours, the intricate cut-outs! I am reminded of Cam and Amy covering the kitchen table, and most of the floor, in snippets of paper and glue. I once went to work with a red paper heart stuck to the back of my La Beauté tunic and Helena had to peel it off.
Having had our fill of art now, we stroll along the promenade where I gasp at the spectacle of it all: the ornate hotels with golden domes, and all the elegant people strolling – no, promenading.
A woman in a slouchy black dress hurries towards us. ‘I found this,’ she cries, holding a sparkling ring inches from my face.
‘Oh, er … it’s lovely.’
‘It’s yours?’ she asks.
‘No, it’s not mine …’
‘You have it!’
I study her face briefly, the dark brown eyes, the heavily lined forehead and elfin chin. ‘No thank you. Perhaps you should hand it to the police?’
‘No time,’ she says distractedly. ‘Please take it, I can’t have it, it’s not my religion to have rings—’ She tries to press it into my hand. ‘Please, just a little money to feed my family …’
‘Oh, er, yes, of course …’ I slip a hand into my bag and feel for my purse.
‘Lorrie, let’s go,’ Antoine says sharply, and I throw the woman an apologetic look before scurrying alongside him.
‘That was sweet of her,’ I say, glancing backwards.
‘It wasn’t sweet. It was, what’s the word …’ He frowns. ‘A hoax. A scam – that’s it. Happens all the time here. They probably have a whole sack of worthless trinkets under the bed …’
I look at him and laugh, mildly embarrassed by my naivety. ‘Well, it’s quite … resourceful, I guess.’
Antoine slips an arm around my shoulders. ‘If I hadn’t been here you’d have given her money, wouldn’t you?’